Page 34 of Teacher of the Year

“How was it?”

I take a full breath. My belly expands, and I blow air out through my circled lips.

“Holy fuck. That good? Show me.”

“Ew. No.”

“Fine. How long was he here?”

“Honestly, I’m not exactly sure. More than five minutes, but less than twenty-ish.”

The kissing, the way my insides thawed when he went to town on my neck and ear, time seemed to slow down, and by the time we stopped, and he was gone, I’m not sure I could say, with any accuracy, how long our tongues tangled.

“And how much of that time was kissing?” Jill can be relentless for details.

“Most of it. All but maybe two minutes. Three tops.”

She’s almost rendered speechless but squeaks out, “Damn.”

“My anxiety began bubbling, and I think he sensed it. The last thing he told me was not to freak out, and I’m trying extremely hard to stay calm about it.”

“Wait, so does this mean he’s bi?”

“I have no idea. My guess would be yes, but we didn’t talk about it. We didn’t talk much.”

“Damn. What happens now?”

“I’m going to finish this donut, which, thank you very much, tastes like supreme strawberry heaven, and hang out with my friend until she heads home to her incredibly sweet and attractive bear of a husband.”

“No, you dunce, with Olan. And you. What happens next?”

“No clue.”

“No texts?”

“Nothing. Thank you for the reminder.”

Did I expect Olan to call me? Text? Send a carrier pigeon? Hire a skywriter? Something, anything, yes. Am I wildly disappointed it’s been radio silence since he left? Utterly.

“You. Text. Him. Doofus.” She pokes my phone on the counter.

Kissing Olan already feels like walking on a high wire. Even though there aren’t explicit rules against it, I’m fairly certain Dr. Knorse would not be thrilled to learn I’ve made out with the parent of a student in my class. My head feels light, imagining the stern talking to I would receive from her. Letting Olan take the lead makes the most sense. He’s the parent, not the employee of his daughter’s school.

“He’s the parent. I’m leaving the ball in his court.”

“The way I see it, collectively, you have four balls. There could easily be at least one ball in everyone’s court.”

* * *

I wake from my sugar-crash-induced nap and grab my phone to check if Olan has made any overtures. Nothing. Tragically, a missed call from my mother taunts me. We haven’t spoken in over three weeks, and my guilt usually begins to creep in at the month checkpoint. Seeking a reprieve from brooding about Olan, I unlock my phone, find Sarah’s blurry photo at the bottom of my favorites, and huff as I press it.

“Hey, how are you?” Her chipper tone makes me unsteady.

“Pretty good. I saw you called.”

“We haven’t talked in a few weeks, so I figured I’d try you. Were you out?”

“No, not out, Jill was over earlier, and then I took a little snooze with Gonzo.”

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