Page 37 of Teacher of the Year

“Nothing.”

She enters my room and, clutching her bag, plops herself down on the table closest to the door. Knowing she came to check on me, bypassing her own room, comforts me. Putting my marker down on the easel’s tray, I walk over and sit next to her, brushing my shoulder against hers.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” she offers.

I raise my eyebrows and give her myoh really?look.

“It feels like him not replying to my text means something,” I say.

“The kids will distract you,” she offers, and deep in my gut, I know she’s correct.

Being present, truly present, is a requirement of working with small children. You can’t wander off in your mind, or on your phone for that matter. They need something from me at every moment and keeping them safe requires all my focus. Add teaching to the mix, and alertness is critical.

When Adam and I broke up, I took a day off because complete sobbing in front of my class felt wrong. Once I returned, the attention, affection, and dependence helped. The children gave me a much-needed diversion, and anyway, writing sub plans could be considered a low-level form of torture in some countries. Did I cry in the back closet when my class was at lunch? Absolutely. But for the most part, they provided an indispensable distraction. I know today, those sweet cherubs marching into the classroom will divert my attention from Olan. From the kissing. The hot, sweaty, sweet kissing. I’m eager for their arrival.

“Can you give me a good share?” I ask.

“How about something about love?”

“Love? Really? Are you trying to torment me?”

“It’s February. Valentine’s Day is looming.”

I jotWrite someone you loveat the bottom of the message and scribble Gonzo as my example.

“Perfect,” she says and stands to leave.

“Thank you,” I tell her, not only for the share, but for Saturday, and for when Adam left, and for being someone I can truly count on. I don’t say all that, but I don’t need to.

With my message complete, I check my notes for any other prep needed before the children arrive. We’ll need some brown craft paper for a display I’ve planned for us to make together for Groundhog Day. I head down to the closet in the hallway that stores supplies. Every school has one filled with paper, pencils, paper clips, thumbtacks, and cartons of white chalk wondering why it’s been forgotten. As I unroll a long swath of brown paper from the rack holding giant spools in basic colors, Kristi and Dr. Knorse walk by and spot me. I adore Kristi, but with my anxiety on edge about Olan, pleasantries feel harder to fake, and Dr. Knorse often sucks my energy dry.

“Marvin, good weekend?” Kristi asks.

“Not bad,” I say as I touch the spot on my neck Olan nibbled.

“We are so proud of your Teacher of the Year progress. I’ve researched the other nominees and had a good feeling you’d win the county. Everyone loves a male teacher. A male kindergarten teacher? Absolute gold. If we can nab the state win, we’ll be a lock for the funding,” Dr. Knorse strategizes.

Although nothing new, it still rubs me the wrong way to hear my success in early education accredited simply to my gender. Are men in primary grades rarer than a unicorn swimming through Atlantis? Of course. Dr. Knorse assuming being male is the main reason for my selection as county Teacher of the Year smacks of contempt, but hearing her actually say it cuts even deeper.

“Well, I’d like to think I wasn’t only nominated or selected because I’m male.”

“Of course not,” Kristi says. The wince on her face tells me she knew what I was thinking.

“We need to focus on image now. Appearances matter. We’ve walked the hallways to document what repairs, cleaning, and paint touch-ups need to happen before the school visit in March. We’ll have to spend a little, but you’ve got to spend money to make money,” Dr. Knorse says.

Our school, which never seems to have funds for anything teachers actually ask for and need, oh, say, like books, has somehow found money to shine our veneer. Of course, the school could use some help. Everywhere you look, chipped paint, loose boards, and weird unidentifiable splotches on the ceiling scream for attention. Now, in addition to feeling like the school tramp, I get to be the reason monies are irrationally spent. Complete mishigas!

“It’s not until the last week of March, so we have about six weeks to get it all done,” she continues. Kristi and I give each other this-is-slightly-out-of-hand-and-foolish looks.

“Sounds good,” I say through clenched teeth and squeeze my way past them into the hallway. The children will be here any moment, and if I’m not in the classroom when they come bounding down the hallway, it will not be pretty.

I do a fast-walk-slow-jog-trot back to the room and plop the brown paper on a table as the bell buzzes, signaling our day’s official start. I quickly wash my hands in the small combination sink and water fountain, and the lovely chatter of kindergarten arrival approaches outside the door. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, today a little extra grateful for their presence. Kevin bolts up to me, baring his teeth.

“Mr. Block, look!” He points to his mouth, and I begin to investigate.

“Kevin, you lost another tooth. How on earth will you eat solid food?”

“I have to use the teeth on the sides,” he says, yanking his cheek to the side with a finger and pointing to the side teeth in question.

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