Page 42 of Teacher of the Year

The three of us fall into an easy rhythm making pizzas. With a Motown station playing through a hi-tech audio system, we begin. Thankfully, Olan bought premade dough. We roll it out, with Illona taking the pin as her dad stands behind her, pushing her small hands with his strong ones. She periodically directs me to sprinkle the dough with “flour, please.” I’m also working on chopping an onion, red pepper, and mushrooms and am thankful for the gum secured in my pocket. Kissing may not be featured on the dessert menu, but I’d rather have fresh breath, even for chatting.

“Where’s Cindy?” I ask.

“She’s over at Sam’s for the weekend. I’m home, she has a boyfriend, and we’re pretty flexible with each other.”

“She seems wonderful.”

Illona grabs some shredded cheese from a bag and sprinkles it on the pizzas. Her tongue pokes out like when she uses scissors.

“Cindy relocated with us from California. With so much change, she’s been a consistent presence for us.”

“She moved with you? That’s amazing.”

“Well, her boyfriend was part of the restaurant launch here, contributing to her verdict.”

With the meal in the oven, Olan grabs a small remote and turns the music louder. Just as “My Mistake” begins and the voices of Marvin Gaye and Diana Ross infuse the space, Illona grabs her dad’s hands, and he begins to twirl her. I sit on one of the stools that were tucked under the lip of the island and crack up as Olan sways his hips to the beat. For a self-proclaimed nerd, Olan’s got moves. Illona hears my laughter, lets go of one of her dad’s hands, reaches out, grabs one of mine, and pulls me over to them. She’s between us, swinging her arms to the music, and Olan reaches his free hand over to mine, and we become a circle of rhythm. I try not to let his fingers wrapping around mine shake me, and having Illona here, smiling, head back, lost in the music helps.

“Drink?” Olan asks me, opening the fridge. It’s covered in the same dark gray as the rest of the cabinets, camouflaging it.

“Water is great.”

“Tap or fizzy?”

“Oh, fancy! Fizzy, please.”

“Juice for me, please,” Illona says.

Olan pours Illona a glass of apple juice, takes out a large blue bottle that sizzles upon opening, and pours bubbly water for us.

Shrieking through the kitchen, the timer sounds more like an alarm, and Illona and I both jump. The three of us sit on tall stools flanking the island, eager to gobble up our pizza.

“It’s hot!” Illona warns us.

“Give it a blow to help it cool off,” I say, showing her how to blow gently on her bubbling toppings.

I blow on my own piece, take a bite, and the cheese stretches into long strings. As I pull the piece away from my mouth, Olan reaches over, grabs a small stray strand stuck to my chin, and pops it into my mouth, and I giggle because it’s ridiculously cute.

“Adorable,” he declares, making my face blush, matching the sauce. He probably should stop calling me adorable.

Once we’ve eaten, cleaned up, and played two rounds of Candy Land, which Illona wins, Olan declares, “Bedtime.”

“But Daddy, can’t I stay up just a little later?” she implores with puppy dog eyes.

“Sorry, Princess, you know the rules.”

“How about I read you a story tonight since I’m here?”

She bolts upstairs to brush her teeth.

“That was sneaky,” Olan says.

I give a little shrug. “What’s the point of having your teacher over for dinner if he can’t read you a bedtime story?”

“Good point,” he says and we head upstairs to join her.

She insists on not one, not two, but three books (because they were “too short”), but finally Illona’s eyelids start looking rather heavy.

“Goodnight, Illona. Thanks for letting me make pizza with you and your dad.”

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