Page 4 of Teacher of the Year

If I’m attempting to make a first impression that screams, “I’m a complete dolt, and why would you entrust your child with me for seven hours a day,” I’m doing a bang-up job. The problem before me, the man is unnervingly handsome. As a teacher, we get all kinds of parents, and usually, if I’m lucky, every so often, the elusive hot dad appears. Someone to make open houses, conferences, and field trips a little more interesting. It’s all innocent fun, and Jill and Kristi love to tease me about them, often giggling outside my closed classroom door, peering in the window during conferences, making me blush.

“Marvin, hello, this is Mr. Stone, Illona’s dad, and um…” Dr. Knorse is stammering. She never stammers nor gives any indication of being unsure of anything. She’s a doctor, for god’s sake! Okay, not a medical doctor, a Doctor of Education, but still, she insists we all call her “doctor.” Only having experience with medical doctors, the kids usually think she’s going to examine them and administer shots.

Handsome dads are not uncommon, but this guy? Next level. Did I see him modeling in a catalog, lying on the beach, shirt open, wind blowing the trees, sable skin sizzling in the sun? All right. I need to focus. If I weren’t so taken aback myself, Dr. Knorse’s squirming would bring me immense pleasure. Clearly, the arrival of this man has shaken our esteemed principal, so Kristi, currently the most levelheaded in the bunch, takes over.

“Yes, this is Mr. Stone.”

“Please, call me Olan,” he states. His tone suggests nonchalance, but these first words are delivered in a rich bass from his absolutely delicious mouth, causing the bottom of my stomach to drop a little. This can’t be good for business.

“He and Illona just moved to Maine,” Kristi says.

“Sweet,” I say, only able to squeak out a single foolish word because, apparently, my brain and mouth are currently not on speaking terms.

“Thanks?” he replies.

A question to my ridiculous “sweet.” His face goes flat, and between the pseudo pee disaster in the bathroom and my lack of coherent sentences, I’m clearly not winning this parent over.

A few uncomfortable moments of silence fester and it becomes clear someone needs to speak. With nobody else jumping in, I choose to be brave. Gingerly placing my hand on the table to steady myself, I take a deep breath, ready to sell myself and the school.

“Welcome. I’m sure Illona will adore our school.”

I can now speak in complete sentences. This will be fine. Newly found confidence convinces me to consider him for more than a nanosecond, allowing me to examine him in more detail. Glancing up beyond his mouth, I study his hair. The natural texture creates a crown of stunning, tight coils framing his face. A sliver of sunlight from the window lands near his forehead, causing the soft spongy curls to shine. What product does he use to make it so velvety and touchable? My own Jewfro bird’s nest borders on unmanageable, and I’ve tried almost everything I can find to tame it. As if on cue, a large ringlet plummets in front of my eyes, and I reach up to brush it aside. Studying him, attempting to comprehend Olan Stone, I wonder how a single human can be so incredibly magmatic?

He continues speaking in low dulcet tones. Words tumble out of his mouth about schools and relocating and something about Illona’s mother, but it’s all jumbled like the randomness of my junk drawer because his rich voice, along with those deep eyes looking right at me, leaves me feeling like a jellyfish on land.

As he talks, the women nod with such enthusiasm their heads almost bop off. He’s clearly comfortable addressing a room. Questions fill my head. Why the move in the middle of the school year? Why leave the West Coast and for Maine, of all places? Would Olan Stone let me give him a lap dance? With his daughter a part of my class now, I’m curious but also want to be respectful… so no lap dances.

“Mr. Stone,” I continue.

“Please, Olan,” his gaze flicks up toward the fluorescent lights, and my chest tightens.

“Um, right. Sorry, Olan, what brought you here? Not to school. We know why you’re here this morning, to meet us, I meant…” I let out a feeble laugh, and it feels like pennies jangling in my throat.

Speaking. Difficult.

“Why here?” he says, rescuing me.

For once, someone besides me interjects, and I’m thankful for his assistance. Thinking it might be best for my mouth to rest for a moment, I nod.

“Illona’s mother and I recently separated. We needed a change. I’m an engineer, and there are some prospects here. We’ve vacationed in the area, and I’ve heard remarkably favorable reports about the community. Most importantly, a public school with a diverse population like Pelletier Elementary, one that celebrates their students, is critical to me as well.”

The more he speaks, the less uncomfortable he seems, and with his last word, Olan Stone smiles. Like a child taking their school photo, he forces his face into it by pulling his cheeks back and revealing his teeth. Displaying a luminous grin with that sexy gap, he uncovers the full magnitude of his magnetic face. It doesn’t only light up the room, it illuminates any darkness obscured in the corners of my soul. Olan Stone floods my basement.

Okay, focus. He’s separated. Potentially single. Clearly straight. My gaydar registers a big fat zero. He’s an engineer, not a model. That might explain his to-the-point attitude. He’s blessed with these stunning looks and appears to have no clue. Olan Stone is such a Daphne.

In college, I took an astronomy class because I foolishly thought learning about the solar system would be a way to fulfill a science requirement. And meet some hot nerds. Sadly, neither happened. But I did sit with Daphne, a tall, drop-dead-gorgeous brunette who may have immigrated from the Island of Themyscira. A complete sweetheart, we became friendly, helping each other understand the intricacies of star types and black holes. The more time I spent with Daphne, the more I realized just how clueless she was about her completely off-the-charts level of appearance. We’d stroll on the quad, and people’s heads would snap and turn as she floated by.

“Daphne, guys are literally tripping over themselves to look at you. And some girls too.”

She simply shrugged, tossed her head back – hair waving as if blown by an imaginary fan that seemed to follow her around – and giggled as if I’d said the silliest thing in the world. Olan Stone, too, appears to be blissfully unaware of precisely how hot his star is burning. It’s both annoying and endearing.

Kristi attempts to focus the energy in the room. I’m grateful someone is minding the clock. Students arrive soon, and yes, Olan Stone might be incredibly handsome, but even his punim won’t stop the school buses from delivering our cherubs.

“Mr. Stone, we’re thrilled to have you and Illona here at Pelletier Elementary, and I can assure you she will be happy and successful. Mr. Block is an exemplary teacher, and he’ll work to ensure her success. He would never tell you this himself, but he’s been nominated for our county’s Teacher of the Year,” she says, and perhaps this might supersede Olan’s vision of me pissing my pants.

Last October, with the utter hullabaloo of Halloween looming – with costumes and children sneaking in tempting candy for snack time – an anonymous parent nominated me for our county’s Teacher of the Year. Because anxiety rules my life, the email from Dr. Knorse asking to speak to me caused my palms and pits to sweat like Niagara Falls. I racked my brain to figure out what awful thing I had done requiring her to haul me into her office on a Friday afternoon. Reading her email, I immediately felt compelled to smash my laptop against a brick wall. Why don’t administrators give you an inkling or a clue about what they want to speak about? Don’t they understand an email that states only, “Please come see me after school” sends teachers into a tailspin?

Tori Knorse might be our principal, but that doesn’t stop most of us from seeing how downright unpredictable she can be. Some days she darts by me in the hallway without even the slightest glance, let alone a greeting. It’s not uncommon to go three to four days in a row without communicating with her. Then, the next day, she treats me like a long-lost best friend from middle school, having long conversations, asking about Gonzo’s favorite kitty treats (freeze-dried salmon) and what’s my sauce recipe for leftover pasta (ancient Jewish secret: it’s from a jar). Her moodiness confuses the hell out of me.

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