Page 51 of Teacher of the Year

Like each child, I’ve made a bag for cards too. I rotate between tables to open mine. Most children have given me the same variety they gave to their classmates, but a few have crafted their own, and I read every single one aloud as they gush, blush, and giggle.

“To Mr. Block, thank you for your big heart. Love Ricky,” I read.

Ricky dips his head, but his smile overtakes his round face, and he wraps his arms around my waist because whenever words fail to express emotions in kindergarten, the best route is an embrace.

“Ricky, I love it. You wrote this all yourself?”

He nods emphatically.

“And look, you drew me holding your hand, and who is this?”

I point to a drawing I’m unable to identify.

“Gonzo!”

“Of course it’s Gonzo. Look at him, it looks just like him.”

It looks nothing like him.

“I’m going to take this home and show Gonzo and tell him, ‘Ricky drew this lovely picture of you.’”

Another tight squeeze from Ricky.

I pull another card from my bag.

“Mr. Block, thank you for helping me. Your friend, Illona.”

“Do you love it?” Illona launches herself onto my lap.

“I adore it, but I adore you more.”

She leans into me, and I wrap my arms around her. We have a huge love fest in kindergarten, and my heart, already full, bursts with tenderness. There are cupcakes with pink frosting, all the red fruit minus cranberries and cherries, and strawberry yogurt. The simple spread delights the class, and when I tell them we need to clean up to go home, they collectively groan in disappointment.

As we wait for the bus kids to be picked up, Sophia shouts, “Best Valentime’s Day Ever!” a classic and charming mispronunciation. Overtaken by her enthusiasm, the entire class begins chanting along with her, and these are the moments I hope they remember.

At pickup, Olan and I have become adept at keeping any hint of desire hidden between us. Dr. Knorse looms over the table, checking signatures, saying hellos, and investigating the scene for any cracks in the surface. I have no desire to provide her with one.

“Princess,” Olan shouts from behind a cluster of waiting adults. My ears register him first and instruct my heart to stop with all the fluttering. “How was the party?” She’s in his arms now.

“Oh, Daddy, we had cupcakes and fruit and so many cards.” She holds up her bag, an explosion of pink and red goodness.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” Dr. Knorse’s greeting to Olan and the other pickup parents leans festive today.

“Happy Valentine’s Day to you, Dr. Knorse.” Olan attempts to charm her, and I bite my lip to contain my laughter. “And Happy Valentine’s Day, Mr. Block.” He grins, and the three of us stand there in what feels like a standoff in a bad western, so I end it.

“You too, have a great night,” I reply, and I turn and head back to the classroom to tidy up.

There’s been no discussion about Valentine’s Day between us because we’re taking it slow, and I don’t want to push matters in an uncomfortable way. Rushing and forcing things only leads to disaster. Sometimes I watch the children at Choice Time playing with tiny toy cars, and when their little hands slap the top of the metal and thrust it too quickly, the car ends up toppling up in a horrible crash, their squeaky voices erupting in laughter. There’s no reason for us to push whatever this is that we’re not actually talking about or defining yet.

I bought Olan a simple card and hid it in my backpack. It took some time to find one that was sweet but not overly sappy with some painted hearts and a quote that reads, “Love is when you meet someone who tells you something new about yourself – Andre Breton.” I wasn’t sure about buying a card with the wordlovein any form, but it turns out for Valentine’s Day, love is almost impossible to avoid. And Olan has awoken things in me I never knew existed. The quote fits. In an effort to keep it understated, I only wrote,Thank you for all the fun, ?,Marvin. We have no plans to see each other outside of pickup today, and I can always give it to him another time.

Driving home with the card in my bag, I’m tempted to pull over and text him. If I let Olan know I have a card for him, he might ask to meet. Or maybe he’d feel bad for not getting me something. Perhaps he’d think I was forcing things. All not outcomes I’m seeking. The uncertainty accompanying the newness of whatever we are is both exciting and excruciatingly frustrating. Not knowing triggers my anxiety; if I let it fester too much, I’ll put myself in a bad place.

I flip to the Eighties playlist on my phone, and the high-hats, pulsing bass line, and the unmistakable male voice croons the opening lines of “Don’t You Want Me.” Within the safety of my car, I belt out the chorus and bop along to the synths. Damn, The Human League never got their due respect.

By the time the song fades, I’m parked, swaying, singing, basking in the comfort of an absolute classic jam, and thankful for the distraction and de-escalation it brought. Walking up to my building, I give a little half-smile to myself. Ice cream in the freezer, a sappy movie on the TV, and Gonzo snuggling under a blanket with me sounds like a perfect evening after the nutty day at school.

As I go to put my key in the front door, I spot something red resting on the ground, directly under the handle. I bend down to investigate and spotMarvin Blockwritten on the small envelope and recognize Olan’s handwriting from his notes. That bugger. Shivering in the frigid February air, I rip it open. The front of the card has an illustration fromThe Very Hungry Caterpillaron it. It depicts the opening pages. The moon glows softly, the caterpillar still snoozes in its egg, and the entire story awaits to unfold. It’s one of those blank cards you can use for any occasion, and Olan has written, in his less than legible handwriting:Marvin, thank you for being you and helping me be me. Olan.

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