Page 69 of Teacher of the Year

“How about you? How are things with that man you’re seeing?”

And here we go.

“Things are fine,” I lie because it’s easier.

“Good. Good. I don’t like thinking about you alone.”

“I’m not alone, Mom. I have Gonzo.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know. But I’m okay, Mom. I have school,” I contend, trying to convince myself as much as her.

“Marvin, people aren’t meant to be alone. You’re not a bear in the arctic. I just want you to have someone. Somebody to look after and care for you.”

The irony smacks me upside the head. My mother wants for me what she couldn’t give me herself when I was a child. But I don’t need anyone to take care of me. Besides occasionally forgetting to eat and tempting fate by driving my car with an almost empty tank most of the time, I’m doing fine.

“I know, Mom, but I have friends too. Friends are like found family.”

I think of Jill and close my eyes. Why have I pushed her away these last few weeks? In my heart, I know she’d be overjoyed for me. She has so much happening with the pregnancy, and she must be scared. God, I feel like an ass. Every friendship has bumps, but family powers through obstacles. I need to make things right with her.

“You have nice friends who care about you, I know, but a partner, a spouse, that’s something different.”

And knowing she’s right stabs a schmear knife right into my bagel heart.

“Okay, Mom, I have to get ready for school tomorrow,” I fib. There’s a plethora of tasks I could engage in, but tonight, Gonzo and I will stay in bed, eat spicy Doritos, leave crumbs in places there should be no crumbs, and blast pop songs about broken hearts.

* * *

Pulling into the school parking lot, I’m relieved I’ve beat Jill here. I need to prepare for the day and know once we begin chatting, my brain won’t be in the place to do so. The heavy school door slams hard behind me, creating an echo of noise through the hallway that trails me to my room. I toss my backpack on my chair and scribble the morning message as quickly as possible.

As I pinball around the room, placing papers and moving bins, I listen for Jill’s arrival, ready to leap out into the hallway and pounce on her. But as it gets closer to eight, Jill’s still not here. Typically, when one of us calls out sick, we text the other and email sub plans. Even though there’s been this space between us, I hope she’d still feel comfortable doing that. I pull out my phone to ensure I haven’t missed anything and debate texting her as Kristi pops her head into my room.

“Good morning,” Kristi says with something else brewing underneath her smile.

“Hey, how are you?”

“I’m good, Marvin.” She shuts the door. The guidance counselor shutting your door to chat is never a good sign. She walks over to a table closer to the easel where I’m standing and sits on it. Her usually cheerful face looks ominous, and I’m starting to worry.

“Marvin, Jill’s in the hospital. I just found out this morning. I’m not sure what’s wrong, but…”

The baby. Fuck. Tears begin to sting the corner of my eyes as I grab my coat and keys and dart for the door. I’m not sure if Kristi even knows Jill’s pregnant, and it’s not my place to tell her, so I just blurt, “I’ve got to go. Which hospital?”

“Maine Med, but Marvin, you can’t leave. The kids will be here in twenty minutes. We don’t have a sub for you.”

“Kristi, please watch my class. I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

* * *

“Marvin, hey buddy. She’s going to be okay.” Nick grabs me by the reception desk and gathers me in his arms, squeezing tightly, not letting go. Disinfectant and bleach blanket the area and the whoosh of automatic doors underscores Nick’s voice.

“What happened?”

“She had some cramping this morning. They’ve run tests and the doctor says the baby is fine. This happens sometimes.”

“She’s okay? The baby’s okay?” I let out a huge sigh, and the tears bridled all morning begin to stream down my face. Nick pulls away and gives me a soft smile, and I grab him again because I feel like he might need it, and I absolutely do. With my arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, he squeezes me tightly and mutters, “Yes, they’re both fine.”

Jill lies in a bed, hooked up to monitoring equipment. In this bare, sterile room, attached to tubes and beeping machines, the noises and disinfectant swirling in the air, she appears smaller, something I’m not used to with her.

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