Page 9 of Teacher of the Year

“Tell me everything. Do not leave out a single detail. I want a breath-by-breath account,” Jill commands in a pointed fashion I’ve become accustomed to from her.

My gut wonders if she may be slightly jealous she doesn’t get the opportunity to flirt with Olan herself, but she’s attempting to be a good sport.

We sit in Branch Brew, a local kombucha brewery and our favorite spot because I can sip a relatively non-alcoholic kombucha while Jill gets the hard variety. I never became a steady drinker. Watching my mom struggle with her own healing and all those Al-Anon meetings as a teen quickly put a bad taste in my mouth for alcohol. When I tried a few sips in college, likening the taste to drinking warm piss, I decided right there to be sober. I’ve learned which local places sell kombucha, and in a pinch, at a bar, I’ll grab a seltzer with lime or a local soda and be quite content. Branch Brew crafts its own kombucha and carries flavors with and without alcohol.

A cozy spot with old leather sofas and soft patchwork chairs meant to foster conversation and games, we love coming here to decompress and scrutinize men. Jill might be married to an incredibly handsome man, but, as my personal Korean Yenta, one of her favorite hobbies comprises scouting guys and playing matchmaker for me. Branch Brew, a magnet for earthy Portland types we both love, proves a wonderful locale for eye candy. Today, alternative rock scorches through the speakers, and though not typically what’s playing in my headphones, it attracts the right crowd and sets the mood. The whole place smells like a strange mix of vinegar and lavender, and small droplights provide an industrial atmosphere. It feels more like hanging out in a large den than a typical bar, and most importantly, it’s spitting distance from the school.

“Um. Okay. And how was your day?” I say.

“Awful. Amazing. Everything in between. Molly asked when the next vacation was and made me feel like the world’s most boring teacher, but then Stuart asked if he could sit in my lap during story time after lunch, so I guess it all evened out.”

“You are not boring. And you do have a cuddly lap.”

“Um, sure. Now tell me about Illona’s dad. Now.”

“He picked his daughter up, thanked me for her good first day with us, and left. Story over.”

Jill’s eyes squint, giving me an annoyed expression she’s mastered so well. Not remotely satisfied with my CliffsNotes version of events, she pines for gory details. She slams her glass down on the low walnut table in front of us, causing a loud crack and slight spillage.

“Marvin, what did he say? How did he look? The man is a snack. Can I give a toast at your wedding? Spill it!”

“He confessed that he left his supermodel wife, moved his daughter across the country, and requested me, Marvin Block, candidate for Teacher of the Year, be her teacher because the moment he laid eyes on me, he realized he’s gay and uprooting his family and moving across the country was all for me. We’re engaged and the wedding’s next summer. Lady Gaga is officiating. There, happy?” I give a little shrug, smile, and from my seat, take a bow.

Jill may be used to my dripping sarcasm, but she’s not having any of it today.

“Marvin. I’m not fucking around here. It’s not every day a man that delicious has a child in our school. Please. Tell. Me. What. Happened.” Her teeth are smashed together and showing.

“He was fine. Nice. Illona had a wonderful first day, and he thanked me. He shook my hand and…” This next part, I blurt out quickly, like a confession, “I think he might have winked at me. Might have. It could have been a piece of dust in his eye, honestly. You know how filthy the school gets.”

Jill doesn’t speak. This is unusual. Inconceivable. For a moment, I worry she may be choking on her Beach Break hard booch. I raise my eyebrows at her in a way that means “so there” and take a sip of my pineapple kombucha.

“Okay, stop, rewind. He winked at you? What kind of wink?”

“What kind of wink? What kind of winks are there? He winked.” I give her a little wink.

“Marvin, people don’t wink at other people they’ve just met for nothing. Have you ever winked at anyone you just met if you didn’t think they were at least minimally attractive? And even then, who does that? Who winks at people if you’re not, I don’t know, an eighty-five-year-old Jewish man making a joke? And what is he doing in Portland? And alone? What do you know about him?”

She’s asking me questions in rapid-fire succession but, in her typical fashion, doesn’t allow me to answer until she’s truly done. The nuttiness of our first day back prevented us from eating lunch together today, and she is clearly not happy about having to wait the entire day to interrogate me. I keep nursing my drink, which is already three-quarters gone, and try to ignore her mounting energy. Sometimes Jill getting revved up triggers my anxiety, and right now, I’m about to tip.

I wait for her to pause long enough and speak. “I don’t know. He’s gorgeous. Stunning, for fuck’s sake. You saw him. Maybe he winks at everyone. It’s probably his thing. Why do we care? I’m not interested. In him. Or anyone. He’s eye candy and that’s it. And I’m not sure why they moved here. He mentioned vacationing here and hearing about the supportive community. I don’t know. I didn’t Google him.” I push my hair out of my eyes and continue the motion to give a little shrug, punctuating my point.

“Wait, we’re Googling him. Now.”

Lord, help me.

“Jill, no, please stop.”

Googling parents isn’t unprecedented, but it always feels like a supreme invasion of privacy. To be fair, I know for a fact parents Google us. One year, a mom told me my entire life story, where I grew up and went to college. She knew my most-listened-to-artist on Spotify was Jennifer Lopez. It was creepy. Her knowledge of my life, that is. Not my affinity for the flawless Ms. Lopez.

“Listen, why don’t we search for a guy for me on one of the apps.”

Her fingers freeze on her phone, and her eyes turn up to me. My foolproof distraction works, like waving a steak in front of a hungry lion.

“Wait, really?”

“It’s more, I don’t know, realistic to focus on… let’s say guys we know are gay and, just spitballing here, maybe don’t have a child in my class.”

“Marvin, you know there’s no rule against dating a parent. Is it celebrated? No. Frowned upon? Perhaps.”

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