Page 85 of Teacher of the Year

“Ready or not! I kid. We’ve been practicing, and I think we’re prepared. Plus, the beauty of kindergarten lies in the cuteness of mistakes.”

“Very true. Well, I’ll be here. Remember to have fun and enjoy it.”

“Thanks,” I say and she’s off.

The tightening in my chest reminds me I’m meeting Isabella today. My brain tries hard not to think about possible worst-case scenarios. She wouldn’t barge in and announce, “Mr. Block is shtupping Illona’s father!” Right? I rub my hands on my pants and close my eyes. The silence in the room allows me to hear the faint ticking of the second hand on the classroom clock. Tick, tick, tick. Maren Morris’s rich country alto voice comes in, Zedd’s beats drop, and the wall of sound that is “The Middle” washes over me. This song epitomizes the termbanger. Whoever thought to combine EDM music with a country singer’s sumptuous voice deserves a medal. Or a Grammy. I bounce my leg to the music in my head, and a rich warmth comes over me.

“Marvin. Marvin. Hello?” Jill interrupts the melody in my mind.

“Oh, hey, sorry.”

“What song?”

“The Middle.”

“Nice choice. Total banger.”

“Right?”

“And what are you distracting yourself from? Are you nervous about the celebration? Meeting the ex?”

“Definitely Isabella. Apparently, Olan told her about us. Lord knows what she thinks.”

“She will meet you in the best possible environment – your classroom. Marvin, you are literally up for fucking Teacher of the Year. She’s going to see you shine like the brilliant star you are. Her daughter adores you. She’s going to see how happy you make Olan. What more could she want?”

“That’s what worries me. What if she doesn’t love how happy her daughter and ex are because of me?”

“Well, that would be about her and not you. Please, just be your charming, cute self and enjoy the celebration.”

“Come here, please.”

Jill strolls over to me, and I swaddle her in my arms. She’s so small it’s easy to completely envelop her.

“Thank you for being you.”

“You’re welcome. And remember, you’re providing unlimited free babysitting.” Jill taps her tiny bump.

“Duh. Only a Jewish Guncle can teach the baby about noshes andDrag Race.”

* * *

Clearly pumped for the celebration, the class jumps and bounces as they return from lunch. We read a story, and I turn off the lights and guide them through some deep meditative breaths. Of course, this helps me as much as them. One thing I’ve learned as a teacher, expect the unexpected and roll with it. Whatever happens, the families will forgive us because if all else fails, the kids are ridiculously cute. At one thirty, the room phone rings. The children squeal in anticipation and glee. It’s beyond precious.

“Hold on, I can’t answer if I can’t hear.”

They all make “shush” noises, quiet down, and stare at me. Jean lets me know families have started arriving and asks if she can send them down.

“Okay, they’re coming,” I say in the calmest, quietest possible voice.

A few soft screams erupt, but for the most part, they manage to keep it together. My heart beats loudly for the minute or so until the families are going to stream in.

“Okay friends, remember, when you see your family, give a wave, but stay on the rug so they can sit at our tables. You’ll have time with them afterward with your storyboards.”

Relatives begin appearing, entering the classroom with a look of trepidation. People know enough to understand a kindergarten classroom might be a little intimidating, to say the least. But this is organized, well-planned, managed chaos they’ve been invited to witness.

Charlie spots his family. His mother, father, and two-year-old sister come in first. Popping up on his knees, he waves his arms so fast I wonder if he’ll begin to hover like a small helicopter. There’s something magical for children about their two worlds smashing together like this, and I take a deep satisfying breath, knowing I not only arranged it but get to witness the glory. More families trickle in with smiles and greetings as they wrangle their adult bodies into tiny seats at tiny tables, and I think, “Welcome to my world.”

I spot Olan and my face flushes, and Lord, I pray nobody notices. He’s wearing slate dress pants and a rich chestnut sweater. Cindy follows directly behind him. She waves and raises her eyebrows at me in a way that suggests solidarity and understanding. I’m grateful for the friendship she provides Olan and help she affords him with Illona. Behind Cindy, Isabella appears, and even though I’ve seen her in photos littered around Olan’s home, in person, she’s simply stunning.

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