Page 2 of Teacher of the Year

“Put myself out there? Have you watchedDatelinelately?”

Jill gives me her I’m-not-buying-your-bullshit stare. I recognize it almost as well as she recognizes my jokes-as-diversion strategy.

“Why are you dancing, Marvin? Focus.”

“This isn’t my ADHD. I’m listening. Mostly. I need to pee. Badly,” I tell her, hopping from one foot to the other.

“Go!” she yells, and I dash out.

Having a men’s room in a building where typically no more than two grown men work makes little to no sense. I’ve pushed our principal, Dr. Knorse, to consider making it a gender-neutral bathroom, and she said she’ll “think about it.” Which means, not happening in this lifetime. Much to everyone’s chagrin, Jerry, the male PE teacher, and I joke it’s our personal powder room.

Rushing in, I pee quickly and proceed to wash up. I position my hands under the automatic faucet. Nothing. Out and back under. Still nothing. While the tree-hugger in me understands these sinks are meant to conserve water, their inability to function in a timely and reasonable manner often leaves me wanting to scream with frustration. As I’m fighting with the damn sink, about to actually yell, a blur zooms toward the urinal.

Hurrying to finish, I throw my hands under the faucet one last time, and it erupts to life. A stream of water sprays my arms and gushes all over the front of my gray joggers. And now I appear to have thoroughly pissed myself. Lovely.

Glancing over at the urinal, I see that the man peeing clearly isn’t a white, short, rotund redhead. Jerry wouldn’t be at school this early anyway. From the back, I can see he’s almost as tall as me, with rich brown skin and hair springing from his head in tight coils. The urge to escape embarrassment washes over me, but I also need the bathroom’s air dryer to attempt to rectify the large splash on the front of my pants.

The urinal flushes with a swoosh and I quickly finish washing. The zip of his pants and his crisp footsteps on the tile floor inform me he’s en route. My forehead begins to sweat, and I know I’m about to be caught with what appears to be pissed pants.

The stranger strolls over, and I rush to cover the lower portion of my body, throwing my wet hands over myself to hide the awkwardness but only making the offending splotch worse. He scrutinizes me with deep, hickory eyes. And maybe because my hands attempt to cover the area, his gaze lowers, landing on my crotch. My eyes widen with humiliation and the confirmation I’m a complete schmuck.

“It’s water from the sink. Be careful. They’re automatic. And relentless. And well…” I move my hands away, revealing the source of my mortification.

Without a word, he slowly places his hands under the sink, and the faucet magically comes to life with no histrionics or fanfare. He looks at me, gives the faintest grin, and washes his hands.

I turn to the air dryer and do my best to position myself under it, thrusting my hips forward to get the airflow right. I’m now gyrating in the bathroom in front of a handsome stranger like a complete putz. The man finishes and, as I’m bogarting the dryer, wipes his hands on his pants and gives me a nod and exits. Standing there, hot air blowing my nether regions, I wonder, who was that gorgeous man, and why am I so damn flushed?

As I return to my classroom, my heartbeat begins to return to normal. The scorching air from the dryer erased the water on my pants, but why am I still flooded with warmth? That man. His eyes. The way he looked at me. Down there.

I snap on the lights and wait for the harsh fluorescent glow and the low hum they create. The quiet purr whirs in the spare moments before and after children take over the space which is filled with their work and writing, bursting with life, even without them present.

Edginess creeping in, I close my eyes, and Caron Wheeler’s bright, distinctive alto joins the drone from the lights. The opening harmonies of“Back to Life” take over my headspace. Her rich acapella voice singing about returning to routine and reality cues me to take long, deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. One, two, three. I pause, making the break last slightly longer than usual. In moments when my emotions feel heavy and my anxiety bubbles, my brain’s DJ cues up the perfect song. When the music starts up, it’s my cue to pause. A few minutes of meditative gulps of air along with centering on the music and lyrics, and I’m usually ready for reentry.

I open my eyes. Without the noisy energy of the children, the classroom feels mournful, almost melancholy – even with all the evidence of their presence. My first task, cracking a window because even in the middle of frosty Maine winters, the onslaught of germs from five-year-olds necessitates a modicum of fresh air. Children have literally coughed and sneezed directly in my face and thought nothing of it. Do you know what that feels like? Sticky, wet, and warm – and not in a good way. All the hand sanitizer and face wipes in the world won’t help. Crisp, clean air provides a curtain of freshness until I’m able to scrub down in a Silkwood shower the minute I’m home. Dropping my backpack by my table, I glance at a small pile of items I’d procured for my new student before the break.

She starts today, and though I could have dragged my tuchus in over the holiday break to label and set her things up, I needed the respite. As I formulate a plan of attack to prepare for the nutty day ahead, Kristi Brody, the school guidance counselor, pops her head into the doorway like a small prairie dog searching for her pack.

“Morning! Have a good break?” Kristi trumpets, her hair bouncing with each step. Her voluminous curls swing and sway, unlike mine which were a gift from my Jewish ancestors – small and tight, more like corkscrews shooting from my head in a wild fashion. As a child, my mother occasionally referred to me as “pubic head,” which explains a lot about our relationship.

Conflicting feelings about returning to work swirl in my keppie. I adore my job. Specifically, the children bring me great pleasure. It’s hard not to cherish their sweet faces, quirky smiles with missing teeth, and the often random, confusing, but hilarious tidbits that pop out of their mouths at the most inopportune times. Like the time I attempted to explain the concept of addition, and Roberta confessed, “When I grow up, I want to marry a taco.” For the record, me too, kid, me too.

I’m trying to figure out how to answer Kristi. When someone asks if you had a “good break,” they rarely want complete honesty. They don’t want to hear you spent most of your break in solitude, watching subpar rom-coms on Netflix, overeating store-brand strawberry ice cream containing no actual strawberries, and feeling elated to only have the company of your cat whom you secretly refer to as your “kitty boyfriend.” A super snuggly and sweet cat eclipses most men, and – with my history and fear of commitment – may also be my best prospect at the moment. No, people want politeness and pleasantries. But as a guidance counselor, Kristi deals with emotions for a living. And though she rarely joins Jill and me in socializing outside of school, we’re rather tight in the building.

“Pretty good. Chilled… a lot. Happy to be back. How about you?”

“Same. Spent time with family, baking cookies, watching movies, all of that holiday magic,” she says with her signature calm kindness that puts people at ease. Kristi’s main character flaw? Her love of running. Always trying to get other people to run with you is not welcome or cute. I wouldn’t run unless zombies were chasing me, and even then, after a block, I’d probably relent and offer myself up as a tasty kosher snack.

“Ready for your new student?”

Here’s the thing about getting new students in the middle of the school year: it’s always a crapshoot. Families moving their children during the school year are usually experiencing some sort of significant life change. A new job, marriage, or divorce, whatever the circumstances, you can bet it will impact the student in a way sure to upset the microcosm of serenity I’ve carefully curated since September. Steadying myself with another deep breath, I remind myself that, returning from vacation, revisiting rules and routines happens organically. This will lessen the impact of the wildcard about to be dealt in.

“I think so,” I say, patting the stack of items to prepare for her in the next hour.

I glance at the neon green sticky note on top of the pile containing the little information I have about her until her paperwork arrives.

“Well, remember, we have the parent welcome meeting at seven forty-five.”

“Oh right, I better get to it,” I say, standing and moving into action.

---