by Kristy Marie
We’ve been down this road before. Many, many times. Every year I go through the same range of tests, and he says the same exact thing: hearing aids in the meantime. Surgery for a permanent solution. Surgery, in most cases, corrects otosclerosis, which is what I have thanks to my inherited genes. I have an abnormality of the calcium in the small bones of my inner ear. As I age, the bones stop vibrating and I lose my hearing. Like yesterday.
Again, this is shit I already know.
I heard it when I attended appointments with my mother, and now I get my own special brand of hell by watching my doctor sign the same speech she heard a million and four times.
“My answer is still no,” I tell him, attempting not to sound like a complete asshole.
I know the probability of success, and I know the probability of failure.
I don’t want it. Just like I didn’t want the hearing aids.
“Tim,” Anniston sighs, although I no longer hear the sound, but I can tell by the way her chest expands and her mouth opens as she bounces baby Aspen on her hip. “Why are you being so difficult?” Her normally bright blue eyes are red and tired, dimmed from the past twenty-four hours of dealing with me, but she holds my gaze steady as she signs, speaking the words I’ll never hear again unless I have the surgery. “Don’t you want to try?”
If I answer her with a firm “no” again, I’m afraid she’ll cry, and that’s the last thing I want to do to her.
Anniston Von Bremen has been patient with me. She learned sign language for me. Hell, she made everyone in the entire house learn it. She’s the sister I never had.
I stare straight ahead, searching for more words as the weight of their stares bear down on me.
Fine.
Reluctantly, I shake my head no. Again. For the thousandth time this hour.
Dr. Callahan quickly signs his argument, but I don’t bother looking anymore. Instead, I lock stares with Theo who signs, asking if I want a burger for lunch. There’s this new burger joint that looks like it serves a side of salmonella with the quarter pound beef patties. At least the condition of the restaurant makes it seem that way, but Hayes assured us they had the best burgers in town. And since he hasn’t died yet, I’m game.
I grin and curl my thumb and index finger, signing okay. He knows I want to get out of here, and when he pushes off the wall and takes Anniston by the elbow, I know I am buying him lunch.
“He’ll think about it,” Theo says, probably with a tone that sent a groan through Anniston. “We’ll let you know if he ever exhibits any common sense and schedule another appointment.”
Even though he didn’t sign, I read his lips perfectly. Honestly, I expected worse from him. Regardless, I’m appreciative. I don’t want to explain why I don’t want surgery to Anniston and Dr. Callahan. Frankly, it’s none of their business.
I knew this day would come.
Now that it has, we can all move on.
I knew it was going to be a terrible day—the caterpillars were fighting.
“Do you think he had a mishap with microblading?” whispers Gretchen. Coincidentally, we both weren’t listening to anything Dr. Blackwood, the school’s superintendent, was saying. Even in the large cafeteria, packed to the brim with coffee-scented breaths and bad attitudes, we choose to focus on the two fluffy eyebrows going up and down along Dr. Blackwood’s forehead. Two dark caterpillars mindlessly jousting back and forth with each punctuated word that leaves his mouth—which we were clearly missing.
“I’ve wanted to try microblading for some time now,” she leans in closer, “but if that’s the result, then I think I will keep my pencil.”
My eyes narrow at her blatant lie. “Gretch, no one believes your perfect eyebrows are from good genes and a drugstore eyebrow pencil.” Yeah, we know, girl. Own the money you’ve invested in those brows.
She hisses in my ear. “Keep your voice down!”
Her glare beams into my temple like a blowtorch. You know how some girls are the embodiment of high school prom queens? Their looks? Their life? That’s Gretchen. More than likely, she was the mean girl who wore pink on Wednesday and knew every freckle the football team had below the belt line. Gretchen was the OG of Madison High School, and here she sits, reigning queen of the fifth grade hall at Madison’s only elementary school.
Sitting up straight and adjusting my skirt, I sigh. Thanks to Gretchen, I’ve missed most of the meeting. Well, technically, it’s Dr. Blackwood’s and both of our faults. If he wouldn’t be so dramatic with his facial expressions, we wouldn’t have missed his entire speech.
“I want to thank each of you for your time and investment in our children. Your dedication is not unnoticed. I hate that it has come down to this….” He shakes his head, the caterpillars readying for the final stand. “The schools and specific classes affected will be notified by their principals. Thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you all have a great Monday.” Dr. Blackwood steps back from the podium and tips his chin to Principal Moorehouse in a silent plea to take over.
At least Principal Moorehouse, my boss, has no distracting qualities. “Before we dismiss, I’d just like to remind all of my teachers to monitor the bathrooms.” His eyes narrow in my direction where all the fifth-grade teachers are sitting. “There seems to be a few creative students and an abundance of plastic wrap left unsupervised.”
I smother a laugh and keep my head down, focusing on the necklace Felipe shoved over my head this morning. “You look dreadful. Not at all what a hot teacher is supposed to look like,” he had scolded before hiking the waist up on my skirt, making it shorter. “Now. Now you look fuckable.” I rolled my eyes, slipping on my four-inch heels and reminded him, “I teach elementary students. The last thing I want to do is look ‘fuckable.’” Felipe had nearly fainted. I shit you not. He’s so damn dramatic. “Milah! Have I taught you nothing? You don’t dress for those spoiled, rotten little turds. You dress fuckably for their daddies.” And that last statement from Felipe is why I will forever be single. When your best friend is a bigger diva than you are, it’s hard to manage all things dick related.
“Let’s have a great day, Bleckley Family!”
Apparently I zoned out and missed the rest of Principal Moorehouse’s speech. By the time I realize it, everyone is shuffling up from the tables and kid-sized chairs. I snag Gretchen. “Did I miss anything?”
She stares at me all crazy-eyed. “Uh, no.”
I wave away her look. “Sorry, I zoned out for a minute. Was he just fussing about the poop incident?” I hide a grin when Gretchen starts giggling, attracting Sir Dicks-A-Lot to come over and lean into our little circle.
“Ladies,” Coach Murano—his real name—drawls, rubbing Gretchen’s shoulder like he’s some kind of masseuse and not the dick bag he really is. “How’s everything this morning?”
Gretchen gags a little before shrugging off his touch. “Icky,” she answers flatly before tugging my hand and ushering us to the door and down the hall before Coach Murano can assault us with anymore of his douchebag stench.
It’s not that he’s that bad of a guy—at least I don’t think he is. Sure, he’s gotten two teachers fired by lying that they initiated sex in the janitor’s closet. And, sure, he’s an asshole to just about every male teacher, but he could be a good guy deep down, right? Even if he’s hit on nearly every female teacher twice and has two restraining orders issued by his ex-wives. But I’m sure Bleckley’s PE teacher is a nice guy somewhere in all that disaster of a man.
“So, lunch later?” Gretchen asks, not bothering to look at me but rather at the man across from my room. Cal Sutter. History teacher. A really good guy and the last boyfriend that Felipe ran off. Okay, so it wasn’t all Felipe’s fault. I knew Cal and I were over by the time I introduced him to Felipe. He was sweet, but there just wasn’t a connection. None. And no matter how hard I tried to generate one, it just never came. So when he gave Felipe the look—you know, the one that drips blatant disdain—I broke up with him i
mmediately. If you want into my life, you have to accept all my craziness, which includes my best friend, whom I would sell my soul for. Cal wasn’t that guy, even if he says he’s fine with mine and Felipe’s lifestyle. He wasn’t, and I could tell he was uncomfortable around Pe, and there was no need in us trying to make that work. Cal and I were not meant to be. Gretchen certainly agrees by the way she is eye-fucking him from the hallway.
“Why don’t you just go talk to him?” I urge her, giving her a teensy push toward his door where he’s stretched out, hanging something high on his wall.
She flips around and winks. “Who says I haven’t?”
Uh, me. Because clearly, if she had, she would be helping him hang that poster by holding his midsection for, you know, safety.
I shrug like I don’t give a shit because, I don’t. Cal Sutter is not my human. “I’ll see you at twelve,” I tell her, opening my door and turning on the lights, the smell of bleach stinging my nose. Don’t judge me. Little kids are nasty critters. Even fifth graders.
With one final glance in Cal’s direction—he successfully hung whatever it was—Gretch scampers off, leaving me staring into his room and coincidentally right into his eyes.
“Cal.” I nod.
“Milah,” he returns with a dashing smile. “You look beautiful today.”
Don’t be fooled, charm can break even the strongest of women. My smile is tight. “Thanks,” I mumble, heat flooding my cheeks. “You’re looking rested.”
Rested? Rested, Milah? Really?
“I mean, handsome,” I amend.
He laughs. “No, I think rested is what you meant.”
He’s still a bit salty from the breakup, and most of the time, that would bother me. I don’t like for people not to like me, but there was no way I was staying in that tense situation. Cal can have his beliefs. I don’t fault anyone for what they choose to believe in. But I know what it’s like to be an outcast. And no one that I bring to our house will make Pe feel any less valued than a rare diamond. So Cal can be salty and we can still be friends, but that’s all we’ll ever be.
I give him a smile that probably looks like I’m constipated. “I’m sorry. It’s been a rough morning.”
Total lie, but what was I supposed to say?
“I get it.” He frowns, the conversation turning serious. “After that staff meeting, I would be worried too.”
Worried?
“I, uh….” Just as I’m about to ask what in the hell did I miss, the bell rings and kids start pouring through the halls, yelling and shoving at everything in their way.
“Brace for impact,” he says all playfully, slipping inside his door, not waiting for me to finish my question.
It doesn’t matter though. An hour later, I learn firsthand just what the caterpillars were fighting over.
“I need a penis.”
Felipe’s gargle of a laugh has me trying to crack open an eye. In my drunken state, it’s harder than it should be.
“What you need is a glass of water and a pedicure,” he adds, sobering enough to eye my size six foot in shame while he touches up the purple polish I chipped an hour ago when I tripped over the stool in his bar. I swear it wasn’t there when I started sobbing on the bar top and begging for top shelf tequila.
I grunt out a nonanswer because, let’s be honest here, bad days are not topped off with water. My teeth are numb, and my toes are a trillion miles away. Yeah, no water for me. I’m due for a sloppy drunk day.
My best friend shakes his head and grins. Glitter from his hair falls onto the tabletop where I’m perched and lands on my bare thigh. “When was the last time you had these bear claws soaked?”
“Shut up. They aren’t that bad.” They really aren’t. Felipe is just trying to be a good friend by pointing out things I should be more focused on rather than my shitty day.
At my blatant lie, those pristine eyebrows of his climb higher up his perfectly contoured forehead.
“Okay, so it’s been a minute since I’ve had a pedicure. My feet are the least of my worries, Felipe! I need a penis, and I need one fast.”
With a light blow on my newly polished big toe, my brother from another mother sits back in his chair, folds his arms, and lets out a deep sigh.
“What’s a penis going to do for you, Mami?” His hand darts out and makes a swirling motion as if he’s drawing a circle around the hot mess that I currently am.
Have I mentioned Felipe is super dramatic?
“Well,” I start, opening both eyes and sitting up straighter. I need my words to sound convincing and educated, not slurred and mispronounced. “For starters, I could work for you while unemployed.” I look at my wrist like there’s a watch there. There isn’t. “Like at the end of the school year.”
Felipe’s lips thin like the mere thought of me working for him is atrocious. He totally ignores my ticking timeline of impending unemployment.
“I’m serious, Pe. I need a job! Principal Moorehouse said the board voted to cut the foreign language program instead of making their precious athletics department use last year’s uniforms.” I attempt an eye roll, but the way Felipe smirks at me, I’m pretty sure it looks like I am about to pass out, which, in all honesty, is quite possible at this point.
“Look, Mami.” He scoots closer and plucks the bottle of tequila from my hand. I was done with it anyway. Maybe not. Maybe I could have used one more sip. “No. You’re cut off. I can’t carry you up the stairs anymore,” he adds, answering my desperate look at the bottle of tequila. “Last time I pulled a muscle and laid in bed for a solid week.”
Such a liar…. “I told you and Marcus to stop using that Kama Sutra app. But you insisted on adding some kink to your relationship.”
And kink they both got, just not in the way they imagined. Seriously, it was bad. Felipe needed help in the bathroom and, well, let’s just say, we weren’t able to look each other in the eye for a couple weeks.
“Listen—” He waves away my smug look. “—you’re drunk and I’m tired.” I cock my head to the side. At least I think I do. The room keeps spinning, so it’s a little hard to tell. “The point is, you need a job to keep your work visa and stay in the states with moi. Having a penis will not help you accomplish any of those things.”
I beg to differ. Coach Murano gets away with new equipment and his job, thanks to his penis. Although I like Principal Moorehouse, I understand there’s a brotherhood of the penis that I will never be able to penetrate—pun intended. And having a penis would ensure me a job at Felipe’s club. It’s a special one. No tacos allowed. Only length and girth are admitted to Felipe’s high-end karaoke bar. Felipe would disagree and tell you it’s not a karaoke bar or a club, but rather a high-end restaurant for the elite of Madison, Georgia. Its name is Magic Michelle’s. You do the math. Regardless, I have nothing to offer Magic Michelle’s. The only thing I have that can constitute as being long is my Latina hair and American credit card bill.
“Maybe not,” I argue with the man still holding my tequila hostage, “but at least I would have been able to tell Coach Murano to suck it when he smiled down at me like a weasel.”
Felipe grins. “Do weasels smile? I mean, I don’t really run into many weasels, so I can’t say for sure, but—”
“Oh my gosh! Weasels don’t smile!” I explode. Where is the floor? I need a good cry in my closet or bathroom. Screw it. Wherever my feet stop is fine.
“Felipe,” I whine, poking my lip out in a pout. “I need you right now. Can you please focus?”
The only man in my life drops the stupid grin on his flawless face and slides me to the edge of the high-top table. Those strong arms, that he swears he doesn’t do anything to achieve, wrap around me in a soft hold, and I snuggle in, resting my chin on his shoulder.
Oh, hello floor. Nice to see you again.
“We’ll figure this out, Mami. Even if I have to dress you in drag, we’ll find you another job.”
I snort, totally unladylike, but Felipe has witness
ed worse, so he doesn’t comment.
“You know,” comes Felipe’s thick Spanish accent, “you could always marry an American.”
I pull back, wishing the floor farewell, and lock eyes with my bestie.
“Are you saying you’ll marry me, Pe?”
He was born here. We already live together. I think it’s a solid option.
A completely inappropriate sound bursts out of Felipe.
“What’s so funny? Marrying me would be beneficial to both of us,” I add, suddenly realizing this might be the answer to my problem.
“Uh, hell no.” My ex-best friend sighs and lets go of me to tilt my chin to meet his brown eyes. I hurry and close them. I am seriously about to get rejected by a man whose summer wardrobe looks better than mine.
“Come on, Mami. You don’t want to marry me.”
Well no, not now.
Now I want to take my sad and lonely ass upstairs to my apartment, which I happen to share with Felipe above Magic Michelle’s.
Oh God.
Where’s the tequila?
Why am I suddenly realizing that my entire life here in America is lame? Are other American’s lives lame? Do they live with their gay best friend above a bar that sounds like a strip club?
It does. Felipe shouldn’t have named it after the movie. It’s totally his fault I thought it was like a Chippendales when I first came to Georgia.
At the time I wandered into this fine establishment, I didn’t know anyone, and I had only the money Mami and Abuelita sent with me.
I was tired.
I was broke.
I was a total crybaby, if you must know the truth.
So, I drug my mascara-streaked face into Magic Michelle’s thinking maybe a little dick swinging would cheer me up. I was disappointed. Even though I did see a little drunk dick swinging, it wasn’t exactly what I was looking for. Magic Michelle’s—not a strip club—was a karaoke bar for the queens of Madison.
Drag queens, that is.
So, I spent far too much of my savings by washing away my fears with a shit ton of alcohol until Felipe found me, a sobbing mess, upsetting his customers with my tear-laced wails of, “I just wanted to see some dicks swing! Is that too much to ask?”