Interpreter

by Kristy Marie

  You would think the public school system would be more attuned to the diversity of its citizens and their needs, but like any school, everything boils down to money. Bleckley Elementary doesn’t have enough of it, especially not for foreign language in the younger grades. Those funds are saved for the high school. I was fortunate enough to initially get the job with federal grant money, which had been sustaining the program for the past two years. However, after yesterday’s revelation, the grant money has run out and this will be my last year.

  It’s stupid that I’m even upset over it. I knew when taking this job there was a possibility that I would have to go back to Costa Rica in two years. But this is the country of dreams. I hoped that even if this program failed, I would be able to find another job and renew my visa. But that’s not been the case. Though working at a school was not my first choice, I thought I could build off of it. Maybe work for a hospital or somewhere that needed interpreting services. Hell, at this point, I may be able to be convinced to scrub toilets. Not Magic Michelle’s toilets though. I’m not that desperate… yet.

  “Ms. Iglesias, Mr. Moorehouse will see you now.”

  I give Francis a half smile and scrub a nervous hand down my skirt. The hallway to Principal Moorehouse’s office is lined with frames of the school’s accomplishments and title one designations. Bleckley is a school teacher’s dream of getting into. It’s a tight-knit family that I’m going to miss when I’m gone.

  I rap on the door three times, and Principal Moorehouse calls me in. The door is heavy and weighted underneath my palms as all the pain from yesterday’s meeting comes back in one big rush of emotions. The last time I was here, I left with a quivering lip and a burning behind my eyes. If there is any alcohol still coursing through my system, now would be the time to give me a little warmth to get me through this impending anxiety attack.

  Deep breath, Milah. You got this, mami. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? He fires you again?

  Right. Nothing bad is going to happen.

  I plaster on a fake smile and hold my head up high as I push through the entryway and come to a complete halt.

  What in the fresh hell is this?

  Sitting in the only two seats in front of Moorehouse, a man and a woman rise to greet me.

  “Milah, thank you for coming on such short notice. Is your class attended to?”

  Do not make a face.

  “Yes, sir,” I refrain from gritting. “Mr. Sutter is keeping an eye on them.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course,” he blubbers out awkwardly, glancing at the beautiful blonde in front of him.

  What is going on here?

  Clearing his throat, he adjusts his tie as if he were letting steam out of his collar.

  “Milah, have a seat.”

  I raise a brow. Would he like for me to sit in his lap or on a guest’s lap?

  “You can take mine,” comes a gruff voice to my left.

  I guess I was so worried about what I could be called in for that I failed to notice Magic Mike incarnate. Holy tequila, he looks better than Felipe’s Magic Mike calendar. Even Mr. February, and that’s saying something. Bronze skin you know is genetic and not a bad tanning bed session. Dark scruff neatly trimmed like it grows naturally in that shape. Not too thick. Not too thin. Just plain fucking, melt-the-panties-right-off-of-me sexy. This man is no Mr. Sutter. This man eats the sweet Mr. Sutters for—“Do you want to sit down or not?”

  No, he didn’t just interrupt my hotness declaration.

  I narrow my eyes on his annoyed ones and ignore the titter of laughter coming from the woman at his side.

  “Sure,” I say, and step aside so his fine ass can move around me. He grunts and brushes past me, smelling like he just came from cutting down Christmas trees—earthy and masculine. I feel a mewl creeping up my throat like a purr. He’s masculine in a way that no man should ever be. Ignoring the tingling swirling in my stomach, I ease down in the chair he just vacated, relishing the heat he left behind.

  “Milah,” Principal Moorehouse beams when I’m finally seated and the broody man is standing, his hand on the back of the woman’s chair. “I’d like you to meet Tim and Anniston. Tim will be assisting you with your language class for the rest of the year.”

  No. Effing. Way.

  Radio host: Was the divorce related to your announcement?

  Penelope: Not entirely. Tom, my husband and manager, suggested I take a break from singing, but he didn’t feel I should publicly announce my deafness.

  Radio host: Let’s talk about that for a minute. Was the deafness sudden? You were singing nearly every night in your Vegas show until just recently.

  Penelope: No. I started having symptoms when my son was in high school. It started with the lower decibels before progressing to complete hearing loss just recently. It’s strange, but somehow, even though I lost one sense, I was able to keep singing based off of memory.

  “Tim has a degree in foreign language.” The principal of Bleckley Elementary beams. I don’t know what Anniston and Cade promised for him to take me on as a “class helper,” as Theo called it this morning. But whatever it was, it has the man singing my praises to Milah, who looks as if she couldn’t give a shit less.

  Anniston elbows me, and I realized I’ve missed the last bit of his speech. I glance around the room and see Milah and Principal Moorehouse looking at me expectantly.

  Fuck.

  I stare wide-eyed at Anniston—a plea for her to fill me in. She chuckles and repeats, “Milah asked if you had any experience with children?”

  My gaze snaps back to the girl not much taller than the kids she teaches. She fidgets in her seat while she waits for my answer for which I want to blurt, “How hard can it be?” But that would be rude, and I don’t want to start off my time here with a bad hangover attitude.

  I clear my throat, tucking my hands in my pocket to keep from signing. “No, I don’t.”

  “So what is your work experience then?”

  Her lips move faster than the relaxed southern drawls I’m used to. Not that I don’t recognize she’s not from the south. Her midnight hair, tanned skin, and small stature is 100 percent of Latin descent. I guess it just threw me off since I haven’t had to read lips that moved much faster than I am normally accustomed to.

  A guttural feeling squeezes my insides. I won’t be able to read her lips as well as I can my family’s. I’ll be forced to sign, and what if she doesn’t know sign language? The rest of her year—and mine—will be awkward and painful if I’m trying to communicate with lipreading only.

  I turn to Anniston and sign, not speaking at all because I’m a spiteful little shit at the moment. “I changed my mind.”

  Anniston maintains her smile in front of our guests like nothing is amiss, but her eyes tell a whole different story. “Too bad.” This is the commander that commands six men with one look. She’s respected and cherished, but if we were anywhere else, I would stand my ground and argue that Dr. Parker took advantage of a weak moment. I’d lie to my commander and tell her I’m fine and that she worries too much. Then I’d convince her to go home by pulling her in close and kissing the top of her head and whispering, “Everything is okay. Trust me.”

  But none of those things happen because the saucy foreign language teacher catches my eye by moving her hands out in front of her, signing her words like a damn pro. “Are you not going to answer my question?”

  I watch her finish the movement—which could do without the aggressive and irritated finish—before I raise my hands, answering her with only my hands. “Military.” I take a moment to smirk before I finish. “If I can handle a team full of assholes, I’m pretty sure I can handle a classroom of ten-year-olds. Any other questions, Ms. Iglesias?”

  Milah, or Ms. Iglesias, as Dr. Moorehouse referred to her earlier, doesn’t comment or ask me any other ridiculous questions. I wasn’t aware this was a job interview. Theo said most of the time they appoint students to help with the class, so I shouldn’t
worry about not feeling qualified. He meant it to be a joke, but it actually made me feel better about the whole situation.

  I narrow my eyes at Anniston when everyone just stares around the room. My eyes say, “How does she know fluent sign language, Anniston?”

  I’ve stopped wondering how Anniston can find out what the stray cat in town had for dinner. That’s an exaggeration, but I bet if she wanted to know she would find a way. Hell, she probably feeds all the stray cats in Madison. Theo claims she is just nosy as fuck, but I know it’s because she loves so passionately all things wrong in this world, that she makes it her priority to change what she can. No matter how much Theo whines about it.

  Cade had the idea for me to work with kids, and Hayes knows Principal Moorehouse from school events where he and Theo linger from time to time, scouting the high school’s baseball team.

  The point is: I expected my family to use their connections to get me this position. What I didn’t expect was how deep those connections ran. Somehow Anniston knew this school had someone fluent in sign language. Somehow she managed to hook me up with probably the only other person, sans my family, that could sign fluently. And said person is also fucking hot. So hot that I don’t want to talk to her at all. Gibberish and faces of ecstasy should be the only thing coming out of her mouth.

  My head throbs as I push down the lust while the reality of what I’m about to do sinks in.

  I’m leaving the safety of the foundation where everyone is attuned to my condition. The kids and the teachers here won’t know they need to face me so I can read their lips or that they need to sign along with their words if the lighting is low. All these things I’ve grown accustomed to, and right now, I feel like I’m being pushed out of the plane at 37,000 feet without a parachute.

  I’m overwhelmed, and I’m not digging the new me at all.

  “Okay, tough guy,” Milah signs with this dainty little shrug. Her purple nail polish distracts me while she speaks, her tongue darting out to wet her lips briefly. “Follow me.”

  Anniston stands, and for one second, I think about dropping to my knees and begging her to let me have the job of watching Aspen. I don’t know that I’m cut out to work in a social setting. Maybe I could go work on cars with Mac and Bianca at the garage as an alternative? Why did I let Cade convince me to work with children? Just because I love Aspen does not mean I will like all the kids of the world.

  I smother a groan, and Anniston rises on her tiptoes and wraps her arms around me. I’m man enough to admit that I relish every bit of strength she is giving me right now.

  I don’t want to do this.

  I really don’t want to do this.

  But that’s always the thing with change, right? It’s never easy. It’s never carefree. Change is scary as fuck. And while I follow my commander and Milah down the hall, to the gates of terror known as a fifth grade class, I realize one thing: Milah’s skirt is the devil luring me to an early death.

  Swishing and fanning against her toned legs, that damn skirt calls to me—reminding me I’m not a saint and my dick works just fine no matter what Hayes and Theo say. The poor bastard is lonely though. I don’t go to clubs or approach women at the grocery store like the other guys in my family. I don’t ask them out. I don’t keep their numbers when they shove them in my pocket. I don’t swipe right on the app Hayes set up for me. Nothing. I do absolutely nothing about women. Women and I ceased to exist together. Why? Because I have nothing to offer.

  Women want a man who can earn a living and give them babies. I can do neither of those things. Sure, I can earn a living. I haven’t for the past few years, but that’s because I’ve been sulking in the world’s biggest pity party. I also can have children, but I won’t. I won’t doom another person to the future I’ve inherited.

  Sweat is beading on my forehead, and I quickly swipe it away just as we reach Milah’s classroom.

  “The bell already rang,” she tells me because, obviously, I wouldn’t know.

  I nod, but she isn’t finished.

  “This is my free period. I only have one student.”

  One student. I can handle one student.

  “Come on in.” She makes a sweeping motion and steps in, not bothering to check if I’m following.

  I’m not, if you were unsure. I plant my feet and turn, cutting Anniston one more desperate look. This is not necessary, I say silently, hoping my eyes relay my thoughts.

  One recommendation from Dr. Parker.

  One!

  And the whole family latches on to it. What the fuck is happening to my life? It’s like giving a kid tough love or something.

  Anniston smiles in the direction Milah just went and grins, mouthing to me, “Have a good day at school, kiddo.”

  She’s got jokes. It’s so not appropriate right now.

  “Aspen and I can’t wait to hear all about it when Daddy picks you up.”

  Theo has warped her, and I can’t help the laugh that burst out of me. “Fuck you.”

  Her eyes go wide, and she puts her finger to her lips, giggling.

  Fuck. I can’t even say “fuck” because I’m in a fucking school full of fucking kids!

  My head drops back, and I groan. “This is a nightmare.”

  Anniston tugs at my shirt, and I pull up slowly, giving her a “this is bullshit” look.

  “This is a new beginning. Don’t waste it.”

  I can still walk the fuck right out of here.

  I can.

  But I won’t because the woman that places a kiss to my cheek before she turns and walks down the hall means too much to me.

  Sighing, I pull myself together by taking a deep breath and putting one foot in front of the other until I’m in the center of a brightly lit classroom full of artwork and helpful hints. I think some of the graphics are of Costa Rica. I wonder if that’s where she’s from. Methodically, I analyze the room. Milah is definitely organized. Every pen and every poster on the wall is categorized with matching color schemes.

  Great. Not that I’m a slob but organized is probably not my best quality. I don’t really care where I put my shit just as long as I can find it later. So labeling a marker box—not that I have one—seems a bit uptight to me.

  My head is two seconds away from exploding, and I pretty much begged my commander not to leave me like I was some four-year-old being dropped off for his first day of school. Granted, that sentiment doesn’t feel too far off from the way I’m feeling.

  It’s not that I’m scared. Well, maybe I am—a little. But it just feels like it’s too soon. I’ve perfected the art of grieving. I’ve also perfected the art of doing absolutely nothing with my life. So this—getting a real job again—doesn’t feel like the “me” who has been waiting for his deafness to arrive like it was some kind of finish line. And now that I’ve crossed it and haven’t been completely consumed by the grief, I’m being forced out of my comfort zone. Because life goes on or some shit like that.

  Either way, I’m in a shitty mood and it only grows when I realize Milah and I are not alone in the classroom. A little boy, I would guess around six years old, is sitting at her desk with his head bent and his tongue sticking out to the side while he focuses on whatever he’s working on.

  He’s definitely not a fifth grader. Is he her son? They don’t look alike, but what could he be doing at her desk while she was out of the room? I can’t imagine she trusts just any student around her things. I watch as she leans over, patting the kid’s back affectionately.

  “Great job, Oliver. I really love the colors you used.”

  Milah signs her words, and I want to tell her that it’s not necessary to sign for me. It’s not like she was speaking to me anyway. But when I take a closer look, my feet carrying me closer to the hot teacher and the little boy, I notice the hearing aid tucked away under the length of his hair.

  She wasn’t signing for my benefit.

  She was signing for his. Apparently, Ms. Iglesias has more than one pet project. Okay, t
hat’s a shitty thing to say, and honestly, I don’t mean it. I think it’s great that she goes above and beyond her teaching duties.

  “Oliver,” she taps the little boy’s shoulder. “This is my friend, Tim. He’s going to be helping me out for the rest of the year.”

  The little boy looks up at me with his big brown eyes, and it’s like looking in the mirror. “Hi, Mr. Tim,” I think he says. It’s not as easy to read the lips of children. They aren’t clear enunciators, and Oliver didn’t sign along with his words, so I’m taking an educated guess here.

  “Hi, Oliver,” I return. I wonder what his voice sounds like. Do we sound similar? Does he sound younger or older for his age? “It’s very nice to meet you,” I add at the last minute when Milah stares at me, tilting her head expectantly like I should keep going.

  “Are you learning sign language too?” I think he asks, but it’s hard to tell since he’s now swiveling in Milah’s chair.

  His question should be cute and a matter of light conversation, but it hits me right in the soul, digging up old wounds that I buried years ago. Suddenly I’m the college student with an ASL book in his hands trying to learn sign language in between classes. It took one call from her. One. “Tim, sweetheart, I can’t read lips well enough to do the FaceTime thing. Maybe just text me and tell me how your day went?” Her face as she pretty much hung up on me felt like a screwdriver to the heart. My own mother, divorced and alone, had become truly alone. The next day a book was in my hand and I had blown off a week’s worth of classes.

  I never texted her ass again.

  But that doesn’t stop the pain from bubbling to the surface. It didn’t matter that I learned American Sign Language. It didn’t matter that I took time off to stay with her. The results were the same.

  “No, sweetheart,” Milah steps around the chair, jolting me from the memory. “Tim doesn’t need my help. He can sign better than I can.”

  I swallow hard, tugging at my collar as Milah’s eyes ask if I’m okay.