Interpreter

by Kristy Marie

  Cal’s gaze rips away from the door. “I didn’t realize you had a co-teacher.”

  I feel my forehead wrinkle. “Oh, yeah. It just happened yesterday. Principal Moorehouse thought it would be a good idea.”

  Cal’s mouth does this little screwy thing like he’s trying to force a smile or refrain from farting. It’s hard to tell. “Oh.”

  “Yeah, I was pretty shocked myself.” I hope he isn’t going to fart. That would be really awkward. “Uh. So, yeah. I’ll see you later.” I walk closer to my room, relieved no rat or farts were involved this morning. Cal grunts out something that I can’t hear before I stroll in and see Tim sitting in my chair, his hair styled, his khakis ridiculously snug on his thighs.

  “Good morning,” I say, not able to sign with the coffees in my hand.

  Tim’s eyes widen just a little before he stands, clearing his throat. “Good morning, Milah.”

  Oh, no. That is not good.

  Tim saying my name is like a shot of warmth spreading through my stomach and up to my nipple. So not good….

  “I brought you some coffee—” I start when he blurts out, “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

  We both chuckle at the interruption.

  “Go ahead,” I prompt.

  I swear those big brown eyes sparkle as he takes the coffee from my hand and mutters, “Thank you.”

  I nod. “I wasn’t sure if you drank coffee, but….” But I’m not as rude as you are. Ugh. You said you weren’t going to hold it against him, Milah.

  “Yeah, I just…” He rotates the cup in his hand, fidgeting. “I haven’t worked around kids before. It was a shock.”

  “That’s okay.” I smile, relieved that his irritation wasn’t from me but just from first day jitters. “First days are hard. I get it. I wasn’t at my best yesterday either. I had a long night, and then Principal Moorehouse and I haven’t had the best week, so him springing you on me like that was the last straw, you know?” I wave my hand back and forth. “I was also tired, and my friend says when I’m tired I act a little bitchy.” Felipe says I act a whole lot bitchy, but Tim doesn’t need to know that.

  Tim takes a sip of his coffee and flashes me this subtle smile that shows just a little teeth. “I can imagine working two jobs is exhausting.”

  Come again? “What? I don’t work two jobs. Where did you get that idea from?”

  Tim takes another sip, totally at ease. “You don’t have to worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

  My head snaps back. “I don’t have a secret.”

  I mean, I did take that coconut water yesterday from the refrigerator, but it had been in there forever. No one was drinking it. It would have gone to waste.

  “I smelled the alcohol yesterday and saw you coming out of that strip club, Magic Michelle’s, this morning.” He sits back down in my chair, completely oblivious that I’m about to blow a freaking gasket. “I’m not judging. I’m just saying, I get that you were tired and cranky yesterday. You had a long night and then a full day here. I’m sure you could use a day off.”

  He’s dead. “Oh my gosh! Magic Michelle’s is not—”

  “Good morning, Ms. Iglesias.”

  Turner, a sweet little boy, interrupts my rant. Dammit! I look at Tim and sign, “I’m not a stripper! Magic Michelle’s is not a strip club either!”

  Tim grins, and it’s adorable and completely infuriating.

  “This discussion is not over,” I mouth before turning to the students filing in. I can’t believe he thought I was a stripper. Have you ever? What? He just thought I taught foreign language during the day and gave lap dances in the evening? Oh my gosh, and here I was bringing him a peace offering. I didn’t have to. It’s not like he even spoke to me after he disappeared for an hour yesterday.

  No, he sat his ass in one of the back desks, all muscular and huge, and watched every move I made. And when the bell rang, he was gone. Poof. He hustled his ass out of the room faster than I could blink. Honestly, with the speed he was moving, I wasn’t sure if he would be back. Tim wasn’t leaving here like he needed a drink. He left here in a flash as if he had a one-way ticket out of town that he was already late for. I don’t know his situation or why Principal Moorehouse allowed him to co-teach in the first place. It’s not like we have co-teachers often. We have substitutes and co-teachers in the younger grades, but not in fifth grade, and definitely not in a class that is being disbanded at the end of the year.

  It makes no sense.

  Tim takes his same seat as yesterday, getting comfortable with his free coffee, readying himself to watch me teach. Oh hell no. Not today he isn’t. If Principal Moorehouse wants him to co-teach, then co-teaching is what he will be doing. Right. Freaking. Now.

  “Mr. Lambros, will you erase the white board before we get started?”

  That left eyebrow of his raises as he briefly examines the perfectly clean board. One, two, three seconds and our eyes meet. Our expressions speak volumes. “The board is clean, Milah,” his says. “I don’t care, Mr. Lambros. Clean it!” mine says.

  Slowly, Tim unfolds out of the kid-sized desk and lumbers up to the board, his eyes on me the whole time. The way his strong hands grab an eraser would be erotic with how he swipes and grazes the slickness of the board. But it isn’t, because I’m annoyed with him at the moment and no regal, sexy, board cleaning is going to change my mood.

  “Anything else, Ms. Iglesias?” he says, all smug like it makes him happy that he’s on my last damn nerve.

  “Now would you please organize the supplies in the cabinet?”

  This is an absolute ridiculous request. I have rearranged those supplies a million and two times, but Tim is not going to sit there and stare at me. Tomorrow, I need to find him something to do. Maybe he could read to the kids? Or maybe he could go help Cal. I can’t understand how we are supposed to co-teach when all he wants to do is sit in the back of the class and watch me teach.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says with a lightness to his tone.

  Oh no. This is not going to work. At lunch I’ll go speak with Principal Moorehouse. Maybe someone else has a need for a co-teacher. I know Tim needs someone that is well versed in sign language, but honestly, I don’t think he really needs it. I think he lip-reads very well. His sarcasm in response to my non-signed words is proof.

  Radio host: Did you tell your husband or son of your symptoms at the time?

  Penelope: No, never to my son. At the time the symptoms started, Timaeus was on his way to becoming the greatest pianist of his generation. It wasn’t the time to worry him. Tom, however, I told after one of my shows, where I had missed the pitch and ruined my most famous songs.

  Radio host: Did the crowd notice?

  Penelope: They did. We offered refunds to those who filed a complaint with the casino. I really thought it was a fluke. Or even exhaustion. But then it started happening more frequently. So, Tom scheduled an appointment.

  Radio host: And the doctor confirmed you were going deaf?

  Penelope: He did. It was the worst day of my life.

  Radio host: I can only imagine. How did your son take the news?

  Penelope: He flew home that day. I couldn’t even finish telling him before he was bursting through the door, a notebook full of research he had done on the plane.

  Radio host: You and your son are very close, aren’t you?

  Penelope: As close as a mother and son can be.

  I love pissing her off.

  In the past fifteen minutes, I’ve discovered that pissing Milah Iglesias off is better than that time when Anniston locked Theo out of the house naked. Cade and I could barely breathe from laughing at him climbing through the bathroom window with his ass shining brighter than the sun. After he allegedly groveled at the front door for almost an hour, he finally took matters into his own hands and broke in, but not before Cade and I could witness the awkward maneuver through the small window. Nothing had brought me as much joy as that day. Until today.

  Today,
I’ve discovered that when you offend Milah, her sweet put-on disposition turns into the true her—the saucy Latina temptress. She’s not the fifth grade language teacher, but a barely contained explosive—her fuse is short and highly flammable. Call me crazy, but I can’t wait to see how fast it explodes.

  I pull open the supply cabinet she wants organized and find it to be in pristine condition. Markers are color coded just like the posters on the wall and the containers on her desk. This goes to show that she is retaliating for my bringing up that I saw her coming out of that strip club this morning. It’s nothing she should be ashamed of. I wasn’t judging. I was simply saying that I understood why yesterday was a bad day for her.

  My mom used to work two jobs to support her music career before she made it big. I don’t think she was a stripper, but who really knows? She could have been. I doubt she would have ever told me. She’d already won her first Grammy by the time I was born. It wasn’t until…. The memory digs at the grieving I promised Dr. Parker I’d left behind. Get your head together, Tim. It’s just a job. You have moved on.

  With a deep breath, I stare at the annoyingly perfect supply cabinet. Why does seeing these labeled containers make me smile? And why are the top shelves not utilized? All the supplies are from the bottom shelf to the middle shelf. The top three rows in the cabinet are empty.

  I look back at Milah and see her mouth moving rapidly, her hands flailing animatedly in front of her. Does she realize she’s signing while she’s teaching? A grin tugs at my mouth as I notice her stilettos paired with a simple skirt and a cardigan that should be against the dress code. The soft fabric clings to her breast with a goal of accentuating every curve of her tits. It’s incredibly distracting. I take another gaze, raking across her heaving chest as she teaches passionately to the class. Yeah, that cardigan needs to go… like on the floor. As small and delicate as Milah is, the fire that burns through her is hypnotic and anything but delicate. She’s kind and smart and literally takes no bullshit from anyone. Her class respects her and listens to her with rapt fascination. Except… I realize that Milah isn’t teaching but fussing at a student toward the front. The kid is slumped in his seat, his feet propped up on the desk in front of him, pushing a little girl forward with his shoe invasion.

  Stepping back so I can see her lips, I only catch bits and pieces. Her lips are moving too fast for me to catch everything. I bet her Spanish accent is thick right now. I bet it comes through when she’s mad. I bet it sounds sexy as—“Samuel! Please step outside into the hallway. I’ve asked you to stop—”

  I miss the last thing she says because my eyes are on the kid in the desk who has decided to shake his head no, blatantly defying his teacher. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve made my way to the front of the classroom, down the aisle, and towering over the little boy who needs to learn some respect.

  “The hallway,” I grit, pointing to the door. “Now!”

  The blond terror sits up straight, assessing me like he’s deciding if it’s worth it to push me. My glare and twitching jaw tell him it’s not.

  Slowly, he eases out of his desk, careful not to touch me as he passes by and makes his way to the door. I straighten, watching Milah tell him to leave the door open and put his back to the wall and not to say a word. If Samuel lived with my commander, he would end up running miles until he puked. Defiance and disrespect is not tolerated in our family. Especially to women.

  As Samuel’s back disappears through the door, my eyes meet Milah’s. She smiles—a silent thank you.

  I tilt my chin, heading back to the supply cabinet where I continue to work at “organizing” all the supplies until the class dismisses and a hand touches my shoulder.

  I close the cabinet and turn around to see her sign, “All finished?”

  I nod, holding back my grin. I’m finished all right.

  “Well,” she says, smoothing down her skirt, a nervous habit I’ve noticed. “It’s my free period.”

  I swallow. That means Oliver is here.

  I tip my chin in acknowledgement. “What would you like for me to do now?” Please don’t ask me to join you and the kid.

  “I was hoping you would like to join Oliver and me. He’s eager to learn sign language, and well, you’re much better at it than I am.” She pauses a minute, assessing my reaction and then decides to throw caution to the wind and adds, “He seemed to like you yesterday.”

  That’s bullshit. I left Oliver and her alone before he could like me. For all he thinks, I’m some disrespectful dick.

  “His teacher is allowing him to stay during his lunch period too. I thought we all could eat in here today,” she adds.

  Not that I ate in here with her yesterday. I made sure I didn’t come back until Oliver was gone. He’s a handsome little boy, and I have nothing against him. But seeing him go through what I’ve been through—beginning a hard future—is not something I’m interested in doing. And I’m sure Dr. Parker would encourage me not to backslide by drudging up old memories and feelings. So I’m going with “I already—”

  Milah turns, her eyes wide. Oliver has skipped into the classroom with a huge grin on his face. His hand goes in front of his ear almost like a lopsided salute before he extends it outward, signing “hi.”

  “Hi, Oliver,” Milah returns, squatting down to wrap him in a hug. “That was the most perfect ‘hi’ I’ve ever seen,” she praises, signing each of her words in tandem.

  I’m watching them both bask in the joy of learning a language that, on most days, I wish I didn’t know. Granted, it’s a must for me at this point, but the bitterness of my recent life change has almost made me hate everything in my life—even necessities.

  “Tim is going to join us today,” Milah says, interrupting my self-loathing, her hands signing much too excitedly for my liking. Did I not just tell her—no, I didn’t. She interrupted me before I could turn her down politely.

  Oliver, his big brown eyes wide with interest, waves at me before saying what I think is “Hi, Mr. Tim. Are you feeling better today?”

  Am I feeling better? Does he mean when I left them yesterday? I look to Milah for help, but her face is shocked in an openmouthed O.

  And like he knew I was completely clueless, Oliver fills me in on the real story. “Ms. Iglesias said you were scared.”

  I cough, choking on an invisible golf ball stuck in my throat.

  “Don’t worry,” he continues, chatty as fuck. “I cried on my first day of school too.”

  She’s dead. Did she seriously tell this little boy that I left because I cried on the first day of school? I feel my eyes narrow before I turn my head an inch to see Milah clap a hand over her mouth, her eyes filled with laughter she’s refusing to let out in my presence.

  “I wasn’t crying,” I interrupt the little boy who is still going on about all the times he’s cried at school.

  “Oh,” he stops, his finger going up to his mouth, looking pensive. “It looked like you were about to.”

  In a world of silence, something tells me Milah has lost her fight with smothering her laughter. And when I look over, I see my guess is correct. Milah darts to the supply cabinet, throwing open the doors to hide her shaking body from what I’m sure is close to crying with laughter.

  I let her have her moment as I tell the little boy, using my words and hands, that I was not crying but needed a bathroom break, which led to stories about how many times he’s accidentally wet his clothes at school. On and on, I nod at the words I can catch from the first grader until his teacher taps me on the shoulder, her eyes dry and sober.

  “WTF!” she signs.

  And that’s why I allowed her a laugh at my expense.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not understanding you,” I say, straight-faced somehow, looking down at Oliver as if I’m asking if he knows what her deal is.

  “Do not act like you don’t know what I’m talking about!”

  That’s exactly what I plan on doing. Remember that fuse I was talking about? I j
ust struck the match.

  “I honestly have no idea what the problem is, but—” I glance down at the dark-haired little boy watching us curiously. “—you’re making little Oliver nervous.”

  I knew that would do it. She snatches me by the arm and tugs me toward the door. I’m three times her size, so allowing her to pull me out into the hallway is purely for my benefit. Flushed and heaving with barely controlled anger is the little firecracker I’ve been waiting to see.

  “You moved all my supplies to the top shelves!”

  Theo says I’m not missing anything by being yelled at by a woman, but today, I think he’s wrong. If there were ever a time I wanted to hear someone yell at me, it’s today. My imagination runs wild with how she sounds. Raspy? Is her voice deep? Maybe it’s high pitched and will soon draw attention to us. Does she roll her Rs like the Latinas I remember during my stint in the military? If she’s Costa Rican like her room would indicate, then she would roll her Rs slightly different than most Spanish speaking countries. Their Rs sound almost singsong. It’s not so much a roll but more like a melody. It’s a beautiful language.

  “You asked me to organize the cabinet,” I respond, tucking my hands in my pockets so I won’t sign in front of anyone in the hallway. I don’t think everyone knows I’m deaf, and I’d like to keep the stares and whispers to a minimum, if possible. At least until this experiment is over and Dr. Parker agrees he’s wrong.

  “You knew I didn’t use the top three shelves for a reason!”

  She’s still humming with attitude, and fuck me if I don’t want to pick her up, toss her over my shoulder, and help her vent some of that frustration. Whoa. That was random. Looks like my dick likes Ms. Iglesias too.

  I cock my head and feel my brows pull down. “I did?”

  I guessed she didn’t use the top three shelves, but I didn’t know for certain. There’s a difference between knowing and guessing.