by Kristy Marie
I laugh when Cade shoves him hard enough that the chair tips, almost sending Theo down in a tangle of curse words. When he rights himself, he takes another swig of his beer, completely ignoring the grins aimed his way. Once Cade’s chest has stopped heaving, laughing at Theo’s bored expression, Theo launches out of the chair, grabbing Cade around the waist and taking them both down in an awkward and horrifically big splash that sends Mason and Killer tumbling off their throne of a float.
No one even bats an eyelash when they crawl out of the pool several minutes later with fake hater expressions on their faces. I look at Hayes, chuckling under my breath while he shakes his head, grabbing me another beer from the cooler. “I need more alcohol to endure any more of this love fest.” He doesn’t sign his words, and for that, I’m grateful.
Watching Cade and Theo enjoying life sends a flurry of jealousy through my stomach, filling up the empty spaces that the liquor has yet to numb. I shouldn’t feel this way. They deserve happiness. But I can’t help the realization that I’ll never hear my family laugh and talk shit again. It’s one of things I used to enjoy the most.
Theo and Cade have always been the center of shit talking, and when you add Hayes to the mix, it’s an all-out comedy show. The three of them have become lighter, happier than the rest of us. Not in a way that we feel left out or not part of their trio, but in a way that we’re jealous of what they now have. I know they each went through hell to get the life they have, and it should serve as a beacon of hope to the rest of us. If they can find happiness, then so can we. Well, so can Vic, Mason, and Kane. My life and happiness will be a little different from theirs.
“So, Theo and Hayes said you agreed to get a job.”
I try to keep a blank expression when I answer Cade. “Hayes and Theo are such girls.”
Cade grins, toweling off his hair. “I agree, but since the girls will soon find out, what are you thinking of doing?” Cade signs the whole time as he speaks, only pausing to catch droplets of water that fall from his face. I take a long pull from my beer before answering. Truthfully, I’d like to just sign my answer. The guys don’t give me as much shit about not talking as Breck and Anniston. Breck constantly says that I’m doing the world a disservice by losing such a beautiful sound. Breck is full of sweet sentiments like that. I think that’s how she was able to pull Cade from the darkness that imprisoned him for so long.
After a moment of debate, I look around and see them all staring and waiting on an answer. Cade has now taken a spot on the lounger and turned on the backyard lights by an app on his phone. I’m sure it’s so I can see their lips and hands better.
I shrug, pushing down the pity that tries to bubble up from them having to make special accommodations just so I can participate in our chat. “I’m not sure. It was a knee-jerk decision. I haven’t thought it through all the way.”
Cade cocks his head for a moment before meeting my eyes. “We might have an idea.”
I look at each of my brothers—my family—all of them waiting for me to take the lead.
With a deep breath, I force out, “I’m listening.”
It’s funny that it takes a shit ton of bass for me to feel the beat of music. But a few shots of tequila and several beer chasers have a full marching band pounding in my head clear as glass. Never again. I am too damn old to be drinking that much.
The sunrise alarm clock blares its shine through my eyelids, but I can’t bear to open them until a little finger goes up my nose, startling them open anyway.
“Up,” she signs, her little pointer finger going up and down, signing to me that I’m supposed to be up right now and not groaning into the pillow like some frat boy, sleeping the day away.
“I’m up,” I mumble to her, rolling over just enough to snag her around her waist and bear hug her. I can feel her little stomach go up and down with what are probably squeals of glee, and I try not to let it make me feel any shittier than I already do. I missed her last night. By the time we all stumbled back into the house, it was after midnight and Aspen and the girls were already asleep.
“Where’s Mommy?” I ask, hoisting her up and placing her on my chest so I can see the precious little dimples and her bright blue eyes.
Aspen holds her delicate finger in front of her mouth, telling me it’s a secret or someone told her to be quiet. That could mean so many things in this house, but knowing who her mother and father are, I’m going with Uncle Cade telling her to be quiet since Mommy and Daddy are still asleep. Which they aren’t. They are holed up somewhere fucking. I would bet money on it.
I nod at the little princess on my chest, the motion sending a wave of nausea through me. No more drunken nights for sure.
“What’s for breakfast?” I ask her like she really knows or is even equipped to tell me with her toddler vocabulary. Talking to her like a big kid lights up her eyes as she slides off my chest in a hurry, grabbing my hand and pulling so she can show me. Thank heavens I passed out in my pants, otherwise I would have had to break her little heart by asking her to go on without me.
Have mercy. I’m in love with a toddler.
I ignore the pain in my head as Aspen shuffles us down the stairs and into the open kitchen where the rest of the guys, sans Theo, are barely alive and looking worse for wear as they attempt to get down a cup of coffee.
“Stop banging the pots, B.” Cade grimaces and covers his ears.
Breck, Cade’s wife, stands at the stove with an adorable grin on her face, cooking eggs that probably smell just as terrible to the rest of the guys as they do to me.
She pauses, turning to face me and Aspen. “I see you finally got him up,” she says to Aspen, signing the words only for my benefit.
Aspen grins up at me, and I mumble, “traitor,” with a little tickle that sends her running from the kitchen only to return in her momma’s arms, her daddy looking freshly fucked and a whole lot hungover.
“Nice of you to join us Tim,” Anniston says, her words silent to my ears. “You wouldn’t want to be late for your first day of school.”
José made me his bitch.
We finished our love fest in the tub where we drowned all things work related. Where we went wrong was falling asleep on the bathroom floor, next to the toilet. Not only am I hungover, but now I have a huge kink in my neck. So staring down at Samuel, the rudest little shit in fifth grade, is not how I envisioned the start of my day. A greasy mound of hash browns and refreshing glass of Alka-Seltzer would have been my preference.
However, I left my phone downstairs, and it was only when I woke up to Felipe rushing me out of the bathroom—his coffee had kicked in—did I realize I was going to be late to work. I did, at least, have time for a wipe down so I didn’t smell as bad as I felt.
Needless to say, my entire week so far is a complete and utter shitshow. And Samuel, the terror of the fifth-grade hall, is testing my patience.
“Yes, Samuel. I am a real interpreter, and, no, I am not in the United States illegally.”
The little devil’s forehead scrunches, and he cuts me a look of disbelief.
It’s frowned upon to punch a kid at this school. At least that’s what the handbook implies. But what if I gave this particular kid a pat on the back, but harder?
Ugh.
You’re right. He’s just a kid. He doesn’t know any better.
“Are there any other questions?” I ask, glancing around the room, pausing briefly to glare at Samuel before flashing Oliver, the whole reason for Samuel’s outburst, an authentic smile.
“Like I was saying,” I refrain from making eye contact with Samuel again, “Oliver is from the first-grade hall and will be joining us this class period.” And during my next free period.
“Why is a first grader in a fifth-grade class?” Samuel continues, undeterred by my “do not ask any more questions” look.
This time, though, his question is valid, and if the alcohol seeping through my pores wasn’t about to ignite the hairspray in my hair and kill us all
, I might have been impressed that Samuel wasn’t a complete rude-ass when he asked his question. Alas, such is not the case. My pores are not seeping out alcohol and the only thing close to exploding is my temples because I forgot my damn Advil in the car.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Think of Abuelita. Think of her grace and patience. Think of the coconut water in the break room with no one’s name on it. It’s been in there forever. No one will even notice it’s gone.
“Well, Samuel, Oliver wants to learn sign language.” I smile at the blond-haired little boy staring back at Samuel with his head held high. Oliver has a hearing aid, and his social worker informed me that he’s still struggling to hear at times. She thought it would be a good idea if he learned sign language before he loses any more of his hearing. Being that I’m the only one here who is certified to teach sign language, I volunteered to help him during my free period.
“Any other questions?” I probe the class, eager to get this disruption over with so we can break into groups. Before Oliver came in, I had just given them a group project about writing positive letters to their classmates after a brief getting to know one another period. Yes, there were groans, but there were also eager smiles, and those are what I do this job for.
When no one has any other questions about Oliver’s presence, I have them move the desks into their respective circles so they can begin getting to know one another. The volume level instantly increases throughout the room. Giggles and the lack of inside voices make it almost impossible for me to hear anything that Oliver might say, so I pull him closer to my desk and kneel down so we’re eye level, thanks to my short-girl genes. I crack my knuckles like I’m about to play a game of volleyball instead of signing to a six-year-old. I’m anxious. I have no idea why. Oliver doesn’t give a shit if I mess up, but for some reason, I want his first experience with sign language to be a confident one. So with a quick breath and a confident smile, I pray signing will be like slipping on an old pair of shoes. Comfortable.
“I’m so happy to finally meet you, Oliver,” I say, signing along with my words.
So far so good. He’s smiling, at least, and I don’t think I messed up at all.
“Do you prefer to be called Ollie?”
I have to ask. Half of the kids like to be called by their middle names or some nickname. You can’t just assume their first name is what they go by. That’s one thing that shocked me when I came to America from Costa Rica. Back home, we typically go by our first names. It’s rare that someone uses a middle name.
Oliver shakes his head, telling me no, he prefers Oliver.
Good. I do too.
“Great. Well, Oliver, you can call me Ms. Iglesias.” I give him a beaming smile like my name is so awesome or something. It’s not. Even if my mother claims otherwise. My mother is such a dreamer. She was fascinated with the United States, and when she finally was able to get pregnant after ten years of trying and failing to conceive, she knew I was destined for great things. A miracle, she has called me all my life. Hence, the name Milah, which is partly named after my grandmother, Camila, and the other part—milah—the Spanish word for miracle. I told you she was a dreamer. My entire life was spent learning about America. Her dreams of me moving here and becoming someone special. “America needs someone like you, mija. A miracle.”
I couldn’t very well say no, could I? And besides, Mami talked about America like it was a Disney cruise—where dreams come true. I was curious, and her excitement sucked me into a place where I couldn’t remember a time when I didn’t want to come here.
And now my time is coming to an end. Without my dreams coming true.
Sure, I’ve helped students learn more about language, but I haven’t really done anything miraculous like what my mother envisioned for me. I’m just here.
And now, I’m getting kicked out.
“So, do you know any sign language, Oliver?”
I shake off the sadness that creeps in.
The year isn’t over yet, Milah. You can still chase your dreams. Even if you don’t know what those are right now.
Oliver shakes his head.
Okay, so a newbie. I can work with that.
“That’s okay. American Sign Language is easy to learn. Did you know that babies can learn it even before they learn to speak words?”
Oliver flashes me this innocent and boyish grin that makes him seem so much younger than his already single digit age. I push down the pain in my chest at seeing this small, brave boy taking on the world alone. Oliver is a foster child, a ward of the state. His biological mom was young and couldn’t deal with an infant. She showed up at the local fire station and handed him over with tears in her eyes. At least that’s what Beth, his social worker, told me. She said his mother was only sixteen when he was born.
I’ve never had a sibling or been around any babies, so I can’t imagine how hard it would have been to raise a baby when you were still one yourself. And to give him up… that’s a strength that I still can’t wrap my head around. How scared she must have been to walk in there and hand over her son. She did what was best for him.
Pulling in a deep breath, I refocus on the sweet little boy that looks like he was carved from those little cherubs that Felipe says shoot you in the ass so you can find love. Or was it to find a hookup? I can’t remember. Gah, I need a pain reliever. “So, Oliver,” I keep repeating his name so he sees how I sign it. I think that’s the first thing he should probably know. Second thing to learn is probably simple answers. “Would you like to color until the class dismisses?” I have exactly ten minutes before I am through with Samuel for the rest of the day.
Oliver nods, and I show him the sign for “yes” by balling my hand into a fist and tilting it back and forth like nodding your head. He eyes my hand, and I repeat, “Yes,” showing him how to do it again. With great focus, he balls up his tiny fist and copies my movement like the most precious student in the history of all students.
“Great job!” I squeak. “You will have the hang of this in no time.”
Would it be inappropriate for me to hug him at this point? Maybe I’ll wait until the end of the class period before I go all weirdo and squeeze him just minutes after meeting him.
“Okay… so crayons. We need crayons.”
Oliver smiles like he doesn’t want me to feel bad by acting like a total spaz.
Right. Relax, Milah. He’s just a kid.
I stand up, offering Oliver my desk chair by spinning it around as an open invitation. And like a rolling chair isn’t incentive enough, I open the top drawer that contains all the crayons, pencils, and markers which are neatly labeled and arranged by color. It’s a compulsion. I have tried to stop my obsession with pens and stationery, but it seems to be my thing, as crazy as that seems.
At least it isn’t as bad as the second drawer beneath it that is stocked full of mint M&M’s. I’m not talking a bag or two either. I’m talking, eight bags minimum stuffed in that sucker. Not to mention the stash I keep in my underwear drawer at home. Mint M&M’s are not something you can get in Costa Rica, so when Felipe offered some to deter me off his Twizzlers, I fell in love instantly. It’s the longest relationship I’ve ever had.
Oliver’s eyes go wide and he plops down eagerly, already swishing his hips and grabbing a fistful of crayons. I talk myself out of opening the M&M drawer and grabbing a bag to help with this hangover. Instead, I take the mature route and drag my tired self up to the front and make sure the kids are doing what they are supposed to. They weren’t, in case you were wondering. They never do. I should expect nothing less at this point.
“Samuel, are you taking a selfie?” I ask, barely keeping the annoyance out of my voice. Clearly I don’t succeed since Samuel rolls his eyes.
God is seriously testing my patience today.
“Samuel—”
The intercom shrieks in the classroom, and we all pause, waiting to see who is being called to the office or going home because a parent didn’t
feel like waiting an hour in the car line. Have you ever seen the chaos that is the car line? This is my best advice: buy a house within walking distance so the little heathens can walk to school. Spare yourself.
“Ms. Iglesias,” the speaker cackles.
Mother forker! Who told on me? I was five freaking minutes late. Five!
“Can you come to the office? Principal Moorehouse would like to see you.”
Of course he does. It’s just not enough that I was in his office yesterday, bawling my eyes out like someone had told me Jimmy Choo was retiring.
I manage a fake smile in front of the kiddos before I smooth my skirt like a lady. “Yes, I’ll be right there,” I tell Francis, Principal Moorehouse’s secretary, as the intercom static fades from the room.
Okay then. Let’s kick a girl while she’s down.
“Mr. Sutter from across the hall is going to be listening in for the last few minutes until the bell rings. Do not”—I cut them my no bullshit look—“be loud.”
A collective “Yes, ma’am” flows through the class.
It’s a lie of epic proportions. These little stinkers will get loud the minute I get down the hall, but I don’t have time to worry about it. Principal Moorehouse needs me, and frankly, I can’t afford to be fired before the school term is up. I need time to find another job.
I glance over at Oliver and see he is deep in thought as he colors at my desk. He’ll be okay. Samuel is a turd but not a bully. I head out into the hall and knock on Cal’s door. He’s jumping up and down and hollering, as he does when his class gets an answer correctly.
“Hey, what’s up?” he says, almost out of breath as he pokes his head through the door.
“Can you watch out for my gremlins? Principal Moorehouse needs me.”
Cal frowns, and my stomach churns thinking it’s more bad news. Clearly Cal thinks so too. “Sure, I’ll keep an eye on them.”
“You’re a life saver,” I add, before nearly sprinting down the hall.
