by Kristy Marie
“Do not play coy with me, Mr. Lambros.”
Her dainty hip pops out and immediately my eyes zero in on her narrow waist.
“Do I look like I can reach the top of an eight-foot cabinet?”
It takes a lot for me not to smile, but I manage, holding on to a serious look.
“I figured you had a step stool.” Total bullshit. She wanted to keep me busy and out of her hair today. It wasn’t until I sent Samuel out of the room did she warm up to me. “You didn’t say I couldn’t use those shelves,” I tell her flatly.
“Ahh!” Her hands go in her hair, and she turns away from me.
Something inside me flips.
I can’t even tell you what it is or why it happened. All I know is, this conversation between Milah and me became mine the minute she led me out into the hall. I don’t want to miss a word that leaves her sassy mouth—even if it is her yelling at me. So me flipping her back around to face me shocks both of us.
My hands are still on her as we both stare at each other. My fingers spasm against her skin, and I follow her hand, watching as she places it over mine, calming me.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, pulling away. I don’t need to explain that I’m sorry for grabbing her arm. The steady gaze she holds on my hand tells me she understands what I mean.
She clamps down on my hand, preventing me from leaving. “It’s okay.”
“I don’t know why I did that.” I do, but… “I wanted to be able to see your—” I swallow hard.
“Words.” She smiles, finally letting go of my hand and signing along. “You wanted to see my words.”
I give her a single curt nod. That’s partly the truth.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have turned away. I wasn’t thinking.”
I’m shaking my head, hating that she has to change any part of herself to communicate with me. “Don’t worry about it.” I flash her a fake smile that says, I’m fine. “It was a reaction.” I run a hand through my hair, eyeing the exit sign above. “I need to go,” I grate out. “Please tell Oliver I’m sorry about lunch.”
I don’t wait to read her lips. I pull away, ignoring the nosy guy across the hall peeping through his window. I don’t stop until I’m two halls over and in front of the familiar wooden door that I loathe and love all at the same time.
Carefully, I rap three times. And just like last time, the door is swung open with a dramatic flair and I’m met with the same set of gray eyes and matching hair.
“I knew you would come back,” she observes, sweeping her hand out and allowing me to pass by. I move carefully through the rows of instruments, bypassing them all until I get to the one that called to me yesterday when I found myself here after leaving Milah and Oliver, coincidentally.
My fingers trace along the edges of the black and white keys until Ms. Peak, Bleckley’s only music teacher, comes to sit on the bench, blocking my way to the other side.
“Sit with me,” she coaxes.
“No, thank you.”
I imagine she sighs because her head drops and she stares at the flowers on her skirt before her chest rises with a breath as if she’s squaring up for battle. It makes me smile.
“You’re getting on my nerves, boy.”
Boy. She called me that yesterday when I was here. Not Mr. Lambros. Not Tim. Not even Timaeus. She goes with “boy,” and part of me likes it. She reminds me of my mother when I didn’t want to practice. Ms. Peak makes sure I know that she doesn’t give a shit how old I am or how many Marine tattoos I have along my arms. She’s not scared of me. I’m in her domain now.
“Yet, you let me in,” I tell her, my brows raising in a teasing manner. Yesterday, when school was over, Ms. Peak let me sit in her room until Mason threatened to leave me if I didn’t get my ass to the car.
“Sit and play with me,” she tries again just like she did yesterday. And like yesterday, I shake my head no.
“Why do you come in here then?”
She’s challenging me. Dr. Parker and Anniston have done this enough that I know when I’m being poked. “I like the air freshener,” I lie, and it earns me a slap to the arm.
“Why did Beethoven play the piano when he couldn’t hear?”
See? I told you it was coming. Ms. Peak and I have never discussed that I am deaf. She just knew. She didn’t ask any questions, and I didn’t offer up any answers. I just sat in the back of her classroom and felt the vibrations as her class played sheet after sheet of music that I craved to hear. This is the first time she’s brought it up.
I eye the door, and she tugs on my hand. “I might be old, boy, but I can still run. Don’t make me chase you.” Her hand smooths circles over mine just before she says, for what I know will be the last time, “Tell me why he played.”
I know this is a test put before me. If I run out of here, like I have everything in my life, Dr. Parker will be right. I won’t have the little space of delusion I like to live in. I will go home a coward, afraid to face anything that challenges me.
Looking into the eyes of the woman who pulled me into her classroom yesterday without so much as a hello—a woman who handed me a rag after the bell rang and told me to help her wipe down all the instruments and move the desks back. This woman is giving me what I want. Equality. She isn’t treating me like I have a disability. She isn’t giving a fuck about what’s going through my head or that I’m Tom and Penelope’s legend of a son. No. To her, I’m just another music lover.
“Tell me, Timaeus.”
Tell her why Beethoven played when he couldn’t hear.
I swallow thickly, eyeing my escape one more time, and then… I sit. “Because he could still feel the music.”
I feel like utter shit when Tim disappears down the hall. How could I forget? Why did I turn away from him while we were arguing? I wasn’t thinking, that’s why. If someone had done that to me and I relied on their lips and facial expressions, I would have felt so isolated. His face… it was like someone sliced him open and let a little of his broken soul pour out.
Tim hasn’t been much of a verbal sharer, but his eyes, if you look hard enough, will tell you all you need to know. He didn’t want me to know he cared what I had to say. He didn’t want to be treated any differently, but yet, the time had come. Tim and I can’t argue or have a conversation without looking at each other. Most of the time I’m fine with that, but there are times that I’m not. See, signing is so much more than just sign language. It’s intimate. You’re reading body language. Every flinch. Every shift of the body. Each expansion of the chest. Don’t even get me started on the eyes. Sign language is more intimate than sex.
I just didn’t realize it until now.
Arguing with Tim… that little tip of his mouth showed me he was enjoying fucking with me. We weren’t really arguing anyway. Now that I’m not looking at his plump lips while they struggle not to smile, it’s kind of funny. The bastard knew I couldn’t reach that high, and I deserved it by giving him busy work. He took one look at my well-organized cabinet and thought, I’ll teach her. Consider me taught.
I let Tim’s intent gaze fluster me. He made me feel exposed when I was fully clothed. And when his eyes tracked my lips, watching, reading every movement…. Gretchen just thinks men with babies make the best porn. They don’t. Men who lip-read, who rely on reading your body to communicate, now that’s porn. And when you need a minute to hide, just for a moment, you ruin it all.
“Milah? Are you okay?”
Fucking Cal. I saw him staring out his door like there was a UFC fight going on.
I wave him off, needing to get back to Oliver. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”
Cal moves closer, and I ponder all the places Tim could have gone. “Some of the teachers are having drinks later. Do you want to come?”
Pat me on the back and call me awesome because I did not frown and immediately say, “Uh, no.” Nope. This girl fought through all the stress and reached back into her deep vat of awesome, pulled out a smile, and said, �
�Not today. I need to do some job hunting. Maybe next time.” Like never. The last thing I want to do is have that awkward conversation about where things went wrong and if we should give it another go. If there was ever a reason for not trying to get back with Cal—other than he just doesn’t do it for me—leaving the United Sates would be sufficient.
“Right,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck like he forgot. I bet he did. Okay, that’s bitchy. Cal is a decent guy, just not my guy.
Tim has me horn—flustered. Where the fuck did he go anyway? Most of the classrooms are full of kids right now, and I doubt he would go to the cafeteria or somewhere public.
“I have to get back to Oliver.” I offer Cal a smile that says, yeah, we’re not doing this again, and take a few steps back toward my room. “See you later.”
He nods and shuts the door without another word. For a second, I feel bad, but then remember that Cal slept with Moochy Martha the weekend after we broke up, so I feel decent about turning down drinks tonight. And I do need to look for another job. Dammit.
Leaning against the door to the classroom, I take a deep breath and focus on what’s important. Not Martha. Not Cal. Not my impending joblessness. Instead, I focus on what Tim is feeling at this moment. Is he angry? Does he feel alone?
“Ms. Iglesias? Are you okay?”
And Oliver. I think about the confused little boy in front of me and offer him a smile. “I’m okay, sweetie.”
It’s a lie, but I don’t like stressing out first graders who already have enough shit to deal with on a daily basis.
“Is it because of Mr. Tim?”
Mr. Tim. I almost laugh at him calling him by his first name.
“Is he mad at you?”
Probably.
Sighing, I look at the ceiling, gather my thoughts, and grab the little boy’s hand in front of me. “No, I don’t think he’s mad at me.” Gah, where am I going with this? “Sometimes adults need a break.” I shrug, feeling like this conversation might come back to bite me in the ass. “Kind of like when you need a nap, you know, to get through the day.”
“So Mr. Tim needed a nap?”
I almost agree, but I learned earlier that Oliver will tell on my ass, so I come clean. “No, he just needed a break.”
“Where?”
That is the question. Probably in his car—oh, right, he doesn’t drive. “I’m not sure, buddy,” I say, heading toward my desk and hoping Oliver lets it go. I take a seat and pat the stool beside me. “Come on, let’s eat our lunch.”
Those innocent eyes glance at our bagged lunches on my desk, and then he blinks one super slow blink. “Won’t Mr. Tim be hungry without his lunch?”
Why, God? Why are all the men in my life killing my soul today?
I eye the extra lunch on my desk. Unlike mine and Oliver’s, someone took great care in packing it. The corners are folded down perfectly and tied with red, white, and blue ribbon. The front of the paper bag has been scribbled on by crayons, which looks like a whole bunch of swirls. I wonder if it’s the same kid Gretchen saw him with the previous day?
A knot forms in my stomach just thinking about Tim not eating. He won’t be able to tell whoever made this for him how good it was. He’ll have to lie. He’ll be a hungry liar, and that just won’t do.
“You’re right,” I tell the worried little boy at my side. “Let’s go find Mr. Tim and give him his lunch.”
As if I mentioned we were going out for ice cream instead, Oliver’s face lights up and he hops off the stool, snagging his and Tim’s lunches. I guess I see where his loyalty lies. Traitor.
“We can make it a picnic!” he excitedly says as his little feet eat up the distance to the door.
“I don’t know about a picnic,” I try to ease, but it’s no use; the little munchkin is not to be argued with. “Right, a picnic it is. But first, we have to find Mr. Tim. I hope you’re good at hide-and-seek.”
I’ve never seen a kid look more confident. “I’m the best.”
It’s been eighty-four years….
I’m joking. Come to find out, Oliver was right. He is pretty damn good at hide-and-seek. I, on the other hand, am good at stopping every person I see wandering the halls, asking if they saw a tall, handsome pain in the ass go by here.
Together, Oliver and I end up at a wooden door, both of us with our ear to the grain—too chicken to knock yet.
“Take them off,” demands a woman who I will take a wild guess is Ms. Peak, our music teacher.
“No.”
We all know who that is.
“Yes.”
“No.”
Well, it looks like her conversation with Tim is going just as well as mine do.
“Don’t give me that look, boy. You do not lurk at my door and then intrude on my lunch hour just to argue with me. Now, take them off.”
My eyes go wide, and I look at Oliver. “You knock.”
He shakes his head. “No. She sounds scary.”
Exactly. That’s why he should knock. She won’t be able to look at his cute little face and yell. Would she?
Ugh. “This was your idea.” Oh my gosh. I have stooped to the lowest of lows. I’m blaming a first grader, trying to make him feel bad and knock on the door. “Fine,” I whisper hiss, sucking it up. “But if we never make it back out, I want it to go on record that I was willing to let him starve.”
Oliver nods like he can live with that, so I suck in all my adulting points and raise my hand to knock.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” I pull back my fist with a hiss, and Oliver and I both snap around and see a fifth grader with his arms full of football equipment. “Ms. Peak hates knocking—it messes up the music.”
I look at Oliver, my eyes saying, See? I knew this was a bad idea.
“Just go in. She’d rather you do that than knock.”
I look at the wandering kid and debate if he’s fucking with me. Most of the time they are. School gets boring, and they like to drum up some fun by fucking with the teachers. At least that’s what Gretchen swears, but then again, she has more than one “Samuel” in her class. That may be the truth. I, on the other hand, can’t really say. Apart from Samuel, I have the sweetest kids. For now. After Christmas break is over, they tend to come back a little different.
The football helper shakes his head like I’m being ridiculous and walks off toward the gym without another word. Maybe he’s telling the truth.
“Do you think he’s lying?” I ask the little boy next to me, signing the words since I haven’t had time to teach him today because we’ve been on a Tim-hunt.
“I think we should go in,” he says, not looking as certain about this decision as I would like for him to be.
“Fine.” I do it. I freaking put my hand on the knob and turn, easing into Ms. Peak’s room with a little boy acting as a hemorrhoid and pulling up the rear. As soon as we have both feet in the music room, I know this must be the worst freaking decision ever made. Worse than the time I asked Felipe if he bleached his asshole. Do not judge me. I was going through this self-awareness thing and Gretchen had made an appointment. Well, Pe and I had a few drinks and, Diosito ayúdame—God help me—he showed me the before and after pictures on his phone. Needless to say, no, I didn’t make an appointment. There are some things I just can’t spread.
“Tell me what you feel,” coaxes Ms. Peak, bringing me back to the cold, hard reality of what I’ve just walked in on.
Shit. Barging into the music room is definitely worse than the asshole incident. Instead of checking out before and after pics, I’m locked into the scene before me—a raw, intimate moment that no one should witness. Tim is barefoot with his hand on the top of the piano as Ms. Peak plays a haunting song, her hands flying across the keys, lightly and in a lower key. Tim’s eyes are pinched together as if he were in pain—deep and excruciating pain.
“Tell me where you feel it.”
Oh no. See? After the moment Tim and I had in the hallway, this is last place I need
to be. I don’t need to take another opening—another glimpse into his soul.
“Music is not heard, Tim. It’s felt.”
I watch Tim’s expression as he never answers Ms. Peak and I realize, “He has to see you to read your lips.” I speak softly, careful not to startle either of them with Oliver’s and my presence.
Ms. Peak never looks back at me. Instead, she keeps playing, her eyes on the man breaking in front of her. “He hears me” is all she says, as the man before us folds onto the piano, his bare feet against the carpet with his ear to the piano.
“That’s it, boy. Feel. You did not lose your ability to feel. You did not lose your passion. You simply opened a new portal. Pull it down. Let it fill the empty space. Let it heal, my boy.”
Her words are so beautiful that I almost ask if she wants me to sign them to Tim, but I don’t. Whatever she and Tim have going between them is working just fine. They don’t need me to interpret anything. They are communicating on a whole different level.
“Yes. Yes, my boy. That’s it.” Ms. Peak continues to praise Tim. His eyes are still shut, and when the song finally comes to an end, it’s a full minute before he pulls his chest off the shiny, black piano and looks at her.
His eyes are red and puffy, and his throat works.
“Now, you play,” she tells him with that no bullshit tone she has. She completely ignores the fact he looks like he was just pulled down a gravel driveway by his belt loops.
He chuckles, scrubbing both hands down his face. “Nice try.”
I hope Oliver didn’t feel the shiver that went through me. His voice should be used for one of those audiobooks that Pe listens to when Marcus pisses him off. He says nothing makes a man more jealous than for his lover to send voice clips of him jerking off to another man’s voice.
“Mr. Tim!”
Oh no. I reach for Oliver, but he’s a slippery little sucker and runs straight for Tim, who finally looks our way and frowns. And I’m not talking the, I-just-stepped-in-water-with-my-suede-boots frown. I’m talking, you-just-keyed-my-car type of frown. That light smile he just offered Ms. Peak is shut down immediately at the sight of us.
