Interpreter

by Kristy Marie

  I know I’m handling this in all the wrong ways. I know. But for some reason, I can’t fucking stop it. All I can think of is that banged-up tape recorder in my bedside table. I used to listen to the damn thing every night, trying to decipher her message. What did I miss? How did I miss it? And every night I went to bed just as confused as the night before. I’ve been without her voice for months, but I was still able to pick up faint tones… until I couldn’t. Now, I can’t hear it at all. Now, it’s nothing. It’s just a worthless recorder just like the worthless interview on it.

  A soft touch to my shoulder pulls my attention back to Milah. “Do you want me to tell them to turn on the closed captioning?”

  God, no.

  I shake my head.

  “Do you want me to sign it to you?”

  You’re fine. You are normal. She’s trying to include you, not make you feel isolated. “It’s okay. Aspen and I have seen it before. I can remember what’s going on.”

  Total bullshit. Aspen and I haven’t seen this movie, but I don’t want Milah to do either of those things for me. I just want to sit here, like all the other parents and teachers, and watch a movie with these kids. No special treatment. Just normal. I want to feel normal.

  Milah nods and lies back on the blanket as Aspen crawls over my legs and rests her head. The owl painted on her cheek is almost unrecognizable in this light. Maybe I should take her to her parents? She’ll be asleep in a few minutes, especially after all the playing she did. Anniston might want to go home and put her to bed. I reach down to pick her up, but I realize her hand is attached to another. Oliver. He too has inched his way over and has one hand in hers and the other on my pant leg, his head aligned with my hip. Looks like I’m not going anywhere. My phone buzzes, and thankfully, it’s in the pocket that isn’t squished by a little girl.

  Theo: Lay the fuck down. The people behind you are complaining. Parents are trying to fuck out here, and you’re killing the vibe.

  I look up and find Theo and Anniston staring back at me. They aren’t fucking or fingering like he promised, but instead, they are spying.

  Tim: It’s sad that married life has bored you to the point of spying on an elementary school’s fall festival.

  Anniston: Who’s the little boy?

  Theo: Why is the hot teacher so far away from you? Did you forget to brush your teeth?

  Hayes: Did y’all know you’re texting on the group chat?

  Theo: Did you know Bianca isn’t allowed to be within five-hundred yards of a school?

  Bianca: I stole cars, asshole, not kids.

  Kane: How much longer is this fucking movie? I’m hungry.

  Cade: Would y’all leave Tim alone? Watch the movie!

  Theo: Shut up, Jameson. You’re always such a goody-goody. Breck was the one who texted me to tell him to scoot closer. Mind your own blanket.

  Have mercy. I press the button on the top of my phone to turn it off, but one more text comes through and stops me.

  Unknown number: So she’s a mermaid…

  My head snaps around to the woman currently occupying the left side of my blanket. I can’t see her face in the dark, but I know it’s her.

  Tim: And I’m guessing she likes to sing…

  Unknown number: She does.

  Tim: How did you get my number?

  I keep my face forward and on my phone screen. Fuck the movie.

  Unknown number-—aka Milah: It was in your file.

  Tim: And Principal Moorehouse left it lying around where you could find it?

  Milah: We are allowed to see contact numbers. You know, in case of an emergency.

  Tim: When did I have an emergency?

  Milah: When I almost stabbed you with my shoe after you called me a stripper.

  Tim: I didn’t call you a stripper.

  Milah: Not in so many words, but you implied it.

  Eh. She might be right there, but I didn’t mean it in a bad way.

  Tim: It was a reasonable explanation as to why you were at the strip club.

  Milah: It’s not a strip club!

  Tim: I thought you were watching the movie.

  Is that smile number four without being in the presence of my family? I think it is.

  Milah: I am, but I want you to be able to enjoy it. You’re playing on your phone.

  I make a noise in my throat. Someone hasn’t been watching the movie.

  Tim: Why did that teacher throw her slushy on you?

  Distraction is my favorite method of avoiding conversations. And call me curious, but I do want to know what all that was about. After Aspen and I left with our freshly painted owls, we played a few games until Anniston and Theo met us with the blankets. I got it all set up, and with nothing left to do, I watched her.

  Tim: Were you arguing with that other teacher?

  It didn’t look like they were arguing, per se, but more like having a heated conversation that ended with a drink being sloshed at Milah. But what throws me off is that the teacher laughed and Milah didn’t look mad. Are they friends? If so, why would she throw a drink at her friend?

  Milah: And they will live happily ever after. That’s how the movie ends. Wake me when it’s over. All that pole work last night wore me out.

  At her text, I laugh deep, one that starts in the gut and finishes in my chest. Milah Iglesias just tore a page out of my own handbook. She’s avoiding the question by distraction. And she’s being a smart-ass by throwing that pole comment back in my face. Whatever went down between her and the other teacher, she’s not going to say. And after the day we’ve both had, I think we deserve a few secrets.

  Tim: I’m sorry for earlier.

  You know, when I sprinted away from you and hid in the music room. For being attracted to you when I shouldn’t be. I have nothing to offer someone like Milah, a woman who has her entire future set out before her. She’s smart. She’s multitalented and exquisite. Caramel skin and eyes that turn into liquid amber when she’s angry. Dark hair that blows in the wind, soft and touchable. And right now, even if I can’t see much of her in the dark, just knowing she is wearing my shirt, drives me fucking wild.

  You have nothing to offer, Tim.

  Women like Milah need men like the guy across the hall. I see him watching her. He’s perfect for her. They have things in common, like teaching, and they seem friendly with each other. Too much for my liking, but again, it’s none of my business.

  My phone buzzes again, and I take a deep breath before I pick it back up.

  Milah: Will you answer one question honestly?

  I’m not sure how long I stare at the screen, but it must be a while since another text pops up.

  Milah: Is that a no?

  It doesn’t matter what she asks, I can answer. What do I have to lose at this point? She’s seen me at my worst. I can’t possibly scare her off any more than I already have.

  Tim: I’ll answer one question.

  I swallow harshly and reach out for Aspen at my side, and yep, she’s asleep like I knew she would be. Ugh, I should have went home when I had the chance. Now, I’m about to answer a question that I know will not be one that I want to answer. Probably ever.

  The chat bubble pops up and disappears several times as I imagine she’s not sure what question she really wants to ask. But then it stays, and I wish she would have gone with something else.

  Milah: Why do you hate sign language?

  It’s not that hard of a question to answer. She could have gone with any number of them to get a juicier answer, but I guess she deserves the truth. The school put us together because she can interpret for me, and yet, every time she does, I wish she wouldn’t.

  Tim: Because the people around me shouldn’t have to change who they are just to communicate with me.

  Her response is almost immediate.

  Milah: What if they want to?

  Tim: It’s not their decision.

  And sharing time is over. I pocket my phone and lie back against the blanket, watching th
e movie play across the screen. I’m completely lost as to what is going on, but I don’t care. All I can think about is getting out of here. I’ve had enough of today. Enough of sharing and enough talking.

  The movie is over about an hour later. I mumble out a thank you to Milah with a limp Aspen hanging over one shoulder and Oliver on the other.

  “I’ll take him,” she signs.

  “I can take him to your car,” I mumble.

  Milah shakes her head. “That’s okay, I can get him.”

  I nod and watch as she stands on her tiptoes and tries to maneuver her hands under him. She’s not tall enough to reach my shoulder. After a moment of failing to reach Oliver’s chest, she steps back and signs, “Are you still offering to put him in the car?”

  I smirk, adjusting the two kids higher on my shoulder. “Lead the way.”

  We walk in silence with Milah just a few steps ahead of me. She turns back every so often, checking on me just before she holds her side.

  “Are you hurt?” I call out.

  She doesn’t look back, only shakes her head.

  By the time we get to her car, the two kids on my shoulders have started drooling.

  “Thank you for carrying him all the way to my car.”

  I squat down so she can get him since I don’t have a free hand.

  Her eyes narrow in the dome lighting of her car. “Why didn’t you do that earlier?”

  I try shrugging, but I don’t get far. “I didn’t think of it earlier.” I did, but I enjoyed seeing her attempt to reach him. She really is short. “Besides, he’s almost as big as you. You wouldn’t have made it to the car.”

  “I would have been fine,” she argues, sliding the sleeping boy off my shoulder, holding him over hers.

  I open the back door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She gives me a timid smile. “I’ll get your shirt back to you,” she promises, and I wave her off. I don’t give a shit about the shirt. But I know she’ll have it for me tomorrow because she’s fucking stubborn like that.

  It’s not until I get to the car and buckle Aspen up that I check my phone again.

  Milah: Detached is a lonely island.

  And because I probably pissed her off by not checking my phone during the movie, she followed it up with another text that makes me chuckle.

  Milah: You know what? I’ll sign to you if I feel like it.

  And with that, I close my phone knowing that is exactly what Milah Iglesias will do: whatever the fuck she wants. And I think I’m okay with that.

  Motherfucker. She had to meet him sometime.

  “Let me in, Milah, or I’ll tell him about the time we tailgated at the soccer game and you had to—”

  I clamp a hand over her mouth. “Fine. Come in, but don’t be all—” I do this little thing with my hand. “—aggressive.”

  Her eyes narrow, and I take a step back. I might be crazy, but Gretchen can match my crazy equally. “You know I wouldn’t have to do this if you would have just answered your phone last night. But nooo. You had to pretend you were asleep.”

  I pretended nothing. I simply didn’t answer, which, in hindsight, was not a smart thing to do. But I was shaken from mine and Tim’s text conversation. And then he left all standoffish like we didn’t make friends or something, and that pissed me right off.

  I’m a nice person, dammit!

  “I’m sorry. I was really tired after taking Oliver home, and I just wasn’t in the mood for talking.” It’s the truth. At least part of it. The other part of it is that I may have wanted to read that conversation over and over until I could figure out the real Mr. Lambros, the one he doesn’t let you see very often.

  “You’re a liar, Milah Iglesias. A big, fat liar.” Her eyes have gone from crazy little psycho to suspicious little psycho. “You really like him.”

  I scoff. “No. I don’t. I just think he’s a nice guy, and I try to keep his privacy.”

  “His privacy? I can’t even blow my nose in this school without someone reporting to Principal Moorehouse that I’m in the bathroom stall snorting a line of coke.”

  I snort. She’s right. These teachers love to conjure up drama.

  “There is no privacy at this school, Milah.”

  Okay, so maybe I feel a little bad for not answering her call, but I knew she would bombard me with questions that I didn’t want to answer. The fact is, I don’t know that much about Tim. But what I do know, I will forever keep to myself. Tim didn’t mean for me to see that side of him, and yet I have. I wouldn’t betray him by telling my bestie everything I know. I haven’t even told Pe.

  “Admit that you really like him, and I’ll be your friend again.”

  Have mercy. My life has come to this—admitting that I think the new kid is hot in order to get my friend back. The demons have rubbed off on us.

  Giving Gretch a sigh that basically blows her bangs away from her face, I flop down in my desk chair and level her with a serious look. “Okay, I like him. But not in the way you’re thinking.”

  Her penciled-in eyebrow calls me a liar. “How am I thinking?”

  “That I want to have sex with him on this desk.”

  A throat clears and I swear my heart stops beating until Gretchen kicks my chair, jolting it back to life.

  “Tim, is it?” Her phone-sex voice is on level ten, but I don’t bother to tell her that Tim won’t be impressed. In fact, when I finally manage a peek at him, he’s not even looking at her. He’s staring me down with a smirk on his face.

  “Tim Lambros,” he gruffs out after a moment, taking Gretchen’s hand in an awkward handshake that she makes weird.

  “Milah was just telling me all about her new routine with you.”

  Tim cocks his head to the side, sending me a look that asks, what the fuck is she talking about?

  “We’re getting the hang of it,” he mutters, trying to sidestep her and failing. You know, I’ve never really just sat back and admired how well Tim lip-reads. It seems almost effortless and I know it can’t be. Lipreading is fucking hard. I’ve tried to do it a couple of times when I was watching Pe and Marcus argue in the bar. It was not easy at all. I ended up thinking Pe was straight and Marcus wanted to join the circus and train dolphins for a living. And, yes, I know dolphins aren’t in the circus. I asked Felipe about it later—about the dolphins—and he basically cried in my face laughing so hard. Apparently, Marcus called some guy “doll face” and that’s why Pe looked all murderous. Anyway, I’m just saying, it’s hard. So the fact that Tim can follow even a third of what Gretchen is prattling on about is pretty dang impressive.

  “So, yeah, if you need anything, I’m right down the hall.” She folds his hand closed and gives it a squeeze. See? This is why you can’t tell Gretchen shit.

  And, yes, I guess I am a little freaking jealous. Which is exactly what she’s trying to make me feel. She wants me to get jealous and grab her ass again to prove she’s right.

  Does she wonder why he’s my co-teacher in the first place? Or why he lives at the McCallister-Jameson Foundation? Okay, so I’m sure she doesn’t, and, yes, it’s me who wonders about all these things. Especially about the foundation. I’ve heard things. Mostly about Anniston, whom they call “Commander.” Apparently, she only takes in homeless veterans or the ones that need help integrating back into the real world.

  I have to know which one Tim was…. I’ve only been around him for a few days, and sure, the first day was a little rough, but he seems to function rather normally. So, was he homeless?

  “It was nice to meet you too. Thanks again for the offer,” rumbles a sexy voice.

  Wait. What offer? What the hell did Gretchen just offer him?

  My eyes dart to the two just inside the door when Gretchen wiggles her fingers in a sneaky little wave. What the fuck did she offer him? Straightening, I watch the smug look take over my co-teacher’s face. Gah, I hope he was too far away and didn’t read my lips about banging him on this desk, but something tells me there’s a
little too much pep in his step to not have seen anything. He caught something. Maybe not all of the words, but he caught some of them. Which ones is the question. A question I don’t think I want an answer to.

  “Good morning, Ms. Iglesias.”

  Yeah, he’s smug. His sexy rasp says it all. He saw me.

  Time to do damage control. “I know you probably saw what I said.” Instinctually, I trail a finger over my lips, indicating that he read them, but instead of maintaining that smugness, his expression falls serious and his jaw clenches.

  “Aww, look. You have a wrinkle when you frown too.”

  The bastard winks at me, his cockiness instantly back in full effect. Please buckle your seat belt, Mr. Lambros is one crazy ride. “It’s a crease, not wrinkle,” he corrects.

  It’s a fucking wrinkle to me. No woman in their twenties should have a wrinkle. I blame the Costa Rican sun.

  “It’s a wrinkle,” I argue one last time before I let the shit go.