Page 14 of Interpreter

“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—”

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