Page 23 of Interpreter

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.

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