Page 73 of Interpreter

“Just think about it,” says Milah. “I could sing, and Oliver could sign my words. It would—”

“Be sensational,” Ms. Peak finishes for her.

Knowing when to leave things—women always win arguments—I sigh, raking a hand through my hair. Do this for the kid. “Fine. I’ll do it. But only one song.” I make sure they understand that I am not volunteering to do pep rally performances or openings to the choir concerts. I’m agreeing to this one song, for this one night.

“Deal.” Milah claps, her eyes alight with happiness. “I haven’t sung in so long.”

I narrow my eyes. Yes, she did. “Not like this.” She waves me off, knowing exactly what I mean.

Ms. Peak watches our exchange with a grin. “Great. Now that’s settled. Let’s eat and then we’ll pick out a song for you both.”

This is not going to end well. I already feel it. And when my phone dings with a text message from Dr. Parker, it confirms it.

Dr. Parker: Ignoring me won’t make me go away. Dr. Callahan has an opening in his surgery schedule in a couple of months. It’s a good opportunity, Tim. You’re not her. You can handle this.

Tim: I said no.

I’ll never be ready.

I’m waiting on the sidewalk as the final parents pick up their kids from the car line. I don’t know who is picking me up today, but they’re late. Which is no big deal. I could use a few minutes alone. After practicing with Milah and Oliver for the talent show, I feel a bit overwhelmed. Did I really just agree to play the fucking piano on stage after years of hating it? I think I did.

With my acceptance, Milah and Ms. Peak immediately started sifting through song choices. I used the time teaching Oliver how to play chopsticks. I didn’t care what song Milah and Ms. Peak picked just as long as they were happy. I’m doing this for them, not the audience. I hope they know that. The excitement in Oliver’s eyes—Someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn, spotting a familiar set of brown eyes and a Pokémon backpack before he sits down next to me.

“What are you still doing at school?” I ask Oliver, adjusting so I can see his face.

He tries to sign some of his words while he speaks. “Why areyoustill here?”

Seems like smart-ass is a free gift when you take the Milah Iglesias sign language course. I bite my cheek and grin. “My ride isn’t here yet.”

Oliver bobs his head and pulls out an open pack of crackers and hands me one. “Mine either. My foster mom has to stop and pick up my foster brothers and sister before she picks me up. She’s always late.”

I examine the cracker in my hand before I take a bite. “Do you like living with your brothers and sister?” I ask.

“Yeah. It’s okay. I don’t have anyrealbrothers or sisters like the other kids. Katie, Todd, and Austin are all real brothers and sisters. Ms. Peters said I was an only child.”

“I don’t have any real brothers or sisters either,” I tell him, hoping to make him feel better.

He smiles. “Do you have foster brothers and sisters too?”

“Sort of,” I answer, scratching my jaw and looking down the drive for a familiar car. “I have friends that are like my brothers.” Fuck it. “Like you, I live in a group home.”

His face lights up at my admission. “You’re a foster kid too?” He scoots closer and hands me another cracker. What is it with the kids in my life loving crackers?

I clear my throat. “Sort of.”

His head tilts up in confusion. “Ms. Peters said my mom couldn’t take care of me. Did your mom not take care of you either?”

Oh wow. So… I scrub a hand down my face, buying myself time. “Not exactly. It was more like I couldn’t take care of myself.” They say you should be honest with children; they can see through bullshit. And for some reason, I don’t want Oliver to think adults are perfect. We aren’t. So, if his life doesn’t go according to plan and he ends up at rock bottom, I want him to know that doesn’t make him any less of a man. Some men take the routes with tolls and dirt roads. We don’t take the highways, that would be too easy.

Oliver stares at me, his eyes searching my face until he slips his hand in mine, squeezing. “Maybe I can be your brother and we can take care of each other.”

Something like sand clogs my throat, and I cough a few times before a car turns down the school’s drive. “That’s my foster mom,” he says, handing me his last cracker and standing.

I get to my feet as the car comes around the curve and squat down so I can look the little boy in the eyes when I promise, “Brothers,” and hold my hand out for a shake.

Those innocent eyes go wide as he slips his hand in mine for the second time today. “Brothers forever,” he promises.

“I need to buy a car.” Those are the first words I say to Theo when I get into the car. “But first, I need you to make a stop.”

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