Page 77 of Interpreter

“What about Tim?” I ask him.

“I’m not sure. We’re looking for alternative positions for the both of you.”

Alternative positions my ass. I have looked. There aren’t any new positions.

“Tim could help Ms. Peak,” I suggest. “He has a degree in music, and she’s getting close to retirement.”

He nods and says, “I’ll look into it. I’m sorry, Milah. I wish I could do more.”

I wish he could do more too.

I went back to class feeling like a giant pile of loser and ran smack into Martha Man-Eater chatting up Tim!

It was the first time I cried at school.

Tim isn’t mine. I’m going to leave him in a matter of weeks, and even though I wished a yeast infection on Martha, I didn’t interrupt her giggling conversation with the man of my dreams. I watched as she prattled on and on about his stupid arms when he did it. When he sent my calm facade down the toilet.

He fucking smiled at her.

Smiled!

I tried for weeks to get him to smile at me. Weeks! And twat monkey, Martha, compliments his muscled arms and he suddenly flashes herthesmile. The smile that would have made my mami fan herself and make the sign of the cross while she dramatically prayed, “Madre Santísima.”

Tim didn’t do it on purpose. He probably had gas. You know how infants smile when they have gas? That had to be it, because no way did he fall for Martha’s bullshit.

But he smiled at her and it broke my damn heart.

And it shouldn’t. I know this. I am truly leaving, and I have no right to get jealous over Martha trying to swoop in on my man. Tim deserves to be happy. Even if it’s not with me.

“Why?” I whine, half talking to my car and half to Tim while banging my palm against the steering wheel. I should have listened to Felipe when he’d suggested getting a bike instead of a car. “Your calves are looking a bit… nonexistent,” he mused with a slightly disgusted look on his face. “Instead of spending your money on this piece-of-shit car, you could invest in calf implants and a Huffy.”

Obviously, I did not go with the Huffy. Even if my calves were in desperate need of some muscle, my four-inch designer heels were not. Some things in life are worth splurging for. In the case of short-girl syndrome, my money is spent on shoes rather than defined calves.

The heap of junk sputters one last time just as I coast off the road. Great. Just great. Now what? Sighing, I turn on the hazard lights and root around in my purse for my phone. The home screen is of me and Felipe dancing or ratherflossingafter way too many shots of Tequila. I look happy. And skinny. The two things that matter most in a home screen pic. Yesterday, I was debating changing it to this total stalkerish picture of Tim in bed, his face serene as he slept with his enormous muscled arm draped over my stomach as if he were preventing me from leaving, but I didn’t. I’d rather keep that photo all to myself.

Swiping the screen, I bring up Felipe’s contact and press the green phone icon to call him. “You’ve reached a voice mail I will never check. Text me a dick pic and I might call you back.”

Great.

Looks like I’m walking home.

Hope you’re ready, calves, you’re about to be used against protest.

I snatch the keys from the ignition and contemplate just throwing them as far as I can.

I want to be an interpreter when I grow up. Great thinking, Milah. You should be able to retire off that salary for sure. Dumbass.

Deciding not to throw my keys—because, let’s be real, I can’t afford another car—I stash them in my oversized purse and get out, manually locking the door. I get maybe fifty steps up the hill before I’m sweating and thinking I would never have made it up this hill on a bike. Felipe had way too much faith in my endurance. Walking home is so not going to happen. I’d rather risk it and hitchhike. If someone stops and murders me on an abandoned road, then the torture would be less than what it is now.

I start walking and pull out my phone again. My fingers want to dial Tim. He was quiet and standoffish for the remainder of the day, but I didn’t mind because I wasn’t much in the mood to talk either. I wanted to ask him what was wrong, but I felt like I wouldn’t be of any help.

A car crests over the hill, and I move off the roadway. I’m woman enough to admit I’m a little scared. I talked a bunch of smack earlier about hitchhiking, but I’m not in the mood to be someone’s sex slave any time soon. I still like a tight—

“Milah?”

I release a breath. Cal.

“You okay?”

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