Page 6 of Under His Sheets
I’d doubted that he would call, but hoped that perhaps, in this city of however many million people, our paths might cross again. Who knew? Once I got my bearings, maybe I’d do some solo club gigs. Maybe he’d show up. Maybe we’d bond over music.
Maybe I needed to focus on the task at hand.
Randall Sutter 2.0
Who needed YouTube to help him figure out how to tie a tie.
I grabbed a cronut from the box I’d picked up at my local panaderia and shoved it in my face as I walked out to ride my new bike to school. I raised the kickstand and swung my messenger bag over my back as I pushed off from the curb. I felt like a kid on his first day, minus my old SpongeBob lunch box that had been my older brother’s. Hand-me-downs had been the norm in the Sutter family.
My new boss, Principal Lara Trujillo-Perez, reminded me a lot of Mrs. Galván—it was still weird to call her Cecilia. Lara also exuded that welcoming energy and made me feel like Iwasn’tabout to take a huge leap that I wasn’t qualified to take. Despite me nearly trying to talk her out of offering me a job, she had been downright giddy over having a well-known young music teacher who had performance cred and had even had a Billboard-charting/Grammy-award-winning album. MoonCraft might be over, but my foray into the music business, she said, made me uniquely qualified for the position.
“Many of the students we get are seeing artists on social media take off with their creative endeavors. You’re someone who represents the reality of hard work and dedication that can get you far in this world.”
Uh, yeah, it can also get you stranded in Spain with no money, no boyfriend, and ready to take a job you said you’d never do. I guess that could be considered a win? Whatever. I was determined to make this new job work and to do right by the kids, as my music teachers had done by me.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to work with kids. I loved kids. I’d just never wanted to fail. I was trying hard to look at this as a detour and not a derailment.
I pulled into the parking lot of the school, which seemed to be a repurposed factory of some kind. There was a series of white buildings with decorative brick inlay and lots of glass and greenery. The interior was quite modern and set up in a way toencourage collaboration between students, almost like a coffee shop vibe or a workroom on an Apple campus. Lots of tech, lots of vibrant colors and greenery, and lots of inspirational quotes painted on the walls in all different languages.
Mrs. Lara Trujillo-Perez said she would meet me this morning to go over my classes and then the kids would arrive at 8:30. I could do this. I could?—
I’d been so preoccupied with my can-do thoughts that I missed a low curb. My tire hit, stopping the bike, but my body continued its momentum and I flew into the bushes. My messenger bag, carrying my new laptop I’d purchased with the money I’d gotten from the band settlement, smacked me in the head and the bushes tore at my new clothes along with my favorite cardigan.
“Nice, Sutter.”
I heard the rapid clicking of heels and rolling wheels of some sort.
“Oh my goodness! Randall! Are you all right?”
Awesome for my new boss to find me in the bushes.
I managed to get myself to standing and brush the leaves and twigs off my clothes before turning around to smile confidently?—
Mrs. Trujillo-Perez was hurrying forward with the custodian…who had a very familiar chin dimple.
“Oh, your poor bike! Don’t worry, we’ve got a bike shop near here. I’ll send it with one of the aides to see if they can repair it, but you… Oh, you poor thing!”
The custodian wore coveralls and a ball cap pulled down low over his eyes, but there was no mistaking that chin dimple, which in the light of day I could tell was not only what was probably a hereditary beauty mark, but he also had a scar there. I had so many questions.
I almost didn’t care that I’d hurled myself into the bushes on my first day. Not if it meant seeing him again.
He handed me a tissue and pointed toward my cheek.
Mrs. Trujillo-Perez spoke to him in Spanish while I tried to pick the rest of the bushes out of my hair, which I’d pulled back in a bun for the day and would now need to be brushed and redone.
“Alonso will take your bike for you. Here, let me get your bag. Are you sure you’re all right? Are you hurt?”
“Surprisingly, no,” I said, and I meant it. Other than the stinging on my cheek.
The custodian—Alonso? Ilikedthat—said something to Mrs. Trujillo-Perez in rapid Spanish, and I only caught the words for cheek, mejilla, and blood, sangre. I wiped at my cheek and yes, I had a nasty scratch.
“Oh, it’s okay. Scars build character, right?” I tried to laugh it off. Nothing was going to ruin this day, not even a trashed bike and a humiliating fall. Nope. I had a job, I had a new purpose…and I’d foundhim.
Alonso.
Muy bien, gracias.
He took my bike by the handlebars and tried to push it but the frame was bent, so he hefted the thing up over his shoulder as if it were a five-pound sack of potatoes and carried it off toward what must have been the delivery bay, as it had large rolling doors.
