Page 7 of Under His Sheets
“I’m so sorry. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m great, Mrs. Trujillo-Perez?—”
“Oh, call me Lara when it’s us,” she said, wrinkling her nose. She was probably in her late thirties/early forties, like Mrs. Galván. Tall, long black hair, accent seemed to be California, maybe? She certainly spoke beautiful Spanish. I, on the otherhand, could understand bits and pieces, but when I spoke it, I sounded like the worst gringo.
“Alonso said he will take care of your bike himself. Don’t worry. He’s quite capable.”
That he is. Perhaps he hadn’t recognized me in the daylight, but no matter. He was here. At my new job.
I couldn’t stop smiling.
The kids were awesome. I don’t know what I expected, other than a bunch of uniformed hooligans, but with the exception of some running in the hallways and a spilled water bottle on the carpet in my classroom, it really had been okay. I recalled a lot of the classroom management tricks I’d learned while student teaching, plus I had the benefit of teaching a subject that for many kids was a break from learning subjects they struggled with. There was the occasional kid who shared they were there because their parents made them take music, but most of the kids, especially the older ones, perked up when I mentioned teaching them things about the business, about recording and mixing using tools on their computers, and that we would not only be doing classic pieces but more contemporary scores, like those written by Danny Elfman and Trent Reznor.
All of the kids spoke English, I’d been assured, but many had other first languages including Spanish, Catalan, French, Arabic, Hausa from Nigeria, Italian, and a few spoke Ukrainian. I had so many plans for how to get the kids invested, including studying folk and pop music from their countries of origin, and even composing music of their own before the year was out.
I had two sections of choir with the littles in the morning, followed by two sections of instrumental with the older kids, and after lunch I had middle-grade choir and instrumental. That was my schedule three days a week, then two days a week I wouldteach private lessons to students whose parents requested. Lara wanted me to consider adding afterschool chorus for the older students, when I was settled of course, and for an additional stipend, and I had plans for implementing a performance program where the kids could practice playing their instruments live with other musicians and cut their teeth on what it means to be a professional musician.
Lara had explained to me that at the end of the day, the parents would come to the classroom to pick up their children from me. There was a dedicated terminal next to the door and I needed to stand there and make sure every kid was signed out before they left. As some of our students were high-profile, the school took extra precautions with their safety. Some parents even hired private security for their children, so Lara told me not to be alarmed if I saw adults in the hallway. They wore special ID badges, but it was a bit jarring to see them carrying weapons in a school. These weren’t rent-a-cop security like back in the States. Who the heck were these families?
My imagination ran wild, wondering what kind of kids we were talking about. Children of diplomats? Celebrities? Military? Billionaires? I doubted that, but who knew? I had been just as excited to meet the parents as I was the kids.
I was in my spot at the podium near the door when school ended on that first day and the kids lined up, coming forward when their parent or designee arrived. The special computer system had a scanner that would match the person to the kid. No match, no kid was leaving. One of the moms, I think, recognized me, as her eyes widened and she twirled her hair around her finger as she gestured for her kid to come forward. She fumbled with her ID, dropping it on the ground and apologizing. I hadn’t expected there to be anyone more nervous than me there that day.
Pickup went pretty smoothly, and I had to admit to myself that I’d been looking around corners all day for Alonso, and now that school was out, I intended to go looking for him…
Until my nerves got the best of me.
What if he honestly didn’t remember me?
What if hehadrecognized me and blew me off? Like, he really planned for us to only be for a night and seeing me again was a complication he didn’t want?
What if…
I peeked out into the hallway and there was my bike. Fixed. It had to have been difficult to repair it and yet, there it was. Guess I wouldn’t be walking home.
I wanted to thank him, but then I heard my name called.
“Oh, Monsieur Sutter? Monsieur Sutter, I’m Madame Lahlou, I am in charge of personnel.” She held out her hand to me and gave a little nod. “We have some paperwork for you, monsieur. Please come with me.” She was an older African woman wearing a plum-colored long-sleeved dress and matching headscarf. She turned and walked at a fast clip and I had to jog to catch up with her.
“How was your first day?”
“Great! Really, the kids are fun.”
She nodded but continued to face forward. “I have found that it is not the children who are a problem in this school but the adults.” She raised an eyebrow and glanced my way. “Many of the parents send their assistants and au pairs to collect the students and they tend to make a fuss over having to show identification.”
“Do we really need to worry so much about security?”
We’d reached the office and she paused at the door.
“While I admit our students do not have to worry about such things as American children do, there are still dangers when the identity of your family is exposed, attending a school primarilyfor expats but with a contingent of local celebrities and wealthy families. We have carefully screened all of our students and their families, but one never knows. Other international schools have had children targeted for politically motivated kidnappings. We work very hard to ensure that does not happen here.”
“That sounds terrifying,” I said quietly. Now I understood the need for the bodyguards and the check-out system.
A clatter startled me, and I turned around to see Alonso picking up a mop from the floor and darting into a classroom. Hopefully this paper-signing business would be quick and I could track him down after.
Or should I play it cool?
Should I wait?—
