Page 9 of Under His Sheets
“That’s pretty great, Pere. So you want to learn more on guitar? You’re already pretty good.” He was. He’d shown me what he could do and he already had great form and knew a lot of the techniques that made flamenco players stand out. And who was I to teach a virtuoso’s kid?
“Maybe, but maybe I could learn piano or accordion so I can accompany him. Then maybe he’ll let me tour with him and we can be together always.”
“I’m happy to teach you whatever you want to learn.” With each student on this first day, we made up quarterly goals that were attainable, measurable, and specific. I wanted these kids to have success.
Pere wanted to learn one of his father’s songs on piano to surprise him.
“Let’s make that our stretch goal, okay?” If he hadn’t had any training, playing a whole song in two and a half months was a lot to ask.
We spent the rest of our time getting familiar with the piano and how to translate the music from guitar to keys. I was having a blast with the funny little ten-year-old and I didn’t hear we had company.
“Pere, are you keeping your teacher after hours? Ay, this boy. He will talk your ear off if you let him.”
“Papa,” Pere said and he ran for the man in the doorway, who had yet to check in.
“Get your stuff, son. We’ve got to pick up your stepmother and get to the airport.”
Pere’s whole mood soured. “I thought she was not coming?”
Mr. Ferrer patted his head and gave his hunched-over shoulder a push toward the lockers.
Pere scowled as he went to get his things from his locker, moving at a glacial pace.
“I understand senyora Trujillo-Perez landed us a real rock star to teach our kids.” The guy strummed an air guitar and curled his lip a la Billy Idol then laughed. “I’m teasing you. I’m Paolo Ferrer. It’s nice to have you here.”
I shook his hand and didn’t let him ruffle me. I had actually heard of him before, but I refused to be starstruck. He was close to six feet tall, thin with deeply tanned skin and expensively shabby clothes draped fashionably, including a cashmere scarf knotted around his neck and Italian loafers. His wavy light brown hair was thinning around the hairline and his bedroom hazel eyes probably garnered him favor with his chosen lovers.
He oozed arrogance. And he was giving off condescension that left a bad taste in my mouth.
“It’s great to be here.”
“You were in a popular indie rock band, weren’t you? In America?”
“We did all right.”
A streak of navy blue moved behind Mr. Ferrer and then Alonso was in my classroom. While I was trying not to freak out in front of an apparently world-famous parent.
“We’ll have to play together sometime,” he said, and my neck broke out into a sweat beneath my stuffy collar.
“That would be amazing, thank you. Well, I don’t want to keep you, you have a plane to catch.”And I’m trying to catch the custodian before he disappears again.
All I’d seen of Alonso was flashes the past two days. I hadn’t even been able to thank him for fixing my bike.
“Of course, no it’s a shame we are leaving this weekend, but soon, perhaps.”
And I was stuck between a real international rock star and the man who’d rocked my world, totally unsure how to proceed. If the no-fraternizing rule was athingthing, and I admitted that I would jam with this guy, would Alonso rat me out? How did I bow out of this?
“I appreciate the invitation.”
Ferrer looked me up and down as his son trudged his way. He tried to be all affectionate with Pere, but the kid wasn’t having it.
“Oh, Mr. Ferrer? Your ID please.” Thank goodness I snapped out of it. I’d hate to fuck up on my first week and let a kid go without an ID.
And then his façade slipped and I got a look at the real Ferrer.
“Right, right.” He patted his pockets and frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t have my wallet. Must have left it with the driver. Come on, Pere.”
“But, sir? If you’ll hold on a moment.” I panicked. “Ah, Alonso? Can you please call for Mrs. Trujillo-Perez on your radio?”
