Page 21 of Sol
“Are you American?” Olaf asked in a thick Germanaccent.
“What makes you say that?” I couldn’t help being surly and defensive even though I didn’t think he meant to piss me off. But I was on edge, in a class I was barely qualified to take, in a strange classroom in a strange country, needing to deliver bad news to a girl I desperately wanted to make loveto.
He looked at me quizzically and narrowed his brows, not understanding. “What you didsay?”
I took pity on him. English could be as hard for him as Spanish was for me. “Yes. I am an American,” I said slowly, enunciating every syllable. With my light hair and eyes, I stood out in Spain. He had the same coloring, with a shorter, rounderbody.
Just likeOlaf.
If his parents had named him that, I’d loseit.
“Nice to meet you,” he said. “I’m from Leipzig, Germany. My name is Didier.” Dih-dee-yay. “Call me Didi.” He pronounced it Dee-Dee.
Stifling a chuckle, since what kind of dude was named Didi, I reached over, picked up his pen, which had dropped, and handed it to him, then shook hishand.
Another student, hearing us talk in English, turnedaround.
Jesus, it was a Latin lover. No joke. Women surely took their panties off for him if he raised an eyebrow. I wouldn’t know, but he seemed the type—coiffed dark hair, dark eyes. Brooding. He looked me up and down—maybe he was gay—then turned back to hisfriends.
“You like the teacher,” Didi whispered with a smirk, scooting his desk closer tomine.
I glared at him in response. I more than liked the teacher, but he didn’t need to know that. No one needed to know. And had he no sense of personalspace?
“Have you studied translation before?” he asked with another goofy Olafsmile.
“No. This is my firstyear.”
Correction. Firstclass, besides high school. The rest of these kids had to be in college. This was my inaugural attempt at highereducation.
“Need a partner?” he started to ask, but the energy in the room stirred, and everyone turned to thefront.
Dani addressed the class now with those blue eyes. Immediately, the chatter silenced. She straightened her clothes and started talking. “Good morning, class,” she said slowly and clearly, but with a wide smile. She talked too quietly. Timid. Her voice cracked on the word “morning,” and she tried again, stronger. “Good morning. I am Professor Anderson. This is Spanish to English Translation One. All conversation in this class this month will be in English. Next month is English to Spanish, and all work in that class will be in Spanish. If you do not understand something, raise your hand, and we will stop and discuss. I will now call roll, and you will answer, ‘Here.’”
Then she proceeded to say a diatribe in what sounded to me like perfect Spanish. The rest of the class perkedup.
Calling from a roster, she began taking roll. One by one, the Spaniards awkwardly said, “Here,” not used to speaking inEnglish.
“VicenteLopez”
“Here.”
“AmaliaMacía.”
“Here.”
“SergioMendez.”
“Here.”
When she got to my name, she paused, and those eyes were on mine. After our spectacle at the beginning of class, she’d glanced over at me repeatedly. While it was obvious that she was diligently trying to learn the names of her new students, I knew I distracted her. “Trent Milner,” she called with asmile.
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am.” That was not what I was supposed to say.Fuck. Army habit. “Here.”
“I’d like to speak with you afterclass.”
I nodded. “Yes,professor.”
