Page 13 of Interpreter

Aspen holds her delicate finger in front of her mouth, telling me it’s a secret or someone told her to be quiet. That could mean so many things in this house, but knowing who her mother and father are, I’m going with Uncle Cade telling her to be quiet since Mommy and Daddy are still asleep. Which they aren’t. They are holed up somewhere fucking. I would bet money on it.

I nod at the little princess on my chest, the motion sending a wave of nausea through me. No more drunken nights for sure.

“What’s for breakfast?” I ask her like she really knows or is even equipped to tell me with her toddler vocabulary. Talking to her like a big kid lights up her eyes as she slides off my chest in a hurry, grabbing my hand and pulling so she can show me. Thank heavens I passed out in my pants, otherwise I would have had to break her little heart by asking her to go on without me.

Have mercy. I’m in love with a toddler.

I ignore the pain in my head as Aspen shuffles us down the stairs and into the open kitchen where the rest of the guys, sans Theo, are barely alive and looking worse for wear as they attempt to get down a cup of coffee.

“Stop banging the pots, B.” Cade grimaces and covers his ears.

Breck, Cade’s wife, stands at the stove with an adorable grin on her face, cooking eggs that probably smell just as terrible to the rest of the guys as they do to me.

She pauses, turning to face me and Aspen. “I see you finally got him up,” she says to Aspen, signing the words only for my benefit.

Aspen grins up at me, and I mumble, “traitor,” with a little tickle that sends her running from the kitchen only to return in her momma’s arms, her daddy looking freshly fucked and a whole lot hungover.

“Nice of you to join us Tim,” Anniston says, her words silent to my ears. “You wouldn’t want to be late for your first day of school.”

José made me his bitch.

We finished our love fest in the tub where we drowned all things work related. Where we went wrong was falling asleep on the bathroom floor, next to the toilet. Not only am I hungover, but now I have a huge kink in my neck. So staring down at Samuel, the rudest little shit in fifth grade, is not how I envisioned the start of my day. A greasy mound of hash browns and refreshing glass of Alka-Seltzer would have been my preference.

However, I left my phone downstairs, and it was only when I woke up to Felipe rushing me out of the bathroom—his coffee had kicked in—did I realize I was going to be late to work. I did, at least, have time for a wipe down so I didn’t smell as bad as I felt.

Needless to say, my entire week so far is a complete and utter shitshow. And Samuel, the terror of the fifth-grade hall, is testing my patience.

“Yes, Samuel. I am a real interpreter, and, no, I am not in the United States illegally.”

The little devil’s forehead scrunches, and he cuts me a look of disbelief.

It’s frowned upon to punch a kid at this school. At least that’s what the handbook implies. But what if I gave this particular kid a pat on the back, but harder?

Ugh.

You’re right. He’s just a kid. He doesn’t know any better.

“Are there any other questions?” I ask, glancing around the room, pausing briefly to glare at Samuel before flashing Oliver, the whole reason for Samuel’s outburst, an authentic smile.

“Like I was saying,” I refrain from making eye contact with Samuel again, “Oliver is from the first-grade hall and will be joining us this class period.” And during my next free period.

“Why is a first grader in a fifth-grade class?” Samuel continues, undeterred by my “do not ask any more questions” look.

This time, though, his question is valid, and if the alcohol seeping through my pores wasn’t about to ignite the hairspray in my hair and kill us all, I might have been impressed that Samuel wasn’t a complete rude-ass when he asked his question. Alas, such is not the case. My pores arenotseeping out alcohol and the only thing close to exploding is my temples because I forgot my damn Advil in the car.

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

Think of Abuelita. Think of her grace and patience.Think of the coconut water in the break room with no one’s name on it. It’s been in there forever. No one will even notice it’s gone.

“Well, Samuel, Oliver wants to learn sign language.” I smile at the blond-haired little boy staring back at Samuel with his head held high. Oliver has a hearing aid, and his social worker informed me that he’s still struggling to hear at times. She thought it would be a good idea if he learned sign language before he loses any more of his hearing. Being that I’m the only one here who is certified to teach sign language, I volunteered to help him during my free period.

“Any other questions?” I probe the class, eager to get this disruption over with so we can break into groups. Before Oliver came in, I had just given them a group project about writing positive letters to their classmates after a brief getting to know one another period. Yes, there were groans, but there were also eager smiles, and those are what I do this job for.

When no one has any other questions about Oliver’s presence, I have them move the desks into their respective circles so they can begin getting to know one another. The volume level instantly increases throughout the room. Giggles and the lack of inside voices make it almost impossible for me to hear anything that Oliver might say, so I pull him closer to my desk and kneel down so we’re eye level, thanks to my short-girl genes. I crack my knuckles like I’m about to play a game of volleyball instead of signing to a six-year-old. I’m anxious. I have no idea why. Oliver doesn’t give a shit if I mess up, but for some reason, I want his first experience with sign language to be a confident one. So with a quick breath and a confident smile, I pray signing will be like slipping on an old pair of shoes. Comfortable.

“I’m so happy to finally meet you, Oliver,” I say, signing along with my words.

So far so good. He’s smiling, at least, and I don’t think I messed up at all.

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