Page 5 of Interpreter

“My answer is still no,” I tell him, attempting not to sound like a complete asshole.

I know the probability of success, and I know the probability of failure.

I don’t want it. Just like I didn’t want the hearing aids.

“Tim,” Anniston sighs, although I no longer hear the sound, but I can tell by the way her chest expands and her mouth opens as she bounces baby Aspen on her hip. “Why are you being so difficult?” Her normally bright blue eyes are red and tired, dimmed from the past twenty-four hours of dealing with me, but she holds my gaze steady as she signs, speaking the words I’ll never hear again unless I have the surgery. “Don’t you want to try?”

If I answer her with a firm “no” again, I’m afraid she’ll cry, and that’s the last thing I want to do to her.

Anniston Von Bremen has been patient with me. She learned sign language for me. Hell, she made everyone in the entire house learn it. She’s the sister I never had.

I stare straight ahead, searching for more words as the weight of their stares bear down on me.

Fine.

Reluctantly, I shake my head no. Again. For the thousandth time this hour.

Dr. Callahan quickly signs his argument, but I don’t bother looking anymore. Instead, I lock stares with Theo who signs, asking if I want a burger for lunch. There’s this new burger joint that looks like it serves a side of salmonella with the quarter pound beef patties. At least the condition of the restaurant makes it seem that way, but Hayes assured us they had the best burgers in town. And since he hasn’t died yet, I’m game.

I grin and curl my thumb and index finger, signing okay. He knows I want to get out of here, and when he pushes off the wall and takes Anniston by the elbow, I know I am buying him lunch.

“He’ll think about it,” Theo says, probably with a tone that sent a groan through Anniston. “We’ll let you know if he ever exhibits any common sense and schedule another appointment.”

Even though he didn’t sign, I read his lips perfectly. Honestly, I expected worse from him. Regardless, I’m appreciative. I don’t want to explain why I don’t want surgery to Anniston and Dr. Callahan. Frankly, it’s none of their business.

I knew this day would come.

Now that it has, we can all move on.

Iknew it was going to be a terrible day—the caterpillars were fighting.

“Do you think he had a mishap with microblading?” whispers Gretchen. Coincidentally, we both weren’t listening to anything Dr. Blackwood, the school’s superintendent, was saying. Even in the large cafeteria, packed to the brim with coffee-scented breaths and bad attitudes, we choose to focus on the two fluffy eyebrows going up and down along Dr. Blackwood’s forehead. Two dark caterpillars mindlessly jousting back and forth with each punctuated word that leaves his mouth—which we were clearly missing.

“I’ve wanted to try microblading for some time now,” she leans in closer, “but if that’s the result, then I think I will keep my pencil.”

My eyes narrow at her blatant lie. “Gretch, no one believes your perfect eyebrows are from good genes and a drugstore eyebrow pencil.”Yeah, we know, girl. Own the money you’ve invested in those brows.

She hisses in my ear. “Keep your voice down!”

Her glare beams into my temple like a blowtorch. You know how some girls are the embodiment of high school prom queens? Their looks? Their life? That’s Gretchen. More than likely, she was the mean girl who wore pink on Wednesday and knew every freckle the football team had below the belt line. Gretchen was the OG of Madison High School, and here she sits, reigning queen of the fifth grade hall at Madison’s only elementary school.

Sitting up straight and adjusting my skirt, I sigh. Thanks to Gretchen, I’ve missed most of the meeting. Well, technically, it’s Dr. Blackwood’sandboth of our faults. If he wouldn’t be so dramatic with his facial expressions, we wouldn’t have missed his entire speech.

“I want to thank each of you for your time and investment in our children. Your dedication is not unnoticed. I hate that it has come down to this….” He shakes his head, the caterpillars readying for the final stand. “The schools and specific classes affected will be notified by their principals. Thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you all have a great Monday.” Dr. Blackwood steps back from the podium and tips his chin to Principal Moorehouse in a silent plea to take over.

At least Principal Moorehouse, my boss, has no distracting qualities. “Before we dismiss, I’d just like to remind all of my teachers to monitor the bathrooms.” His eyes narrow in my direction where all the fifth-grade teachers are sitting. “There seems to be a few creative students and an abundance of plastic wrap left unsupervised.”

I smother a laugh and keep my head down, focusing on the necklace Felipe shoved over my head this morning.“You look dreadful. Not at all what a hot teacher is supposed to look like,” he had scolded before hiking the waist up on my skirt, making it shorter. “Now. Now you look fuckable.” I rolled my eyes, slipping on my four-inch heels and reminded him, “I teach elementary students. The last thing I want to do is look ‘fuckable.’” Felipe had nearly fainted. I shit you not. He’s so damn dramatic. “Milah! Have I taught you nothing? You don’t dress for those spoiled, rotten little turds. You dress fuckably for their daddies.”And that last statement from Felipe is why I will forever be single. When your best friend is a bigger diva than you are, it’s hard to manage all things dick related.

“Let’s have a great day, Bleckley Family!”

Apparently I zoned out and missed the rest of Principal Moorehouse’s speech. By the time I realize it, everyone is shuffling up from the tables and kid-sized chairs. I snag Gretchen. “Did I miss anything?”

She stares at me all crazy-eyed. “Uh, no.”

I wave away her look. “Sorry, I zoned out for a minute. Was he just fussing about the poop incident?” I hide a grin when Gretchen starts giggling, attracting Sir Dicks-A-Lot to come over and lean into our little circle.

“Ladies,” Coach Murano—his real name—drawls, rubbing Gretchen’s shoulder like he’s some kind of masseuse and not the dick bag he really is. “How’s everything this morning?”

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