Lessons in Pure Life Read online

  “Pura vida. You guys might have to give us a lesson. I’ve got a new recruit here,” Katherine says, her voice light and melodic. Flirting.

  “The water is good today, but fast. Strong undertow.”

  His eyelids are low, his expression dreamy. He’s either very tired or very relaxed. Maybe a little stoned. He looks at me expectantly.

  “Jose, this is my cousin, Emilia Noble.”

  Katherine turns her hand in my direction like she’s presenting a new car on The Price Is Right. I pose like a Barbie-doll prize model for a second, and we all laugh awkwardly. I wonder if he gets the game show reference. Do they have game shows in Costa Rica?

  “It’s a pleasure, Emilia.” Jose kisses my cheek gently. His brown gaze is like a summer evening. Slow eyes, warm grin. Friend. Good first impression, Jose.

  “Everyone calls me Lia. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  “And you. I’ve heard so much about you from Katherine. You are totally welcome in my beautiful country. I heard your ex-boyfriend went crazy or something…”

  I’m taken by surprise, and acid burns at the base of my esophagus. I glance quickly at Katherine, who glares meaningfully at Jose and then looks at me apologetically, mouth open, unsure what to say. A triangle of expressions.

  “I really appreciate you finding me a spot on the faculty,” I tell him earnestly, changing the subject quick and clean, blushing all over my face, not just the cheeks.

  “Native English speakers are so important to our program, Lia,” he recovers, aware that he’s rocked my boat. I decide to let the moment pass and silently forgive Katherine for sharing my drama with a friend. She probably had to explain my situation to get me the job. “We’re happy to have you, especially with your university degree,” he continues. “If you’re half as good as this gringa, we’re lucky.”

  He smiles at Katherine affectionately and tilts his head, squinting the sun out of his eyes. She looks a little googly eyed herself. This should be interesting. I’m starting to understand what has been keeping Katherine in Central America, aside from the steady job.

  Diego approaches at last. Dead serious.

  Christ, that’s a big man.

  He eyes Jose impatiently, who steps aside to open our little seashore social circle.

  He’s next to me, standing so close I feel the heat of his body. His body. I don’t dare look directly at it or my head will turn into a big, red factory whistle with steam shooting out, like in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

  “Emilia Noble, this is Diego Valverde.” Jose’s accent slurs a little, the hard edges of the English words sticking together in the tropical heat. Funny to have such a formal introduction in such a leisurely setting. I picture us all wearing striped ties with our swimwear.

  My heartbeat pulses in my throat, an invisible necklace with a throbbing pendant. I smile tentatively, craning my neck because he is almost a foot taller than I am.

  Don’t be intimidated.

  This time I don’t pose like Barbie. I want to be as lucid as possible, considering at least sixty percent of my brainpower is devoted to not mounting him like an overzealous cowgirl.

  “Lia,” I say too loudly.

  Me Lia. You Diego. I can has your biceps?

  My hand goes out automatically. We both look down at it like it’s a curious urchin, coral nails like anemone. Finally he takes it.

  I feel his fingers on my wrist while mine only go to the meaty heel of his hand. My best firm handshake disappears in his, its impact muted by his all-grown-up grip. Between us for those few seconds it’s comfortable, warm, and strong. Our palms touch, and in a way we’re holding hands. Mano en mano.

  And that’s it. We are officially People Who Know Each Other.

  But it’s going downhill. His expression is irritated and distracted, like I’m inconveniencing him with my presence. When he finally, really looks me in the eyes, I’m startled by how loveless his gaze is, cool hostility sharpened by pale gray irises. Like the sky when you’ve stayed up until daybreak.

  You can learn a lot in no time. I’m guessing he’s in his early or mid-twenties. He’s covered in smooth, youthful skin, but his muscular system is a man’s, with a wide, toned chest and broad shoulders that slope down and then curve back up at the ends like a hockey player’s.

  His skin glints. Flecks of quartz sand.

  Good god. It’s all a bit much, so I pull my hand away. I have to think of something to say to this stud in case this is a lucid dream.

  “How’s it going?” I manage. I’ve forgotten all my Spanish. Classic.

  I’m hyper-aware of the tone of my voice, how my lips move over my teeth when I speak. I’m not wearing a spot of makeup; I wasn’t planning on running into a dreamboat-surfer Valverde. And makeup at the beach is bullshit, anyway.

  “Pura vida,” he says without much life at all. He oozes condescension, literally looking down his nose at me. I feel a trickle of disappointment start to drip-drop; he couldn’t be less thrilled to meet me.

  The worst part is he’s so good-looking that I’m giving him more attention than he probably deserves. And he probably gets it all the time. I want to shut my eyes and let my thoughts process for a while. Instead, I keep reading his face like a map, finding treasure everywhere.

  His top lip dips down in the middle, a shallow cupid’s bow. I want to touch it with my little finger. I know he can see my eyes roving over him, but I don’t stop. Macho arrogance infuriates me, and a lack of personality bores me.

  He’s not giving me anything, and this turns him into an object. It’s the twenty-first century – I’ve learned to adapt. No personality? No problem. I can be just as superficial. It’s human nature, these days. I’m just glad I’m actually attracted to someone.

  As if he could hear my thoughts like a radio, he tries to look anywhere else, and I watch his eyes move deftly around like little swordsmen. But they lose their fight and come to rest in my direction again.

  Katherine and Jose are just standing there. How much time has gone by? This is super awkward.

  Oh well. You can’t sweat the small stuff, to sound cliché. Sometimes life isn’t fair. A good-looking man is hard to resist, but that doesn’t mean he’s worth a damn.

  He shifts his weight uncomfortably, looks into the distance, and runs his fingers through his grown-out surfer hair. One forearm is covered in black ink, a tattoo of moons or planets in orbit, looks like. I want to ask him about it, but I don’t. I’ve already looked for too long.

  Barely nodding at us, he walks off toward the bathroom facilities without another word. I may have scared him off, but I can’t help but feel confused and hurt. Is that it? Aren’t we all supposed to try to get along?

  I turn to Jose questioningly.

  “Sorry. Don’t worry about him.”

  “Did I do something?”

  “No, not at all. He’s—”

  “Cranky?” Katherine offers, offended for me.

  Jose laughs, his good nature a superpower.

  “That too. He’s like a brother to me, though. Diego’s family is… very important. Traditional. Honorable. They’re a big part of Pacifica.”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t give him any reason to be rude to Lia.” Katherine’s eyebrows lean together, mouth pouting into a frown.

  “No, you’re right. With his family, especially his father, it’s complicated. You can’t blame Diego.”

  “Why not?”

  “He avoids foreigners. Costa Rican guys love blonde, blue-eyed women, and the foreign girls always go after him.”

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  “How awful for him,” I say.

  “I know it sounds stupid, but they are so different from what we are used to, and that can cause trouble because they don’t understand our culture. They don’t want to. They just want a memory to take home.”

  I’d certainly never thought of it from the local’s perspective. The Dirty Dancing Effect.

  “It will take the talent of Kather
ine and Lia for him to see how good you English teachers are for our program, yes?” Jose raises his eyebrows charmingly. “You will kick so much ass.”

  He says it so casually and kindly, like he’s talking to his grandmother, that I laugh out loud.

  “I hope so.”

  “Forget Diego. He’s just hungry or something.”

  I suspect this isn’t the first time he’s apologized for Diego. Maybe it’s a brotherhood loyalty thing. Even though Jose is making a case, I’m stung. My autumn hair and amber eyes seemed a little exotic back home, but it’s clear that I’m not going to draw Diego’s – or any man’s – attention if dudes down here are only into the bottle-blonde look.

  Katherine and I make eye contact, and she shakes her head slightly, giving me a look like I’ll explain later.

  Fuck Diego. I don’t need to waste my time with someone who doesn’t even want me here. I have to focus all my energy on my new job as an ESL teacher. On Escuela Guardia.

  I sure hope Genesis Valverde likes brunettes.

  2

  Can they see my underwear?

  As a teacher with four days’ experience, this is my primary concern. I’ve had an irrational fear of accidental panty exposure since the time I walked out of a doctor’s office with my skirt tucked into my bright blue undies. My students don’t know my secret: there’s a fine line between my bubbly in-class persona and my panicked inner monologue.

  Escuela Guardia is the local school in my neighborhood, a five-minute walk from the townhouse I share with Katherine. As I’ve done the past three mornings, I shuffle along in my gladiator sandals. There isn’t a sidewalk, so I navigate the narrow shoulder among shards of brown and green glass, empty Gatorade bottles, and the occasional hubcap. Rotten mangoes cover the side of the road, and I step around them, avoiding the urge to pick them up and save them for later. They exist in such abundance here that they grow until they drop and rot on the ground, mushy and stinking sickly sweet. A waste of such a delicious resource.

  The sunlight bakes everything it shines on.

  “Pura vida,” I call and wave as I pass a makeshift garage where two middle-aged men with round bellies stand next to a rusty, dead car. One of them wears a blue jersey that says “Bimbo” in white lettering – he’s worn it every day this week. Bimbo is a bread company with a white bear mascot that looks like the Pillsbury Doughboy’s half brother. The same thing happens each time I wander past: I say “pura vida,” they stare me down soberly with their arms folded, like bouncers, and I hoof it to the school yard.

  This morning, I get to class early, but the door is already unlocked, so I tuck my key with its blue butterfly keychain back into my bag.

  As I enter, I’m hit with a whiff of wet paint and see a large beige drop cloth covering the floor in the room at the opposite end of the hallway. Through the open doorway I see the bottom half of a pair of legs standing on a ladder, the rest of the body up in the ceiling. A man’s muffled voice and a woman’s are discussing something in Spanish. Something about breakfast. Or maybe lightbulbs. I recognize Genesis’s loud voice.

  “Hola!” I call, and Genesis pops her head out the door.

  “Hi, Tica! How’s your morning?”

  She walks toward me, statuesque in a deep purple dress and heeled, white patent-leather sandals that knock like hammers on the chipped concrete floor. She calls me Tica because my skin has turned almost as golden as hers. Ticos and Ticas are male and female Costa Ricans.

  My eyes wander to the dark roots of her hair that look inky black compared with the dyed blonde parts. Genesis is a bit of a close-talker, so I’m always noticing her details. Her citrusy perfume smells so good that when she stands close it makes me feel oddly relaxed, like an ASMR reaction.

  Her eyes are the same stunning gray-green as her brother Diego’s.

  “Pura vida. It’s good. I’m starting to feel like I know what I’m doing. Well, maybe.”

  She tips her head back and laughs, all mouth. I can see right down her throat.

  “I watched you yesterday for a while.”

  “You did?”

  “Relax. You’re doing well, stop guessing yourself.”

  Before I can consider correcting her, she goes on.

  “Actually, I have a favor to ask.”

  “All right…”

  “This afternoon my husband is arriving from San Jose and I need to pick him up. If I send a driver, can you pick up and proofread some documents for me that are in my other office? I need them done by tomorrow afternoon, though. I’ll pay you, of course.”

  “Yeah? Sure, I can do it.”

  “Perfecto. I’ll leave the key in your bag after class.”

  “Okay.”

  “If it goes well, I can maybe get some funding if you want to do more proofreading for the English website, hay?”

  I can’t tell if it’s a statement or a question, but either way, I want the extra money. There’s a catamaran tour Katherine has suggested a bunch of times.

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks for thinking of me. What time?”

  “Four?”

  I nod, holding my tongue.

  In Tico time, “four” can mean thirty minutes or several hours, days, or weeks after the time originally set. Expats get hot, bothered, and sputtering about it, and I can’t blame them. Here, value is placed on relationships and social culture over deadlines, which is something I can appreciate, but the rules are confusing. If someone says they’ll show up at eleven a.m., am I supposed to wait around all day, like I’m expecting a dishwasher from Sears? Do I leave someone else hanging if I have something better to do? “Mañana, mañana,” the landlord has been saying about putting up curtains since the day I arrived. For nearly two weeks I’ve been waking up at the crack of dawn with tropical heat searing down on me through a hot plate of glass. Makes me feel like a mini-quiche.

  Anyway, I’m working on ditching my northern ways for pura vida. Tonight my evening is wide open, so I guess I’ll give this Tico time a go.

  “Thanks, mi querida.” Genesis air kisses me, and her heels clonk back into her small office.

  I check my watch. Seven minutes till class. Better put my teacher hat on.

  My eyes wander around the classroom, which is starting to grow familiar. The chalkboards are old and don’t work, something I didn't know was possible. Nothing shows up properly because of the humidity in the air, and the chalk breaks off into little bits that fall on the ground and stick to our shoes. Most of the desks are in states of falling apart and covered with pen markings and graffiti. The paint on the walls is patchy and faded. What may have been ivory is now dirty gray.

  During orientation, Genesis made it clear, with little stabbing gestures, that the Valverdes are going to renew (re-nieww, she pronounced) the space, promising a brighter, cleaner environment complete with fresh paint, new supplies, and toilet paper in the bathrooms. I was shocked at first when I learned the students in this community usually need to bring TP from home. The idea of kids not having basic resources would have been a scandal in my suburban neighborhood back home. Didn’t realize how lucky I was just being able to wipe my ass for free.

  Genesis is my professional hero, a boss in every sense. I admire her modern efficiency and assertive attitude; she’s loud and opinionated but also kind, thoughtful, and supportive. At our first meeting she was direct but openhearted and genuine, a well of compassion with steel scaffolding. When she’s around, there’s certainly no question about who’s in charge. So far, she’s the best professional role model I’ve ever had. I never imagined I’d meet someone like this in a small town, in a country that’s developed differently than mine. How incredibly foolish of me.

  My phone alarm plays Marina and the Diamonds's “Primadonna Girl.” Seven minutes have disappeared without a trace, and it’s time for class to start.

  I open the door, humming the catchy indie-pop chorus, and the students look up at me from their loose lineup outside. Bags are slung over shoulders, and I get a few shy s
miles. A couple voices mutter, “Hi, teacher.”

  “Good morning!” I sing at them, putting on an energetic front.

  My class is an interesting mix of characters. I have twelve teenagers, five adults, one retiree, and a ten-year-old. Their knowledge of English is mixed, which is helpful because the more educated students can help the beginners.

  There have been a few awkward moments, like when I taught a lesson on eye color that backfired because every student had black or brown eyes; only Joselyn and her twin brother, Freddie, had green Spanish eyes. Half the material wound up being irrelevant. Rookie mistake.

  I clear my throat before reading attendance.

  “Sara?”

  “Si.”

  “In English?” I ask, grinning at her like a CoverGirl model.

  “Yes,” she says shyly.

  “Thank you. Julio?”

  A salt-and-pepper-haired man with rimless glasses raises his hand.

  “Good morning, teacher,” he says in a way that tells me he’s actually practiced since last class. I’m so thankful for the adults.

  “Good morning! Excellent. Uh…” I’m looking down at the next name on the list.

  Shit. How do I say this name again?

  “Aintzane?” I call out, and everyone laughs. My pronunciation has been improving, but I botched that one, obviously. “Sorry guys. I’m still learning, just like you. Right?”

  “Yes teacher, we’re the same,” says nasally voiced Erland, a seat-sloucher who likes to crack jokes that don’t really translate.

  The rest of the attendance sheet goes pretty well. One more thing checked off my list of classroom to-dos. They’re mostly memorized now, even though I still carry my turquoise notebook made from recycled phonebooks around like it’s the Vedas. Bit of a nerd with my neatly outlined plans and lists and directories. I guess this is what being the class boss is. But “boss” is the wrong word. It’s more like I’m the facilitator, the leader with a plan so that our class time doesn’t drift into a period of social hour.

  Truth is, I wouldn’t mind if it did. I’ve caught myself thinking we could all learn more if we focused on exchanging questions, stories, and ideas. We should be giving them more than just verb exercises and simplistic tasks. At the very least, I really want to make learning English fun for them, the way I wish certain classes could have been for me. I could really see myself teaching more advanced students who could philosophize and think critically. That’s something I really “got” in university – could totally run a discussion group, plan it all out. In my head I turn on a back burner and let this idea simmer.