Lessons in Pure Life Read online

  “All right everyone, div—”

  I’m about to pair them up for vocab exercises when a heavy metal ladder swings through the door, followed by a man carrying it like it’s feather-light. He wears a baseball hat flipped backwards over his shaggy black hair, a faded black t-shirt, jeans, and unlaced tan work boots with the tongues flopping out. Tall. Broad. Diego Valverde.

  To avoid bonking the students, he lifts the ladder over his head so that his short sleeves fall further toward the joints of his shoulders, and the hem of his shirt lifts, revealing an inch of toasted-coconut skin. A glimpse of lower abdominals. A hint of a smile at the array of students, but more like he’s glad he’s not the one in class instead of kindly encouragement.

  Finally he asks permission to interrupt, but without bothering to open his mouth. His face is stone, brows raised in question.

  What can I possibly say? It’s his building.

  “Esta todo bien,” I assure him. My hard English accent grinds into the peanut-butter-smooth Spanish.

  A judgmental smirk from Diego.

  Well, fuck you too. I shrug, flustered.

  He sets the ladder up in the back of the classroom with a moody clang, chin tipped up to the ceiling as he scans it for something. His neck is entirely exposed, Adam’s apple prominent but not protruding.

  Angular cheekbones, Roman nose, dark brows – check, check, check. It’s like I’ve stepped into a Calvin Klein ad starring that Khal Drogo guy from Game of Thrones.

  So I occasionally objectify men. Technically it’s the same man, twice. And I don’t mean to do it; it just happens. His cheekbones, his lips, his otherworldly eyes draw me in, turn me up all the way so that it’s hard to concentrate.

  God, Lia, shake it off.

  “Okay, let’s get started.” I clap my hands to get the class’s attention, but it backfires.

  It’s Diego who swivels his head sharply, lips curling downward like I’m full of shit. His eyes should match and it’s strange they don’t. They’re muted, like passion burned out a while ago and no one’s cared to change the bulbs.

  His deadness is obviously not catching because I’m showing evidence to the contrary. This boy is making me buzz on a higher frequency. His skin looks warm and red-tan like the Grand Canyon, and I feel about as empty, longing for the weight of the earth, a perfect filling-in to make me physically whole again. I want to sigh and fade to the floor in a heap like an old-movie actress, but instead I stand my ground and imagine a postcard caption: “I found my sex drive in Costa Rica!”

  “Teacher?” It’s Erland, actually looking responsible, concerned.

  I realize I’m clasping my hands in front of me awkwardly, caught between this world and the one in my mind. Yikes.

  Ay, ay, ay, no es bueno!

  Sad that most of the Spanish I know was learned after school, watching The Simpsons.

  A few students are looking at me funny, a few are distracted by Diego, and the rest are talking amongst themselves. Must regroup.

  “Okay, guys, are we ready for work in partners?”

  Heads turn back in my direction, but their glazed expressions tell me the lesson doesn’t excite them as much as, say, a real-live person on a ladder. They have front-row seats to whatever Diego’s doing up there. I’m the most distracted of all since I’m working with different challenges than the others, who often focus resolutely on anything but the lesson. I get it. It isn’t natural to sit and listen all day, especially when someone else is playing with tools right there. I read a story by Louis Sachar about a boy who decides to break free from the structure of the class and talk to birds instead. Something like that. Diego rebelling there in front of me reminds me of that.

  Goddamn, it’s hot. Is it normal to feel this hot? When do I adjust?

  “Julio, could you turn on the fan back there?”

  He reaches back obligingly and flicks the switch of the standing fan. Soon there’s a shaft of cool air in this hot box of a room.

  “All right,” I start again.

  Diego grips the sides of the ladder and climbs.

  Squeak.

  A second boot clomps on screechy metal.

  Squeak.

  “Everyone… um…”

  Squeak.

  A sudden rush of heat rages through my veins. It’s me snapping.

  “Diego!”

  He stops, his movie-hero face frozen, almond eyes looking round with surprise.

  My students are rapt, looking at me like I’m nuts. Julio has pressed his lips in a line, trying not to smile. Joselyn is staring up at the ladder, waiting for the wolf’s reaction.

  Recovering, Diego blinks. I brace myself for a blast of arrogant retaliation, feeling gross and awkward on the inside because I’ve forgotten I’m not playing by my home rules. In fact, I don’t really know the rules yet. Maybe no one talks to the Valverdes like that. Did I just commit a Pacifica no-no?

  He’s looking at me so hard you could walk on the space between my face and his. That kind of calm signifying he could be seething just below the surface.

  My heart jackrabbits. Little specks of light appear that I don’t think anyone else sees. Calm down. I need to breathe.

  “Perdón,” he finally says. Even and controlled.

  I have to just get this fucking lesson off the ground. I’m spinning my wheels. So what the hell was I going to say?

  I should just continue talking, pick up where I left off, but I can’t find my words. It’s so hot in here I can hardly catch my breath. My insides are a bunch of cheap fireworks going off at once in every direction, but outside I’m still, locked in place. Teaching my registered students is one thing; nobody told me Diego would be working in the room during class. That’s a lot of pressure.

  Finally, seeing that he’s interrupted us and most of the class is staring at him, or me, or looking back and forth between the two of us, Diego’s cool gaze scans the room.

  “Escúchenla!” he commands the students, triggering a shuffling and scootching back to face me. I scribble the word down in my notebook hastily so I can look it up later.

  Well. I nod curtly at “Diego – Friend or Foe?” and look back at my students. Set after set of beautiful, dark eyes observe me expectantly, a little entertained, a little bored.

  I need to change gears quickly, and I just don’t trust them to work diligently with a distraction in the room. Hastily, I choose something both engaging and educational. An old classic. When I was young we’d play it on snow days when only a handful of kids turned up for school.

  “You know what? Let’s play a game today. It’s our last class of the week. Anyone know hangman?”

  Blank stares. Diego shifting his weight on the top rung of the ladder.

  Squeeeak.

  This time I think it’s just a legitimately squeaky, piece-of-shit ladder.

  “Okay, let me draw it and we’ll see if you know it. I think you will.”

  I turn to the board. Sink or swim.

  It’s dead silent in the room except for the chalk making tink-tink sounds as I print out vocabulary dialogue. Diego must have found a sweet spot.

  Am I sweating visibly? Everyone else is. Several of the adult women have been dabbing their collarbones and foreheads with dishcloths. I know they go and work a full shift after the morning session. It really hit me how hard some humans have to work to get educated, and I want them to get more out of this class than just force-fed grammar. I want to give them the freedom I have, the empowerment that comes with owning your own ideas.

  The three ceiling fans rotate pitifully slowly, mocking us with their carefree twirl. I’m too far away for the standing fan to do much. I wish I’d twisted my hair up into a bun, because it’s hanging heavily down my neck like a fur scarf as I finish the list of words. I imagine an electric razor buzzing up my skull until there’s nothing but a cool breeze touching my scalp.

  Gah! Focus!

  My brain is all wacky from Diego’s presence, like I’ve been slipped an intoxicant.


  Because hangman is pretty morbid and doesn’t necessarily translate well to all cultures, I draw a funny, round-bellied man (not unlike the Bimbo guy) with a silly hat and then add seven dashes below him to represent each letter of the word I’ve chosen, which is one of the vocabulary terms we’ve been learning: W-E-A-T-H-E-R.

  Last, I write out the alphabet on one side of the board and then turn around. The class has been watching me silently, but most of them are smiling or in the process of recognizing the game.

  Diego is inspecting the ceiling up on the ladder, running a hand along the surface as if feeling for something.

  “You guess the letters that make the secret word,” I say loudly, pointing to my head and squinting my eyes like I’m thinking really hard, and then touching the blackboard where my blank letter dashes are written. ESL teachers have to do a lot of acting, at least with such an unusual range of academic levels. On my first day, I found myself hopping around on one foot like a dummy to describe the word for shoe. Can’t imagine doing that song-and-dance in front of Diego.

  Elsa, a bright teen with a sleek, black ponytail and a plunging neckline, raises her hand to take the first guess. Elsa has become a bit of a favorite because of her developed language skills and her enthusiasm. She’s already earned a scholarship to attend an American university. I point to her, and she suggests the letter A.

  With a wink in her direction, I write the letter A above the appropriate dash. A communal “Ahh!” ripples across the room as everyone understands the game at once. I love those moments when the whole group evolves at the same time. It gives the class a great energy. I erase the letter A in the alphabet list.

  Another hand goes up, and I can’t remember the guy’s name so I point at him and nod with raised eyebrows.

  “C?”

  “I’m sorry, there is no C.”

  Dramatically, I erase the letter C and then erase the silly hat on the man I’ve drawn.

  “Frayner!” teases Julio next to him. Frayner, right.

  “Sorry,” says Frayner in a low voice, smiling sheepishly. We all laugh.

  Sara is sitting patiently with her hand up. I point to her and she guesses the letter S. With an exaggerated, apologetic look, I shake my head sadly and erase the chalk character’s left arm. The class erupts with exclamations and Sara giggles, red-faced. They’re engaged, thank goodness.

  Before long, students are thrusting their hands in the air and waving them around so I’ll pick them to guess a letter. One more and I know someone will figure it out, if only Elsa. Sure enough, when Freddie guesses W, Elsa is almost out of her seat, grinning with knowledge in her eyes.

  “Elsa?”

  “I want to guess the word!”

  “Go for it!”

  “The word is ‘weather.’”

  “You got it! Hooray!” I start to clap at the class in a fanning motion, like a ringmaster getting the audience riled up, and the class follows suit. Elsa is pleased with herself.

  “Now you can pick a new word and we will guess. You’re the teacher.” I hand her the chalk and her eyes widen.

  “Really?”

  “If you want to.”

  “Cool. Yes, I want to.”

  Elsa jumps out of her seat and approaches the board keenly. After a moment’s thought, she erases the old game and draws several dashes for her word, and then illustrates her own silly man; hers has a cowboy hat. I love it.

  The students are watching her and whispering to each other. For the first time, they’re actually whispering about the lesson. I can’t believe I didn’t pull this game out sooner!

  Thanks, Diego.

  I glance up and am surprised to see him watching the game from his perch on the ladder, although he doesn’t look particularly impressed. He’s so involved that he doesn’t notice me watching – that has to be a good sign, I think. I wonder how much English he knows. I wonder if he’s learning anything.

  After going through several student “teachers,” I check my watch and can’t believe only five minutes remain. This has definitely been the quickest class for me so far. Just a few more hours till the end of my first teaching week. Thursday is like a Friday for me since I work a four-day week. Katherine had told me with sympathy that four days was the best she could get me; fortunately, I say yes to three-day weekends.

  “All right, my friends, time’s up. We will say goodbye until next week.” I gesture toward the door with one hand and wave at them with the other.

  “Nooo!” yells Erland, who didn’t get a turn.

  Julia, a retired teacher with a long gray braid, holds the chalk in her hand at the front of the class, frozen in the midst of erasing the letter K. She looks disappointed but smiles at me good-naturedly. She’s my eldest student, and very competent.

  “What was the word?” calls Erland to Julia animatedly.

  “Butterfly,” she says proudly, looking at me again, this time for approval.

  “Excellent choice.” I widen my eyes and give her the thumbs-up, a cheesy move by North American standards, but as a non-verbal form of communication, it’s pretty effective.

  “Next class, we will play for ten minutes after our lesson, and Julia will start as teacher, okay?”

  The response is a few exclamations of excitement, and I’m incredibly pleased.

  The students file out, but Erland lingers by my desk and hands me a note shyly.

  “Bye, teacher. I like your class,” he says in a heavy accent without turning around, and then he swaggers out the door.

  I open the note. In heavily corrected printing he’s written, “Thankyou Teacher Lia. You mak us hapy.”

  Oh boy. I’m flooded with appreciation and can’t help but chuckle out loud. Instinctively my hand goes over my heart, grateful and touched by his act of compassion.

  This moment of peace gives my bladder a chance to pipe up: abort everything; must pee. Leaving my stuff on the desk, I book it to the bathroom. After the mission is accomplished, I’m walking back into the classroom, trying to identify the scent the soap left on my fingers – lilac? orange blossom? – but I halt, mind working quickly to make myself silent and as invisible as a girl can be in a doorway.

  Diego has climbed off the ladder and is leaning awkwardly over my desk as if he was just walking by and something caught his eye, two fingers of his right hand pinning Erland’s note open. His brow is furrowed. I doubt he can read English; he’s clearly struggling. Or it could just be the student’s writing.

  For a minute I let my eyes wander. Even bent over he emits a brutish grace, a large, rugged lightness. It must be his surfer balance. If you can glide on the ocean, standing around mustn’t be much of a challenge.

  His triceps are flexed as he holds his upper body above the desk like he’s doing a half-extended push-up. The overall size of his biceps forces the hem of his t-shirt to stretch. I like that he isn’t meaning to show off, that he’s simply existing. I also like that it looks like he’s followed Hugh Jackman’s Wolverine workout program.

  “Hey, that’s mine,” I say gently, half joking, half wary. The classroom seems small as he straightens to his full height, startled. He fills the space around him.

  I approach slowly.

  “Sorry,” he mutters, and strides out of the room before I can say a word. Sorry? His first English word to me is an apology. I think that gives me an advantage, but I’m not sure how.

  My hands are shaking and my teeth are chattering from the experience. Damn nerves. It’s ten thirty in the morning, paradise time, and I’m exhausted.

  3

  “My laundry’s done. I’m gonna go out back and listen to the new Neko Case album while I hang my stuff,” I inform Katherine, who’s reading a glossy magazine on the couch.

  “Okay,” she says without looking up.

  “Someone might call me from the front gate, so can you pick up if I don’t hear it?”

  “Yup. I’m leaving at six, though.”

  Each backyard in our complex is about
six by eight feet, large enough for a washing machine and a sink beneath an extended awning, plus room to suntan. A clothesline imitates the horizon, stretched taut from one fence pole to the other. Its shadow makes a thin stripe on the patchy grass.

  My clothes are warm and damp on my cheek. They smell like kindergarten and living at home. I’ll hang them to dry, then do a little tanning while I go over my next lesson plan.

  There’s an empty coffee container filled with clothespins, and I grab it with the three fingers I have free. I drop it all next to the far end of the line and start hanging strategically, holding two pins between my lips as I flip my towel with both hands and then secure each end.

  I look in either direction, but the only one else is Pepe, the schnauzer three houses down.

  I’m alone.

  Deep breath. I took yoga classes faithfully during the last two years of school. Wendy, my favorite teacher, had a heavy accent, but she got through to the darker parts of me. I recall her voice.

  Inhaling through the nose – hold it, hold it – and exhaling through the mouth. Just let go. Nothing to do but let go.

  In retrospect, I probably relied heavily on those yoga classes for therapeutic relief when I was seeing Carter.

  My crazy ex-boyfriend. Doesn’t everyone have one?

  Well, not like this.

  I still dream of him – Carter Shipley. They’re nightmares, really. Not every night since I’ve been here, but a few times. Enough to scare me as much as usual. I wake up sweaty and sad, racked with guilt and aversion. It’s in the still, quiet hours of barely morning that the memories are so fresh it feels like they’re bleeding.

  His face contorted with rage as it hangs inches from mine. I can feel his sharp grip pinning my wrists down and his legs around me like a spidery, human cage.