Lessons in Pure Life Read online

  Two upholstered barstools sit on the living room side of the counter, and a paper gift bag and card with my name on it sits on the coffee table. A familiar stack of Kat’s favorite magazines and dog-eared Archie comics waits for a rainy day on the storage shelf beneath the table, along with two remotes. It’s nicer than any place I could afford in my hometown, that’s for sure.

  Katherine shows me up the wide, tiled staircase and into my room, which has a double bed, a sleek wall-unit air conditioner with a remote, and a large vanity with an oval mirror and drawer space. Love my storage space. I get a surge of excitement to unpack and decorate with the few items that make me feel at home. Must get a scented candle for my room so it doesn’t smell so unlived in, like a model home.

  “Your bathroom is here.” She steps outside my room and opens a door right next to it.

  When the lights come on I see a white standing sink, toilet, and towel rack with two fluffy, white towels. On the other side of the room the tile continues but is divided by a sliding glass door, behind which is a showerhead.

  “Is this a shower?” I ask, stepping inside it and knocking at her through the glass. “We could fit all the cousins in here!”

  “Wait till you see mine. It’s an en suite.”

  “Is this a common thing? To have all this great stuff?”

  “Not really. This neighborhood is, like, ninety-five percent expats, and it was built with them in mind. None of my Costa Rican friends have this, that I know of. It’s more North American-style.”

  “My expectations have certainly been exceeded.” I sound like an old report card. Must be more tired than I realize.

  “Why don’t you get settled, and I’ll pour some wine and make a snack. I got fresh cantaloupe from the farm across the street.”

  “Okay, that sounds perfect. Juicy, cold, and fresh food is all I want to eat for the next few months.”

  “That, and you’ll get hooked on the coffee. It’s so damn good, and dirt cheap. But you need a drink-drink right now. Put on your jammies and let’s watch a girly movie. Grease 2? Juno?”

  Katherine knows me well. A movie will give me a chance to settle in like it’s a regular night and I haven’t just left home on my own for an indeterminate amount of time.

  “I’ve never seen Grease 2.”

  “What? Okay, your choice has been made.”

  “Cool. Just give me five minutes.”

  In my room with the door closed, I’m going through my carefully rolled clothes, deciding whether to unpack now or to just grab my favorite yoga pants and my old neon-pink Rockfest Volunteer shirt. I choose the shorter route and throw on my comfy clothes, pulling my hair into a high ponytail.

  It’s quiet.

  A negative, panicked thought slips in.

  I’m stuck here.

  I take a deep breath and go into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and neck before my body can launch into a panic attack. I can hear the opening credits of the movie, and the tune calms me a little.

  Patting my face with the soft towel in front of the mirror, I look a little drawn and blotchy, but nowhere near as scared as I feel inside. I offer the girl in the reflection a smile, a little love to boost her confidence. It helps marginally, and there’s nothing else I can think of to do, so I jog down the steps and flop down on the couch.

  I’m standing at the kitchen counter with a cup of delicious coffee by the time Kat pads downstairs in her yellow PJ set. She’s barely finished a yawn when I can’t wait any longer.

  “I think I’ve met Mr. Valverde!”

  “What? When?” She looks around, covering her chest instinctively.

  “He isn’t here. I mean when I first arrived, the Mustachio guy who was a dick at the airport! We were on the same flight.”

  She doesn’t respond, but walks slowly over to the counter opposite me and nods at the coffee press. I grab a plain white ceramic mug and mix her a café au lait.

  “That’s fuckin’ weird,” she announces after having had a few quiet sips. “But at the same time, he probably flies a lot.”

  “What’s his business?”

  “I know he owns a bunch of properties.” She shrugs.

  “So weird to think that asshole produced someone like Genesis. I can understand Diego a little better, though. There was definitely a resemblance. The nose, the brow… the mood.”

  “Yeah. You never know with that family. There’s probably more going on than we realize.”

  “You’re right.” I have a tendency to be a quick judge. “What’s the mom like?”

  “I have no idea. Never met her.”

  I try to imagine Mrs. Valverde by subtracting Mustachio’s features from Diego’s and Genesis’s faces, but it’s tricky. I should probably just stop thinking about it altogether.

  “You know,” Kat starts thoughtfully, “Jose told me that Diego taught him to surf. They were just kids, but he said Diego was a natural, that he was the only one with the balls to surf the fastest waves no one else could. I guess he used to win competitions all the time when they were teenagers,” she says.

  “Is this supposed to turn me off?”

  “Nah, I’m just trying to think of what I know about him.”

  “God…” A young Diego isn’t so hard to imagine. Probably he was tall before he grew broad, developing his masculine muscle system from a life by the sea. What kind of man grows from a childhood of flying on the water, defying human conceptions of reality? “I have no sense of his personality,” I conclude.

  “Me neither. Want me to get more info from Jose?”

  “No, it’s okay.” I drink the last of my coffee and rinse the mug in the sink. “I’ve got enough of my own baggage to work through. I don’t want to get ahead of myself like last time.” I look at her significantly, and she tilts her head in empathy.

  “I was going to ask you about the Carter stuff, but I didn’t want to get you down.”

  “Thanks. It’s kind of in the back of my mind all the time.”

  “Are you, like, processing it out of your system?”

  “Good question.”

  A light wave of nausea burns through my stomach and I take a deep breath. Katherine is watching me, her smile fading into concern.

  “Sorry,” she says. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

  “No, no. I think it’s the coffee – it’s just hot. I get the occasional flashback, but my doctor taught me how to deal with it.”

  The truth is, I haven’t exactly mastered Dr. Sim’s techniques, but I’m making my best effort.

  “I was thinking about him a lot last week, and I’ve had a couple nightmares. But this is all pretty normal for me. I’m so used to it, Kat.”

  Katherine eyes me carefully. “Okay,” she says, reluctant.

  We spend the rest of Sunday planning lessons for the week, and she doesn’t bring it up again. I hope she’ll bear with me. The more time passes, the farther I’ll be from my old mistakes.

  7

  “Billie Jean” plays out of the small, powerful speaker on my phone, the famous bassline making my head bob like I’m someone’s dad grooving at a wedding reception. I don’t care if I dance like a white girl. I need an MJ fix this morning.

  I’ve delayed the start of class by five minutes because I’m missing a handful of students. But who am I kidding? It’s damn hot and I’m not looking forward to today’s lesson. Somehow I’ve wound up with all teenagers, and the plan is to teach future imperfect.

  The plan doesn’t account for our restless, melting bodies.

  “You like Michael Jackson?” asks Hector, incredulous.

  “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  He leans back in his seat and shrugs.

  “All gringos love Michael,” Elsa mutters at him, certain of herself.

  I chuckle as I wander back to the front of the class. It’s surprisingly refreshing to be the minority, to be the one everyone is getting all wrong. Although, she’s probably right.

  It’s
Wednesday, third week of class, and despite my getting the hang of owning the classroom, the atmosphere’s changed. Diego was in and out of my school last week, staying for several hours each day to paint or to give orders to others guys painting. Twice I’d gone into Genesis’s makeshift office to find her in quiet discussion with him. It always looked personal, and by the expression on his face I knew not to interrupt.

  This week he hasn’t shown up. Not a single day.

  On Monday I got to school early in my new peach-and-turquoise maxi dress, restless and lucid. I told myself I was pumped for class after getting two solid teaching weeks under my belt, but if I’m honest, I was looking forward to my daily dose of Diego.

  Diego in and out of the building, elbows and t-shirt covered in primer, a stark contrast between his skin and the creamy paint.

  Diego taking up most of the tiny kitchenette, pouring fresh coffee from the French press or chugging a Gatorade with his head tipped back, throat pushed out, hair falling down the back of his neck.

  I found myself looking for ways to see him surf again and show off so I could have an excuse to watch him as a spectator for as long as I like.

  But no Diego to speak of.

  “Hey teacher, do the moonwalk!”

  Erland is leaning over his desk with a cheeky grin. His hair is black and greasy and his gray pants are loose with a big, brown stain on the right leg. He seems too old for high school but too young to be on his own.

  “Not right now.”

  “Aww, teacher!”

  “Let me practice first.”

  I do a few quasi-terrible dance steps, trying to imitate Michael Jackson without grabbing my crotch or doing anything else that will make us all feel weird. Most of the students laugh, and a few of them look at me like I’m the strangest person they’ve ever seen.

  Teenagers are a tough crowd. The only things they seem to be interested in are themselves and each other, but I know there’s more to them. It wasn’t so long ago that I’ve forgotten that much.

  Again, I get the urge to try something new. Something for them. They don’t want to concentrate, flopping over their desks lazily in the heat or fiddling with their phones. Celso, the brightest teen boy with the biggest ego, plays with his hat, resting it on the crown of his head. Then he sits back in his seat, staring at me like he’s an arrogant teen vampire.

  Some students couldn’t give a fuck about their teachers, and seeing them from the teacher’s perspective for the first time is discovering unseen layers of human nature. When I was in school, a bully, a mouthy kid, a popular kid were just archetypes of my education. They just existed. I bobbed around in a sea of kids, strategizing my way around the bad guys, aligning myself with the good guys, and being myself in between. Playground culture is no simple thing.

  Now, when Celso juts his chin out at me and the rest of the world, too cool for school, I wonder what life’s like at home, if he’s like his father or mother, if he’s got older siblings that he mimics or if he’s the eldest, breaking his own path with big strides.

  Doesn’t mean it’s easy to tolerate though. My pupils seem unusually, I dunno, full moon-ish. Teaching them verbs today would be cruel. Why hold them down when they want to be free?

  “What kind of music do you guys listen to, anyway?”

  That gets their attention. A few hands go up, but mostly they’re just calling out names, pledging allegiance to favorite artists.

  “Rhianna!”

  “Calypsooo,” shouts Celso, clowning, eyes already darting, already bored.

  “Romeo Santos and Shakira and J-Lo,” lists Elsa, like it’s homework.

  Hector puts his hand up like he’s reaching into a cookie jar on the top shelf, even though everyone else has been blurting out answers. He’s handsome and athletic-looking, comfortable in his own skin but still awkward.

  “Arcade Fire.”

  “I love Arcade Fire,” I reply.

  I go to high-five Hector. He reels back in shock, his hand barely slapping mine.

  “What?” I say, looking at my hand in confusion.

  “You know them?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  He folds his arms and raises his eyebrows, considering this. “Cool.”

  “Teacher, how old are you?” Celso asks, making me feel like I’m the one in high school.

  I finally realize what this is about. Leave it to a sixteen-year-old to think a teacher is automatically an uncool adult. Like I can’t hear music.

  “Celso!” Elsa reprimands.

  “It’s okay. I’m twenty-two. Pretty old, huh?”

  “No, it’s so young,” Elsa says sweetly.

  “Sort of,” comments Hector.

  Jaaaysus.

  “Okay, it’s time to change the subject!” I say, clapping my hands with a big smack. “Since there aren’t as many of us today—”

  “There’s a big meeting at the church today, for the adults,” interrupts Celso.

  He’s starting to drive me nuts, but at least I know why I’m missing half my class. I wonder if that explains why Diego hasn’t been here. Who knows what he does most of the time.

  “Celso, thank you for giving me that information. Please raise your hand when you want to speak.” I’ve walked up to his desk and am emanating my best “don’t mess with me” vibe.

  He pulls his hat down over his eyes. Then he puts his hand up, gazing at me like a puppy dog.

  “Yes, Celso.”

  “Sorry, teacher.”

  Hector and Erland snicker. I want to roll my eyes, but I smile firmly.

  “Boys! Enough. It’s a special class today, so what do you want to learn? This is a chance for you to help me make school more interesting. But we could do verb conjugation if you would prefer…”

  Elsa’s eyes light up and she leans over to Joselyn, explaining in Spanish.

  Joselyn and her twin, Freddie, are barely out of beginner level. It’s an advantage to have such a small school where, despite the lack of resources, advanced students can support their classmates. Elsa has unwittingly helped me more than once while I learn to manage the classroom. It’s pretty cool. It’s not something we see as much up north because the school system is so structured. But whether this method is used in a developing country or a Montessori school, it’s effective and empowering to students.

  “No! We want to choose.”

  “Teacher, can we have more discussion?”

  I grab a chalk nub and start writing down their ideas. They don’t shut up, and I love it. It’s Arcade Fire to my ears. I tell myself that if I ever have my own school, I’ll encourage student-to-teacher learning.

  I’m picking up the brainstorm activities we finished with, a dreamy smile on my face. The lesson went so well, and I’m still reeling at how much farther they got than I’d imagined. I really think I’m on to something here. Wonder how long I should sit on this until I talk to Genesis.

  A moment later I get a chance when she shows up in the doorway with arms crossed.

  “Hay, Lia, I might have some of those whiteboards you wanted.”

  “Really? That would be great because our chalkboards are practically useless in this heat.”

  “Well, we had two of them at the other office and I asked Jose to drop them. Let’s see if he left them for us…”

  Genesis walks swiftly down the hall, and I’m not sure if she wants me to follow behind her. I hesitate, and she calls my name without slowing down.

  I hurry up and step in line behind her wide, swishing hips that are wrapped in high-waisted, red cigarette pants. Tucked into these is a creamy, translucent blouse that fastens with a delicate pearl button a third of the way down her chest. Her fingers and wrists are covered in silver rings and bangles, fingers and toes French manicured.

  I don’t know how she finds the time and energy to get all gussied up like that for another day of sweaty work. I look down at my silky, stretchy black gauchos and light pink racer-back tank top. Any pretense of formality went out the window
in favor of temperature control. I would rather wear breathable clothing and look a little more like my students than sweat visibly in a blouse – in front of an audience, no less. Lip balm, a metallic men’s watch, and silver stud earrings are my only accessories today.

  The front door is half open, and my hair blows back with a sudden gust of wind that rushes in. The weather has been changing slowly, and I’ve come to expect the cloudy peace that comes with the afternoons just as I’m finishing work. Genesis is waiting for me near the main entrance beside a bolted closet, standing in the doorway with her back to me.

  “Dios mío, la brisa!”

  She fans the air toward herself, and I join her, leaning against the jamb. My hair whips my face, and I make a mental note to trim my split ends. The schoolyard is empty and dark as the mid-afternoon rainstorm rolls in.

  “I don’t mind the rain,” we say in unison and then burst out laughing, looking at one another with eyes wide.

  It’s weird how well we get along. I’m glad for her company. I didn’t expect to feel at ease around her, but I do. She’s safe and responsible. Maybe I have a bit of a big sister complex; I dunno. We just seem to be on the same page, except for blouses and stuff.

  A pickup truck turns onto the dirt road that leads to the school lot. It jerks to a stop and the parking brake whines.

  I’m silently thrilled to see Diego fling the truck door open as a fork of lightning cracks the sky and bullets of rain shoot down, darkening the cracked pavement of the yard in seconds.

  He jogs swiftly toward us without showing any exertion, a natural state for him if his balanced gait tells me anything. Round, strong shoulders and arms are loosely clenched in motion. A slap in the face is what looking at him feels like. You want to whoop and wolf-whistle, like a gross guy with his legs wide and a zombie lust-stare. Hey, sweetheart. Be a good boy and take your top off. And get me a sandwich.

  My heartbeat dubsteps when he arrives in the small vestibule with us, rain running down his goose-bumped forearms. For a moment the only sound is the storm rumbling and his quick breath. He drops an olive-colored backpack on the ground with a heavy thud. Sounds like paint cans.