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Sports bras helped some, but not much. Unwanted, prying eyes still seemed to be drawn to my chest no matter what I wore.
It was more the fault of my large body than the clothes I wore on top of it, and there was nothing to be done. And there was no one to blame except maybe my mom, who had a similar figure and likely had to go through all the same stuff in her younger days. I carried the large bulk of my body as best as I could, refusing to let anyone make me feel ashamed of my genes.
Once I’d reached the classroom, there were two signs greeting me. One announced that class was cancelled and the other showed the hours that the instructor would be having the next day.
“Only the third time this month,” my friend Gloria sniffed.
She had arrived at the same time I had.
“Professor Schultz has a delicate disposition,” I said, in a feeble attempt at defending him.
“Well then, he should probably drink less.”
I couldn’t argue with her– not unless I shouted, anyway, as Gloria was already on her way out the door. Plus, Professor Schultz did have the reputation of being an alkie, so it wasn’t like I could stick up for him all that much.
Deciding to carpe the diem, I went for an early lunch, with my fingers crossed in hopes that the cafeteria would be open. It could have slipped into a different dimension for all I knew. I’d never been there outside the set mealtimes.
Strike up the band and praise the heavens, I thought, when I arrived and saw that the cafeteria was indeed operating at full capacity despite it not yet being lunch time.
“Hello there,” said a familiar voice.
The universe was laughing at me, giving me some new shit to deal with on a different day. Eduardo Hernandez, an art professor here at the school, was standing with his charming Cheshire cat-like grin, his eyes looking like pebbles of black onyx with a single tiny star shining in each one.
“Hi,” I said, looking down at his chrome-heeled boots.
Sometimes I really hated my shyness.
“Join me for lunch?” he offered.
“Okay.”
His reputation preceding him, Professor Hernandez was a rumor-mill mainstay around campus for years. Handsome beyond reason and with off-the-charts talent, it seemed there wasn’t a straight female, student or staff member, who hadn’t tried to hook up with him at least once. He never bit, no matter how tasty the bait, and no matter how hot the girl.
Professor Hernandez served a higher master: himself. He resolutely refused to go against his own principles, which included not dipping his pen in the company ink or cavorting with girls half his age. The power dynamics were simply too sleazy.
Eduardo Hernandez was a lot of things, many of which he wore on his sleeve, but a creep wasn’t one of them. And that was a fact that only made everyone want him even more.
“How are your classes going?” he asked me, once we had paid for our food and were seated.
“Great. I mean, they’re really tough, but that’s why I wanted to go to Fricker’s. I’m enjoying it.”
“Good to hear. So, what are you working on now?”
“Getting a job, mostly. I still have bills to pay and all. It’s surprisingly difficult.”
“Welcome to the music industry, my friend.”
I nodded, feeling stupid for assuming that he wouldn’t know any of this. In addition to being an art teacher, Professor Hernandez was also a talented musician, who had even had albums recorded.
It was a sight to see, really.
And it was one that many of us did see when we went to hear his gigs: Our art professor standing on the stage in one of his beautiful, arcane outfits, playing an acoustic guitar and crooning his heart out, lyrics funny and strange, just like him.
There was even an accordion player and violinist with him on the stage, adding further depth and color to the proceedings.
“Everyone thinks it’s so cool how you’re in a band,” I told him, my cheeks blushing because I didn’t want him to think I was one of the many female students with a crush on him. I was just trying to make conversation but sometimes that came awkwardly to me. “How long have you been performing?”
“Oh, about twenty years now. Started when I was eighteen, talking my way into clubs around town. That’s definitely one way to do it, although… hmmm, are you twenty-one?”
“Yes.”
Just barely, but yes.
“Good, I was about to suggest you don’t do that, but I guess it’s okay. Anyway, I was only there to play, not drink, anyway. Alcohol isn’t a performance booster. Remember that, okay? No matter what anyone might say.”
“Okay, I promise.”
“Anyway, one thing led to another, weeks turned to months, months to years, and here I am,” he continued. “Two decades deep with nine albums and a day job to make rent. Glamorous, no?”
