Chapter Five
Xavi
‘Can’t sleep either?’ Xavi had asked, sitting down on the edge of the pull-out, careful not to touch Lulu’s banged-up knees.
‘Your knees hurtin’?’ His gaze had trailed down the length of Lulu’s body, both knees wrapped with gauze.
Lulu had laughed at him when he’d pulled out the roll of gauze from his first-aid kit and started bandaging his knees.
‘Overreacting just a little, huh, hermano?’ Lulu was such a fucking brat, but at least he’d stopped crying by then, his eyelids puffy and red as he’d looked at Xavi, crouching on the bathroom floor.
‘It’s just that they’re itching,’ Lulu had groaned, those non-shorts riding higher up his thighs as he’d squirmed on the pull-out, revealing inches upon inches of lean golden dancer’s thighs.
‘C’mon.’ Xavi had held out his hand. ‘You can sleep in my bed. Just for tonight,’ he’d added when Lulu had squealed, grabbing his hand.
‘You’ll have more room to stretch.’ As it turned out, Lulu did more than just stretching.
It wasn’t that Xavi didn’t know that Lulu was a chaotic sleeper; he remembered from all the times Lulu had slept over when they were kids.
As soon as Lulu’s lovely head hit Xavi’s pillow, his eyes fluttered closed and, with his heart-shaped mouth slightly agape, he sighed contentedly, then started snoring.
Then, after a few minutes, when Xavi had just stared at him, mesmerized by how Lulu could be even more beautiful in his sleep, especially in Xavi’s bed, Lulu had started snuggling Xavi like a teddy bear.
Oso. With his thigh slung heavily over Xavi’s hip, Lulu had fisted the hem of Xavi’s boxers in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible as he’d smiled dreamily.
Then he’d buried his face against Xavi’s shoulder, his breath so hot and moist against Xavi’s skin that it was bordering on unbearable.
Xavi had cursed himself for not wearing a T-shirt, but he was a creature of habit, and he usually slept in just boxers.
In the darkness, his scars weren’t as prominent as they were in the brutal, unforgiving light of day, and he always slept alone anyway.
Eventually, he’d drifted off to something resembling a state of sleep, every little shiver or snort from Lulu shocking him back awake.
Lulu had still been sleeping when Xavi got up, his hands reaching blindly for Xavi, and Xavi had wanted nothing more than to just slide back under the warm covers and hold Lulu close, whispering that secret name into Lulu’s damp curls. Cisne.
Xavi yawned again, this time unable to silence it behind his hand, and of course his students caught on.
“Oye, Senor Bernal,” Ricky Gonzalez, one of his many Latin-American students, hollered from the back of the classroom.
“Rough night, ese?” The rest of the class whooped and laughed, too, and Xavi groaned, wiping his hands along his face.
He’d forgotten to shave. Again. He’d have a beard soon if he wasn’t careful.
A beard like his dad’s, perhaps. His dad had had the softest beard, and sometimes, when Xavi closed his eyes and surrendered to the memories, he could still feel the sensation of his dad’s beard against his cheek when he hugged him and whispered, ‘mi hijo’ against Xavi’s ear.
“Settle down, please, ese,” Xavi clapped his hands twice, which his students knew meant business.
Ricky was Mexican, ese his favorite word, and where most teachers would have insisted on correcting him, Xavi let it slide.
He had no need for the kids to refer to him as Mr. Bernal, as long as he held their respect, and Xavi had no doubt he did.
That didn’t mean they didn’t tease him any chance they got. They were teenagers after all.
“You finally got yourself a boyfriend, Mr. Bernal?” Layla asked from the front row, where she was coloring her nails with a turquoise glitter pen. “It’s about time,” she smiled softly, her dark bangs falling into her face.
“That, Layla, is none of your business,” Xavi smiled back.
Then, in an attempt to redirect his students’ attention back to Jane Eyre, he pointed to the whiteboard.
At first, when he’d started teaching, he’d been self-conscious of his missing fingers, favoring using his other hand when he pointed to the whiteboard.
With time, though, he’d forgotten, realizing he wasn’t the only one who wore his past, his battle wounds, on his body, and that it didn’t matter to his students one way or another if their teacher had eight fingers instead of ten.
Reading his third question out loud to the class, Xavi’s gaze trailed along the rows of students.
There were twenty-eight currently in his class, of which only two were absent today.
Jennifer Garreth, because she was having a wisdom tooth removed, and Carlos Da Silva, because it was his abuelita’s funeral.
The other teachers were always digging at Xavi that he must be bribing his students since they always showed up for his classes, but Xavi just let it pass.
Because he knew his secret and he was pretty proud of it.
He treated his students with the same kind of respect as he expected to be treated with in return.
He treated them as equals, and although he had favorites—because of course he did—he never showed it in class, making every student feel equally important.
He was openly gay with his students without making a big deal out of it, and for the past two years, while he’d been teaching this particular class, two students had come out, too.
One of whom was currently raising their hand in the air.
“Yes, Melvin?”
“Yeah, well, Mr. Bernal, I guess you could say Jane Eyre is a feminist because already as a child she starts challenging social norms by asserting her independence and questioning authority.” Xavi nodded, trying to squish the smile currently threatening to take over his entire face.
It was times like these where he just felt like jumping into the air, screaming from the top of his lungs, This is why I fucking teach!
It was magic, pure and simple, when words written hundreds of years ago resonated with today’s youth.
When Charlotte Bronte’s words transcended time and space and became as alive and vibrant as the day they’d been written.
“Yes! Exactly, Melvin. Are there any specific places in the book where the author shows this?” Melvin nodded eagerly as he started reading a passage from the book.
The classroom was quiet, everyone’s attention on Melvin as his high voice rose and dipped with Charlotte Bronte’s profound and epic words.
“Thank you, Melvin,” Xavi said as he moved to the other side of the classroom.
“Any comments, guys? Anything that springs to mind?” Hands rose across the classroom, at least seven or eight students wanting to participate in the discussion, and once again, Xavi’s chest swelled with pride.
These were kids from his own neighborhood with working-class backgrounds, second- and third-generation immigrants.
These kids were going places, making their hard-working parents proud.
They were—despite the ridiculous lack of social mobility in their country—demanding a place in the world, asserting themselves just like Jane Eyre had almost two hundred years ago.
Many of them were already looking at colleges, filling out applications, and applying for loans.
“Meera?” Xavi’s gaze settled on a girl in the third row, and she pumped her fist victoriously while Manny, two rows behind her, mumbled cono. Xavi shook his head, laughing. “You’ll get your chance, Manny.”
“I always do, Mr. Bernal,” Manny tipped his chin and winked. He was the class Casanova, with his big dark doe eyes and full lips.
Focusing back on the third row, he nodded. “Meera, please go ahead.”
“Yes. We can also see feminist traits in Jane’s relationship with Rochester.” She bit her lip as she looked down at her papers.
“That’s right. How so?” Xavi had always taught his students to back up their analysis with arguments, with proof, which was why they always did exceptionally well on tests compared to their peers.
“Because she finds a balance of equality in her relationship with Rochester. She secures her own independence financially but also on a personal level by realizing her own worth, and that makes her an equal partner to Rochester despite her coming from a different social class and being a woman.”
Now, Xavi did in fact jump just a little, as a massive smile took over his entire face.
“Yes! Yes, exactly! You’re spot on. Thank you, Meera.
” The girl blushed adorably, just like she had the week prior when she’d shown him the essay for her college application and he’d compared her writing to that of Bobbie Ann Mason.
Meera was applying to Columbia, and Xavi had no doubt she’d get in.