The Girl from Lima Ch. 01

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A teacher's good intentions breed unforeseen results.
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Part 1 of the 3 part series

Updated 06/10/2023
Created 07/22/2014
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Velcona
Velcona
13 Followers

Standing under a tree in a small park opposite his workplace, Dr Gregorio Aquino PhD was trying to enjoy a lunchtime cigarette. It wasn't working. Besides the hundred other things on his mind, he couldn't help thinking the grass underfoot was suspiciously green for mid-August in southern Arizona. Three years into a drought, no less.

Taking one last futile drag, Gregorio flicked the half-smoked Marlboro into the grass, hoping whatever miracle fertilizer (or green spray paint) the mayor's office used on it wasn't flammable. Then, straightening his cerulean silk tie, he crossed the road and walked through the black iron gates of Archbishop Juan de Zumárraga Catholic Preparatory School.

Known as Zumárraga Prep to its friends, the school had been a cornerstone of a Vatican-funded initiative to turn San Toribio - a shantytown of 10,000 people on the northern fringe of the Sonoran Desert - into a functioning town fit for 100,000. Designed by a Slovenian architect with classical tastes, the four-story limestone behemoth's façade was crammed with saintly statuettes.

Seeing as certain Mayan dialects were more widely spoken than English in the town, all Zumárraga Prep's lessons were taught in Spanish. All, that is, bar the mandatory daily English classes, taught by overqualified expatriates like Gregorio. Hailing from Honduras, he'd done a ten-year stint as an interpreter at the United Nations HQ in New York before a religious awakening drove him to fly south.

That'd been a little over two years ago, and only now was the honeymoon coming to an end. As a teacher of twelfth graders, it had been Gregorio's experience that most of his students were approaching fluency by the time they reached his classroom. As such, his role was based more around shepherding them through finals than building vocabulary.

That was before Xiomara Qinallata came through his door. He'd first met the girl two weeks ago at the start of the new school, and he was still recovering from the shock. She quite simply spoke no English. In his colleagues' defense, the girl had only enrolled in eleventh grade back in February, but that caveat wouldn't help her come May.

To justify the expense of hiring PhDs to work as high school teachers, Zumárraga Prep insisted all students needed a C in English to graduate. While maintaining his perfect record for graduating students wasn't Gregorio's top priority -- he took genuine pleasure in just helping students improve their language skills - he wasn't about to give up his 100% streak without a fight.

Weaving his way round clusters of chattering teens scattered throughout the hallways, Gregorio reached his third-floor classroom in time to avoid the post-lunch stampede. No sooner was he in his seat than eighty-eight bells rang out at once. Within seconds, the door flew open and twenty-five schoolgirls flooded in.

Owing to an unlikely meeting of minds between education traditionalists and reformers, Zumárraga Prep was co-ed, but all lessons were strictly gender segregated. Thus, the school enjoyed all the academic perks of single-sex education without doing anything to stymie the rampant student fertility rate. The fact no one in this current group was eating for two made it quite the anomaly.

As per usual, Xiomara Qinallata was the last to shuffle in. The diminutive schoolgirl silently took her place in the middle of the front row. True to form, her uniform was immaculate. Where her classmates seemed to be competing over how much thigh they could expose before falling foul of the remarkably laidback faculty, her blue-and-black plaid skirt was at full length.

Due to her short stature, it stopped a little below her knees, its hem kissing the top of her white knee socks. Her sky-blue polo shirt was neatly tucked in, with a three-button placket which stopped just below her modest bust fully fastened. The school crest embroidered on her left breast -- a red crucifix flanked by two sheep rampant -- was covered by one of two thick black plaits.

Her distinguishing features went well beyond her modest dress. Compared to the predominantly mestizo girls around her, Xiomara was of distinctly indigenous heritage. Her symmetrical plaits framed a rosy brown face, dominated by an aquiline nose with broad nostrils. Her eyes, on the odd occasion she dared to look at him, were a deep shade of brown.

Rising from his seat, Gregorio raised a hand and the buzz of chatter died away. He went through the motions of explaining the day's assignment -- a writing exercise -- in Spanish before writing a summary in English on the whiteboard behind him. Thereafter, he spent the rest of the ninety-minute period grading other papers and patrolling for illicit use of translator apps.

To Xiomara's credit, he was yet to catch her trying to cheat. In fact, she made a very convincing show of being immersed in her work, despite her inability to complete it. After the bell, the girls filed past Gregorio's desk on their way out, placing their assignments in a pile. Not for the first time, Xiomara was last in line, strategically putting her paper face down.

"Wait there, Miss Qinallata," said Gregorio as the diminutive schoolgirl made a beeline for the exit. She froze accordingly, "Please close the door and retake your seat. We need to talk."

It took a few seconds for the startled teenager to move. Doing as instructed, she shuffled back to her desk, her head slightly bowed.

"I know you have a class to get to, so I'll keep this brief," began Gregorio, "We need to do something about your grades, Miss Qinallata."

Xiomara simply nodded. She looked to have been expecting this very conversation.

"I understand you've not been with us long, and God willing, you may even be fine by Easter. However, for both our sakes, it's not a chance I'm prepared to take."

"What can I do, though?" asked the schoolgirl quietly, finally lifting her head.

"Give up a couple of hours after school for, let's say, three days a week until Thanksgiving, and I'm confident that diploma will be as good as good as yours."

Xiomara pinched the top button of her polo as she considered her response. Despite the F staining her report card, Gregorio could understand any apprehension. Assuming her file wasn't lying about her being Peruvian, she might well have already finished high school once.

Whilst hardly the worst situation for an illegal immigrant to land in, getting stuck in school uniform for another year or more was probably the last thing she'd planned on when plotting her journey north.

"How soon would we start?" she asked eventually.

"This afternoon, unless you have plans."

She paused, as if trying to dream up some prior engagement, then sighed: "Where should I go?"

"Just meet me here after the bell."

Nodding, Xiomara glanced up at the clock on the wall behind Gregorio's desk and scrambled out the classroom without so much as a goodbye. Beyond the door, she had to push her way through a scrum of twelfth-grade boys who'd been waiting to enter. The ensuing lesson gave Gregorio time to ponder whether he'd made the right decision himself, extending his working week by six hours.

The inaugural tutorial got off to a slightly nervy start when it took Xiomara fifteen minutes to make the five-minute walk to meet him. Gregorio was happy to blame the tsunami of polo-shirted youth the final bell always unleashed and let her tardiness go unquestioned.

As he led the way upstairs, he resisted adopting the chatty demeanor he often took with students after hours. Not that she seemed overly interested in shooting the breeze, trundling along a few steps behind him.

The venue for the tutorial was one of the dozens of unused classrooms on Zumárraga Prep's fourth floor. Dusting down two possibly never-before-used desks with a shirt sleeve, Gregorio pushed them together end-to-end. Then, teacher and student sat down face-to-face, and the Honduran explained his plan to focus on getting her conversational English up to scratch.

Thus, two out of three sessions were entirely aural in nature. Had anyone walked in on them, they could've been forgiven for thinking the two were simply chatting, if not for Gregorio constantly steering the conversation towards topics based on holes in her vocab. Despite the often-banal subject matter, Xiomara attended without fail and Gregorio gradually got to know her better.

She confirmed her family's indigenous heritage - Aymara to be precise - and how her parents had moved to a Lima barriada from the Bolivian border shortly before her birth. Her dad was a dockworker, or rather had been until a falling shipping container had its say. The insurance pay-out had paid for the seventeen-year-old Xiomara's journey to the States, but she stopped short of revealing how she'd wound up in San Toribio.

Gregorio tried his best to reciprocate, at first with anecdotes from his UN days. When Xiomara's knowledge of global geopolitics proved wanting, he tried to think of vaguely relatable moments from his exceedingly comfortable upbringing in Tegucigalpa. However, some irrational sense of obligation to return the trust she'd seemingly shown him sent him down an unlikely path.

So it was that Xiomara Qinallata, an eighteen-year-old schoolgirl he'd known for literally weeks, become the first person in San Toribio to hear about his estranged Brazilian wife, Sachiko. As far as his colleagues (and priest) knew, he was an eligible bachelor in his mid-thirties. Outside New York state, only assorted federal agencies knew otherwise.

As August gave way to September, the fruits of four additional lessons' worth of tuition per week started to blossom. As October loomed, Gregorio found himself scribbling out the minus symbol he'd instinctively drawn next to the E on Xiomara's latest piece of homework.

The day after he marked an assignment of hers E+ for the first time, Vice-Principal Tancredo paid him a lunchtime visit. That afternoon, he made his way to the fourth floor with a heavy heart.

"Good afternoon, Dr Aquino," said Xiomara as he entered the classroom, beaming at him from behind the desks she'd already rearranged.

"Good afternoon, Miss Qinallata," replied Gregorio half-heartedly, taking his seat opposite her.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

Her teacher sighed, lamenting his transparency: "The Vice-Principal came by my office today."

"And?"

"These tutorials have apparently exceeded all expectations."

"And that's a bad thing?" asked the Peruvian quizzically.

"As far as Vice-Principal Tancredo's concerned, it could be if you start leapfrogging your classmates."

Xiomara's smile sagged, "So, what now? Do we just stop?"

"Actually, I talked him into giving us the rest of this week," replied Gregorio, pleased to see the schoolgirl's face instantly brighten up. Alas, her brow quickly furrowed.

"Wait, isn't it fall break this Friday?"

"Indeed," replied the Honduran, "Such as it is."

The year it was founded, the San Toribio Unified School District board had attempted to shorten what they called the excessive summer vacation. When the mayor's office blocked the move, the board retaliated by slashing fall and spring breaks to two days apiece.

"So, that would make Wednesday...?"

At Gregorio's nod, Xiomara folded her arms across her chest and leant back in her chair. Nibbling her lower lip, she pinched the top button of her sky-blue polo so hard, her fingertips turned white.

"Something wrong, Miss Qinallata?"

"I...think there's something you need know," she uttered, as if speaking around a lump in her throat, "I love you."

Gregorio smiled slightly, scouring her facial features for any hint of levity. It didn't help that her tone of voice was so matter of fact.

"Excuse me?" he said eventually, growing slightly desperate.

"I'm in love with you, Dr Aquino," said the Peruvian flatly.

"Miss Qinallata, in all seriousness-"

"Why do you sound so nervous?" she asked, cocking her head.

"It's my right to sound any way I choose when a student starts behaving weirdly-"

"Weirdly?" she blurted, "I haven't been stalking you!"

Her teacher thought better of saying it might have been easier to accept if she had.

"Why did I need to know about this exactly?" asked Gregorio levelly.

"When am I ever going to be able to speak to you this privately again?" she replied, meeting his pointed gaze with one of her own.

"Did I make a mistake telling you about Sachiko?" he ventured. Xiomara made a show of rolling her eyes.

"I don't pity you, Dr Aquino," said the schoolgirl exasperatedly, "You saw a kid in a tough spot and worked six days to help her out of it. I'm sorry if someone loving you for that sounds too good to be true."

"I was just doing my job," he murmured.

She scoffed, "Like hell a public school would pay you for that much overtime."

Gregorio cocked an eyebrow, tempted to ask if she had a source. However, a more pressing question needed answering.

"Tell me, Miss Qinallata, why was it so urgent that you tell me this today and not Wednesday?"

The thumb and forefinger of Xiomara's right hand duly returned to her top button, wiggling the opaque plastic circle which was the same shade of sky-blue as the cotton it was sewn onto.

"If I waited, you...uh, you wouldn't have had time to think-"

"About what?" he snapped. The schoolgirl winced at the interjection, fingertips whitening.

"About making love to me-"

The quiet admission was met with a sharp intake of breath as Gregorio's nostrils flared.

"Miss Qinallata-"

He was cut off as Xiomara slapped both hands down on her desk: "I want my first time to be special, ok? I mean, to be with someone special. All the boys here think I'm just some cute little Indian girl. They're never going to want to... Y'know... Not anyone I like, anyway."

"And you thought I might?"

"Well, no, but everything you said about your wife-"

"Made you figure I'd be desperate enough to say yes?!"

"You don't have to shout," she said quietly, sounding suddenly tearful.

"And how should I react?" he retorted, almost as loudly.

"Yes or no would be fine," replied Xiomara. Tears welling in her eyes, the girl jumped out of her seat, snatched up her backpack and fled.

Gregorio kept his seat, gazing contemplatively at her empty chair in hopes of provoking some kind of epiphany. When nothing came, he rearranged the furniture and went home. He spent that night feeling twenty years younger in the worst possible way: consumed by conflicting emotions about an eighteen-year-old girl.

Had Xiomara misread the revelation about his estranged wife as a veiled cry for help? It felt like the kind of conclusion a girl her age might jump to. To be sure, he'd hankering to tell someone about Sachiko for ages, but only because the pretense of bachelorhood stopped him weighing in on so much relationship-related chatter in the teachers' lounge.

It was true he'd been effectively celibate since arriving in Arizona, and not out of some misguided sense of devotion to his wife. Sachiko had made it crystal clear when she'd be dating again once she saw him off at the airport. The trouble was more to do with certain tenets of his Catholicism - albeit nothing to do with premarital sex - that were inconducive to dating.

To his amazement, sleep brought calm. Like the girl herself had said, a simple "no" was always an option. He spent lunch that day chain-smoking in preparation for the awkwardness he expected would accompany sitting two meters in front of her for ninety minutes. In the event, it was a false alarm. The intensity of her concentration hadn't dropped off now she understood her in-class assignments.

Gregorio was no closer to a decision when Wednesday's lesson rolled around. In desperation, he made a fleeting effort to visualize what her petite frame might look like beneath all that fabric. The pointlessness of the exercise quickly dawned on him. If he did agree to...it, it wasn't like they'd be retiring to a motel for a lazy evening together.

After the final bell, he made for the fourth floor via a more scenic route. The idea was to give God, who he had yet to consult on the matter, one last chance to weigh in. By the time he reached the classroom, no divine inspiration was forthcoming. Crossing himself all the same, Gregorio went inside.

"Good afternoon, Dr Aquino," said Xiomara, sat at her end of the pushed-together desks like it was any other day.

"Just act natural, huh?" he remarked, stopping at a desk a couple of rows away, "Look, I'm not going to apologize for Monday but-"

"You didn't mean to make me cry?" Xiomara cut in, "It's okay. I'm not apologizing either."

Grunting, Gregorio walked over and took his seat.

"I'm still a bit confused why it was so damned important for you to tell me what you did on Monday?"

The Peruvian sighed heavily.

"Look at me," she said, gesturing to her polo-shirted torso, "I should be working somewhere, sending money home, not studying for more fricking exams. I already graduated once. I guess, well, I just wanted something to work out the way I wanted for once."

"I fail to see how sleeping with your English teacher will improve things."

"Is it wrong to want my first time to be with someone special?"

"Actually, in this context, yes."

"You can just say no, y'know."

Gregorio scoffed, "You might have done high school once already, Miss Qinallata, but you've got a lot to learn. When a woman tells a man she wants to have sex with him, he can't just forget it. The truth is, I just don't want you to wind up getting more than you bargained for."

"Huh?" said Xiomara, cocking her head. Gregorio sighed. Here it came.

"There're a lot of awkward things about our faith I'm not onboard with, but I read the Humanae Vitae when I was eleven and it's never left me. I can't use condoms, Miss Qinallata. I just can't."

He didn't feel it necessary to address any other contraceptives because they were almost impossible to get hold of in this town. Even the sale of condoms was restricted to what the mayor's office termed 'licensed dispensaries'. Hence why San Toribio had become a boomtown for obstetricians.

"That's why you're being so difficult?" asked Xiomara incredulously.

"Do you want to get pregnant?" countered Gregorio flatly.

She shrugged, "It's not like that diploma comes with a green card."

"Are you listening to yourself, Miss Qinallata?"

"It's a chance I'm prepared to take, okay?" she said, throwing up her hands. Then, she looked suddenly thoughtful and her eyelids narrowed, "Who are you trying to talk out of this, Dr Aquino?"

As Gregorio faltered under her withering gaze, the schoolgirl rose from her seat and walked around the desks. Coming up alongside him, she casually reached down, took hold of his left wrist, and guided his unresisting hand to her chest. Gregorio's heart skipped a beat as he felt nothing but the soft cotton mesh of the polo between his fingers and Xiomara's tender right breast.

She tugged at his silky cerulean tie to urge him to his feet, not that he needed the extra encouragement. Standing up, he brushed aside a wayward plait and placed his free hand on her left breast, gently kneading them through the thin layer of sky-blue fabric. Meanwhile, Xiomara's hands went to her hips, popping the button on her blue-and-black plaid skirt's waistband.

The pleated kilt slipped to the floor, followed by her mint-green panties. Her teacher shot a glance down at the shed undergarments and another back up at her.

"I still need to wear them home," said Xiomara.

Placing her hands over his, she gradually pivoted them both until she was able to lift herself onto the nearest desk, cancelling out the nine-inch disparity in height. She shivered slightly at the feeling of the cold wood against her bare buttocks. Gregorio felt the shudder as his thumbs traced circles around her covered nipples.

Velcona
Velcona
13 Followers
12