The Billionaire Band Director

    Martha looked into the mirror and sighed.  She was lamenting, as she often did, that she did not look nearly as Mexican as she felt.  Her pale heart-shaped face, framed with long light brown hair, would look more natural in the Scottish highlands or English countryside than any Mexican plaza.  Her father died before she was born, leaving her his WASP looks, his WASP last name, and a quarter of a million dollars.  People in her family had a habit of doing that- dying and leaving things behind.  For example, her mother died when she was eight years old, leaving behind her only child to be raised by a Mexican grandmother.  Martha’s aunt, her mother’s younger sister, followed in her sister’s footsteps a few years later when she and her husband died in a car crash together, leaving behind Martha’s baby cousin to be raised by the same grandmother.  Finally, Martha’s grandmother died when Martha was twenty, leaving behind Martha’s nine year old cousin for Martha to raise on her own.     A quarter of a million dollars sounds like a lot when you are young.  Martha’s mother never touched the money, insisting that is was for Martha’s college education.  They lived simply, with Martha’s mother taking any cleaning and home care jobs she could find that would still allow her to be home when Martha got back from school.  When Martha’s mother died, Martha’s grandmother moved from Mexico to Michigan so Martha could stay in the same school and community.  Martha’s grandmother tried to find the same kinds of jobs Martha’s mother had found, but it was a lot harder due to her limited English.  When Martha’s aunt died and they took in Martha’s baby cousin, Martha’s grandmother could not earn enough working to also pay someone to watch the baby. So, out of necessity, they dipped into Martha’s inheritance from her father.  And then they dipped into it again.  And again.  By the time Martha started college, the money her mom and intended to be her college fund had dwindled to a lot less than what she would need for four years of tuition.      Still, Martha got by. She was fortunate enough to receive writing scholarships that covered most of her tuition, which allowed her to graduate without student loans, even if her savings had been less than her mother had hoped.  On top of that, in college, just like in high school, she worked part time to leave as much of her inheritance in the bank as she could. She had always known that her father had wealthy parents somewhere on the East Coast that she could have asked for help, but she never contacted them.  Ever.  She knew their names and had done a few Google searches over the years, out of curiosity.  They were easy to find in local society pages, donating to various charities and appearing at fancy galas.  Apparently their charity did not extend to their half-Mexican granddaughter, since they never contacted her either.  She knew that her mother had exchanged letters with them before she died, but they had never met in person.  Martha had wondered sometimes if they would be more interested in meeting her if they saw how much she looked like their son.  She had never cared because she had no interest in their approval- until now.     Martha’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden blast of pop music.  She rolled her eyes, gave her pale reflection one last look, and stepped out of the bathroom of the small motel room.  Josie, the cousin who had been Martha’s responsibility for the last five years, was jumping on the motel bed and singing along.  Unlike Martha, Josie would look at home in any Mexican town.  She had beautiful black hair and her skin always looked perfectly tanned.  She even had a distinctly Latina name- Josefina Maria Garcia Lopez.  Also unlike Martha, she had no interest in expressing or exploring her Mexican heritage.  She preferred to be called “Josie,” with an English “J” sound, to fit in with her all white friends, whereas Martha was always telling people to use the Spanish pronunciation of her name, “Marta” with a hard “T,” like her mother and grandmother had intended. Martha had studied Spanish language literature at college, with a focus on magical realism, cooked the Mexican recipes her grandmother had taught her, and preferred contemporary and folk music from Mexico.  Josie, on the other hand, was belting out American pop music and shoving a fistful of Fruit Loops into her mouth.     Martha gestured at Josie to turn the music down.  Josie rolled her eyes, but turned the music down in response.      “Are you sure you’ll be ok here on your own?” Martha asked for the tenth time that morning.     “Yes, Martha.  I’m fine.” Josie replied with another eye roll.     Martha sighed.  She was the only person Josie had in the world, and Josie was only person she had too.  She hated to leave her alone in a cheap motel in a strange new town, but she knew it was the best choice.     Before she could doubt her decision any further, Martha left the motel.  As soon as she closed the door she heard the music go back up the full volume.  She pulled the door handle a few times to be absolutely sure it was locked then went to her car.     Pulling in to the quaint little town, Martha spotted her first stop of the day: Starbucks.  Martha was not a fan of chain restaurants, especially chain coffee shops, but she needed it today as more of a prop than a beverage.  She parallel parked on the brick street and walked to the Starbucks entrance.  She could see from outside that the place was full, but the tinted windows did not give her a clear view of the people inside.       Martha stepped into the coffee shop and tried to hide her disappointment.  What she saw only confirmed what she had thought about not just Starbucks but the entire town she was in.  Everyone there looked white, rich, and snobby.  Their town back in Michigan had been mostly white, but there were several minorities blended in.  It had also been decidedly middle class, so while Martha and Josie had been a little more diverse and a little less financially secure than most of the town, they fit in well enough.  Looking around, Martha had a sinking feeling that would not be the case if they stayed here.  She was not worried for herself- she did not look Latina, and did not care about fitting in anyway.  She was worried for Josie, who would die if she were labeled as the poor minority kid at school.      Martha kept her sunglasses on inside and tried to look at the coffee shop patrons without being too obvious about it.  A blonde woman with a perfect blowout, a designer dress, and flawless makeup.  A fit middle aged man in crisp white tennis clothes.  A tall, muscular man with caramel colored skin, dark curls, and a faded t-shirt.     Wait, what?     Martha hoped the sunglasses could hide her gawking, even if they could not hide the smile she was trying to suppress.  One of these things is not like the other, she hummed to herself.  In more ways than one, she added in her head.  The man was gorgeous.  She felt like he would have stood out in any crowd.  Here, on top of looking like a catalog model, his darker skin and worn out clothing made him look like he had been photo-shopped in to the wrong catalog.  Like the hot guy who should be leaning against a motorcycle in the dessert for a men’s clothing advertisement was accidentally dropped into the brochure for a yacht club.     Martha forced herself to turn away from him and walk to the counter.  She may have had her sunglasses on, but standing like she was glued to the floor smiling at him was not exactly subtle.  She smiled at the barista instead.     “Small black coffee, please.”     The barista smiled back.  “Tall? Or grande?”     Martha forced herself to keep smiling.  “Whatever means ‘small,’ please.”     What was wrong with words like small, medium, and large?  And don’t they know that ‘grande’ means big, not medium? She mused to herself while the barista got her coffee. She was so lost in thought that when the barista handed her the coffee, she turned to leave without looking where she was going.  She turned and smacked right into something warm and hard.     The handsome stranger.  The one who didn’t fit in.  And she had spilled coffee all over his faded t-shirt.