Stranger in my Arms by Rochelle Alers Page B

announcement as a hand went up in the back of the lecture hall. “Señor profesor, la asistencía es obligatoria?”
    Professor Rivera gave the young man an incredulous look. “What do you think, Señor Salinas?”
    â€œYes, it is,” said the red-faced student, answering his own query.
    â€œYou all have my address and telephone number. I will expect everyone at eight.” He held up a hand. “Before you ask, you may bring a guest.”
    The bell rang signaling the end of classes and Alex gathered her books. It was her last class for the day and week. At least it was before Rivera’s mandate that everyone attend an impromptu gathering at his home.
    She attended classes Monday through Thursday, cleaned her apartment, picked up her laundry and shopped for groceries on Friday, slept late on Saturday and either stayed home or went out with Moira and a few other classmates Saturday night. Sundays were set aside for attending mass and doing homework. She liked everything about Mexico, its people and the cuisine.
    But she missed home and Merrick, but managed to stave off homesickness by staying busy. She alternated calling and writing her parents and exchanging telephone calls with Merrick.
    He kept her updated on national news, while she told him about the political climate in Mexico. He disclosed he’d spent several days with Michael and Jolene, who’d returned rested and tanned from their Jamaican honeymoon, and it was only after their calls ended that she felt totally isolated. She’d become an alien in a foreign land.
    The week before, she’d sent him a letter with postcards bearing the art of Mexican muralists Diego Rivera, David Siqueiros, José Orozco and her favorite Mexican artist, Frida Kahlo. She included a note that read: You don’t have to go to a museum or gallery to enjoy these.—AIM-C.
    â€œI’ve got better things to do with my Saturdays than look in Rivera’s face,” Alex mumbled as she slipped her books into a backpack.
    â€œI’ve heard he hosts some wonderful get-togethers at his house,” Moira said, gathering her own books.
    â€œI still would rather pass.”
    A sardonic smile parted Moira’s pale mouth. She never wore makeup during the week, but weekends transformed her into a siren when she replaced long skirts and dresses and wooden clogs with skintight garments and artfully applied makeup that highlighted her dark blue eyes in a tightly tanned face.
    â€œWe’ll show up and eat his food and drink up all of his tequila, then leave. Someone on our floor said they’re going to a club near the Zona Rosa where they play music from the States on Saturday nights.”
    â€œWho told you?” Alex asked as they made their way out of the lecture hall and down a hallway in the centuries-old building that had been dedicated to the study of Mexican art and architecture.
    She hadn’t bothered to make friends with the other students who had a habit of hanging out in one another’s rooms. All of the rooms were equipped with a small utility kitchen, private bath and an expansive living/sleeping/dining area.
    Alex cooked for herself during the week and took her meals at local restaurants on the weekend. With her dark hair and coloring, she was easily taken for a local; she wanted to blend in and not stand out as a foreigner. And it was not the first time that she was grateful her parents taught her Spanish.
    â€œUmberto.”
    â€œIsn’t he the one who’s been hitting on you?” Moira blushed to the roots of her pale hair. “Cuidado, chica. Umberto puede ser la causa del problema,” Alex warned in Spanish.
    She wanted to tell Moira that she’d heard rumors that the handsome art student was keeping count of the number of women he could sleep with before the school year ended.
    â€œIf there’s going to be a problem, then it’s going to be for Umberto because I have no