Marcus Vega Doesn't Speak Spanish

by Pablo Cartaya

  I look at the planes outside, lit by overhead lights. My stomach starts to gurgle, and I feel sweat forming on my forehead.

  My mom looks at me. “Are you feeling okay?”

  I nod.

  “Take off your coat, honey. It’s warm in here.”

  Charlie hurries to our gate.

  “B sixteen!” he says, rushing to a window to stare at the plane parked outside. “Look, that’s our plane!”

  My mom puts our bags across three seats in the waiting area and sits down. Charlie calls me over. I watch other planes taking off in the distance, and I can feel sweat forming on my eyebrows again. My neck starts to itch. I look at Charlie and try to smile.

  “Marcus,” he says. “You gonna throw up?”

  I don’t say anything. The floor starts moving slowly from side to side, and I think if I move, I’m going to fall through and break into a million pieces.

  My mom brings me a bottle of water that she buys from the newsstand close to our gate. I try not to think about how the water costs four dollars here. Instead I finish it in three gulps and tell her thanks.

  “Had me scared for a minute there,” she says, feeling my neck.

  Even though I’m taller than my mom, it feels nice when she rubs my neck like she did when I was a kid. I don’t know what happened just now. I got all dizzy and couldn’t move my feet. Weird.

  My mom greets a few people working at the gate. They look over at us and smile. Charlie waves and smiles back. I nod.

  Eventually, the lady calls out some stuff about boarding first class and military personnel. A guy in army fatigues walks past us, holding a small duffle bag. His name is stitched onto his uniform. R. HERNÁNDEZ. I wonder where he’s going after Miami.

  Next she calls people with disabilities and people with small children. I see my mom move through the line toward the lady taking tickets. She turns back and motions for us to follow.

  Up to now, Charlie has been leading us through the airport, but he’s suddenly stopped and won’t leave my side. He looks up and watches me for a minute.

  “Come on,” he says, and takes my hand.

  We get to my mom and she introduces us to her coworkers.

  “This is Marcus and Charlie,” my mom says to the lady.

  “Oh my, what gorgeous boys, Mel. Hi, boys! My name is Margie. This is Rhonda. And that grumpy fellow over there is Steve.”

  “I’m not grumpy!” Steve says as he makes an exaggerated grumpy face.

  Charlie cracks up. “He’s grumpy!”

  “About time you took those boys on a trip,” Rhonda says.

  “Yeah,” my mom says, looking at us, then back at Rhonda.

  “You boys have a great flight, okay?” says Margie.

  “Take care of your momma,” Steve says, patting Charlie on the back.

  I nod. They all seem nice. We walk inside this cave-like tunnel, and my head starts spinning again. It feels like I’m going to get trapped in here with whatever little oxygen there is.

  “Marcus, take off your coat. It’s too hot.”

  We shuffle closer and closer to the plane. Charlie notices my sweating.

  “Hey, man,” he says, “don’t freak out.”

  “I won’t,” I tell him.

  My brother, the motivational speaker.

  I try not to think too hard about where I am, and focus more on where we’re going. I think of what it will be like in Puerto Rico. There are lots of beaches and old forts from what I read online. The ocean surrounding Puerto Rico looks like it’s made of blue crystals. I’ve been to lakes and stuff in the summer, but nothing that has those bright colors.

  When we finally get to the plane, it has a stale kind of smell to it. Like a mixture of freshly brewed coffee and leftover sandwiches. There is a quiet hum inside, and a guy in a blue suit greets us as we make our way inside.

  “Well, hello,” the guy says to Charlie. “Hi, Mel!”

  “Hi, Sam,” she replies.

  Sam takes something out of a metal drawer and hands it to Charlie.

  “This is for our honorary pilots,” he says. It’s a tiny airplane pin.

  Charlie smiles.

  “Say thank you to Sam, sweetheart,” my mom says.

  “Thank you, Sam.”

  My mom pins the little airplane to Charlie’s shirt. Then he turns to me.

  “I’m captain. You obey me.”

  “Yeah, right,” I tell him. “Come on, Captain. Get your butt to your seat.”

  We’re toward the middle, by the wing. I can’t believe the huge airplane I saw through the window feels so tiny inside. I can barely walk down the aisle. We wait while a guy takes off his suit jacket and hangs it in a closet by his seat. His seat is gray and seems bigger and shinier than the ones in the back, which are blue and don’t look as comfortable.

  My mom looks at the top of the aisles for our seat number.

  “Here we are,” she says. “Seats twenty A, B, and C. Marcus, you take the aisle because your legs are longer. And take off your coat!”

  I help put our bags in the overhead compartment. I make sure my backpack is secure, because I have Danny’s camera in it. Why did I agree to bring it? I close the overhead bin and finally sit down. These seats are way too small. My mom takes the middle so Charlie can watch the plane take off from the window. She takes both of our hands in hers. People start filling in the other seats.

  After a few announcements and some safety video about what to do if the plane crashes into the ocean, the pilot asks the crew to get ready for takeoff. The plane chugs along while Charlie keeps pointing at the other planes going airborne. I start sweating again. I want him to stop calling that out. I close my eyes, but my head spins faster.

  Here I am, big, bad Marcus Vega, totally afraid of flying.

  The engines roar to life and the plane skips and then breaks into a sprint. The whole cabin rumbles and shakes and my head sinks back into the little blue headrest. I close my eyes again.

  “Marcus, you are going to faint if you don’t take off your coat.”

  I start pulling at my sleeves. My arm stretches across the aisle and accidentally bumps someone.

  “Sorry,” I say. It was the soldier from before.

  “No worries,” he says, pulling the coat to help me get my arm out.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  My mom squeezes my hand and puts her head on my shoulder. Then she kisses Charlie on the forehead. I open my eyes for a second and see her watching us both as the plane rises higher and higher into the clouds. I peek out the window. The buildings and houses look like toys you could pick up between two fingers. I glance at my mom, then out the window again. The city gets more and more distant. She looks back and smiles.

  “Go team go,” she says.

  NINE

  LAYOVER AND TOUCHDOWN

  A dinging sound rings throughout the plane as it levels off. The captain says something about “cruising altitude” and tells us how long the flight will be. We’re in the air, and I alternate between closing my eyes and opening them. Neither makes me feel better. My mom reaches over and rubs my neck.

  In a few hours, we’ll land. Will my dad pick us up at the Puerto Rico airport? Will he be happy we came all this way to see him? What’s he gonna say when he sees Charlie? My mom seems excited. She keeps repeating that this is a much-needed adventure with her boys.

  “We’re going to have so much fun,” she says.

  “You think he’s going to be there?”

  “He’s somewhere. . . .” she says.

  * * *

  About three hours pass when the captain makes an announcement.

  “We have begun our descent into Miami International Airport. Flight attendants, prepare for landing.”

  The flight attendants move quickly down the aisle to make sure people are
buckled in and their seats are pushed up. I have to move my leg back into our row, and my knees shove the seat in front of me. It is so cramped. I feel like someone has tied my legs together in a sitting position.

  As the plane starts to drop, my ears hum and pop. I look over and see Charlie shaking his head and opening his mouth. My mom takes out a pack of gum and hands a piece to each of us.

  “Chew it—it’ll help with your ears.”

  He looks over and motions with his mouth.

  “My ears will explode.”

  “They’re not going to explode, Charlie,” she says. “Big exaggerator.”

  The buildings in the distance start to get bigger, and I can see the ocean touching the edges of the land. It’s like looking at the edges of my mom’s eyes. The water is a deep green outlined by dark brown patches of land. The plane is going so fast and the buildings zip by us. How is the pilot going to land this thing?

  There is a screech and a thump as our wheels meet the runway. The plane jolts forward, and my knees almost rip through the seat in front of me. The impact sends my head forward a little, and I feel my mom’s hands squeeze mine. Suddenly, we slow and settle into a glide.

  I can’t believe we have to do all of this one more time before we get to Puerto Rico.

  * * *

  On our second flight, I feel much calmer. I even concentrate long enough to skim some of the books Charlie picked up at the airport.

  “Why did you get this?” I ask, pointing to the copy of Proud to Be Boricua in his hands.

  “I like it,” he responds, tapping on the cover. The cover features a guy proudly holding the flag of the United States in one hand and what must be the Puerto Rican flag in the other. I ask to borrow it and read the first few lines.

  I am Puerto Rican. I am an American citizen. What is my home? Where do I belong?

  I read a few more lines.

  . . . I understand both worlds because they exist in the same person . . .

  The author writes that he is a Boricua living in the United States. He says he lives in a small town in the States but spends his summers in a town called Culebra in Puerto Rico.

  All this talk about two stories makes me think of my dad. Is this how he feels? I was born in Puerto Rico, but Springfield definitely feels like my home. I’ll add this to the questions I want to ask him.

  I switch to A Traveler’s Guide to Puerto Rico to learn more about where we’re staying. There are tons of photographs and descriptions of places. San Juan is the capital, and Old San Juan is a neighborhood where most travelers stay because “it features colorful Spanish colonial buildings, street-side cafés, shops, nightclubs, and el Morro and la Fortaleza, two massive centuries-old fortresses.” I look at the map of Puerto Rico. There are millions of people living on the island. My dad is out there somewhere.

  After a few hours, we finally start our descent. We drop farther and farther, and a tower and the ocean come into focus. Then I don’t see anything but the gray of the runway. Is something wrong? I close my eyes, hoping the plane isn’t going to skid off into the ocean. So much for being less stressed. Clearly, I have a flying-in-the-sky-inside-a-tin-can issue. The plane touches down and slows to a roll on the tarmac.

  The captain welcomes us to San Juan. Outside the window, I see a grassy knoll with several words scrolled over it: AEROPUERTO INTERNACIONAL LUIS MUÑOZ MARÍN.

  “We need to find baggage claim,” my mom says as we wait to get off the plane, “and then a taxi to Ermenio’s place.”

  My mom leads the way this time. Charlie and I look around the airport as we follow. There’s a barbershop, a souvenir shop, something that looks like a clothing store, a food market, a McDonald’s. Are all airports supposed to look like malls?

  I see a sign above us.

  RECLAMO DE EQUIPAJE

  “It says baggage claim over there,” I say, eyeing the translation underneath.

  Everywhere we look there are signs in Spanish with the English translation right below. We go down an escalator and reach an area that looks like a park. There are benches and some trees and what looks like a row of little houses. I see another baggage claim sign around the corner and point. Charlie moves ahead past the little park-like area and stops to show us where the bags from our flight will be.

  “It’s here,” he says.

  My mom’s huge bag eventually shoots out and lands on the carousel. We take it and walk to the sliding doors. When they open, the heat washes over me and it hits me that I’m somewhere completely different.

  I check my mom’s phone and sign in to my email to see if maybe my dad has responded. He hasn’t yet. As my mom hails a cab, I write him another email.

  Hi,

  It’s me. Marcus. Letting you know that we landed. Figure you’re busy. We’re just going to take a cab to Uncle Ermenio’s house. You probably know the address. We’ll be there for a few days.

  Bye,

  Marcus

  I press send and shove the phone into my pocket. Mom says she wants to unplug on vacation, so I can hang on to it. I look around and spot the one sign that doesn’t have an English translation: ¡BIENVENIDOS!

  I don’t speak Spanish, but I know that means “welcome.”

  TEN

  OLD SAN JUAN HAS WI-FI

  We hop in a taxi, and the first thing the driver does is turn down his music. My mom tries her best Spanish, but the guy responds in English before she can finish.

  “I’ll get you to Viejo San Juan in about, eh, a little over twenty minutes.”

  The guy taps his steering wheel to quiet music as we head down the highway. I see a line of little flags that stretch about a mile long. There are US flags and a Puerto Rican flag with a sideways triangle and one star in it, like in the book I looked at.

  I read that Puerto Rico is part of the United States, but right now it feels like we’re in a totally different country. The buildings are old-looking. Some are painted white or really bright shades of pink, blue, and even lime green. It looks nothing like my neighborhood back home. I can see the outlines of the ocean from our window. Charlie rolls it down and puts his hand out. The air whips in and the sound of the city fills the taxi. This city sounds like honking, music, and fast cars and trucks zooming by us on their way to places I don’t know.

  “What do you have planned on our beautiful island?” the driver asks.

  My mom says we’re staying for a few days.

  “Then you have to check out las playas en Manatí and make sure to visit el Morro.”

  My brother tells him we’re on vacation and looking for our dad.

  “¿Qué dijo? I don’t understand what he said.”

  The driver asks Charlie to repeat himself a few more times. He doesn’t understand him. Charlie huffs, and I can tell he’s getting irritated that he’s being misunderstood. It happens to him when someone doesn’t know him.

  “He’s saying we’re going to find our dad,” I tell the guy, because I’m getting irritated also.

  The driver adjusts the rearview mirror, and I can see he’s focused on Charlie.

  “Okay, sorry, I didn’t understand him too good. My fault.”

  He’s quiet the rest of the ride and I’m glad. He was talking too much.

  We cross over a bridge and I get a full view of the ocean. There is a harbor and a large cruise ship just pulling in. It makes everything in the water around it look tiny. It reminds me of school. That’s what I am at Montgomery. A cruise ship surrounded by tiny boats in the ocean called middle school.

  Snap. I take a picture with Danny’s camera. I might as well, since I have it.

  A sign coming up says VIEJO SAN JUAN. That means “Old San Juan.” It does look old. I start thinking I know more Spanish than I thought, because I’ve translated more words in the last hour than I did all last year in Spanish class.

  Old San Juan
has buildings that look like they were constructed hundreds of years ago. Snap. We drive through tiny streets that our taxi barely squeezes through. Snap.

  It feels nice disappearing behind the lens. It’s like looking without being looked at. And when you’re my size, you’re always looked at.

  The driver zigs, zags, and honks when he wants someone to get out of his way. My mom looks at the street signs while Charlie tracks our progress on the map in his lap. I just watch all the restaurants and coffee shops and bars lining the tiny sidewalks. Snap. Snap. Snap. My mom smiles. Snap.

  The driver finally pulls over, practically running over someone on the sidewalk. He yanks the emergency break and the lever that pops open the trunk before he hops out. He struggles with our huge suitcase, so I help.

  My mom pays the driver and he hops back in his car and zips off.

  Charlie looks at the building in front of us.

  “What the heck is that?”

  “That’s Uncle Ermenio’s place,” my mom says, half-smiling. “It’s cozy.”

  “It says ‘hostel,’ Mom.” Charlie points at the creaky old sign above the green double door. “Do we need medicine?”

  My mom shakes her head. “No, sweetie, a hostel is an affordable place to stay when you travel.”

  “You just said it was Uncle Ermenio’s house, though.” I’m confused.

  “It is. He owns this building and runs it as a hostel. We’re sleeping in this adorable little bungalow on the roof.”

  My brother and I look at each other.

  “What?” we both say.

  “I used to stay here with your father. It’s super fun and the price is right—free!”

  If my mom is trying to convince us that this building that looks like it’s about to crumble is going to be “super fun,” she’s officially lost her mind.

  I snap a few pictures anyway. “Mom,” I say, “there aren’t any doorknobs. The window is literally made of plastic bags and tape.”

  “Oh, so you go from being a tough guy to suddenly being precious about windows? It has character!”