Love in English

by Maria E. Andreu

  The other girl leans in and smiles. “Britt.” She’s wearing a sports uniform and has the knobby fingers of someone who is rough on her hands.

  The one across from her says, “Hey. Jessica.” She’s got smart eyes, like someone who can size you up just by looking at you. Her wavy, honey-colored hair looks like it took hours to get photo-ready. I wonder if she knows Altagracia.

  “Why so formal, Jess?” says Harrison, catching a bit of sausage grease with a napkin. “I haven’t heard you introduce yourself as Jessica since the third grade.”

  Jessica doesn’t reply and the silence between us feels dense. Even the cafeteria noise seems to die down a little.

  I want to say something. Fill the silence. “You like . . .” I wave my hand at Harrison’s sandwich. There’s another word I think I learned for it, something that is supposed to go with sausage. It’s not a sandwich exactly, but . . . what’s the word? Mr. T. taught it to us just the other day during the “American food” class. I start again. “I like the . . . buns? And sausage?”

  Frankie, Britt, and Jessica look at each other, then burst out laughing. Were those the wrong words? I look at their faces, red with laughter, and then it comes to me, where else I have heard “buns.” Looking at the sausage, I can only guess what it means, too.

  I want to melt into the tile.

  Harrison frowns at them. “Don’t mind them. All those volleyballs to the head,” he says. “I like this bun very much, as a matter of fact. A fine sourdough bun. And the sausage and peppers are truly excellent.”

  Frankie says, “Hey, sorry, it was just the look on his face. That’s what we were laughing at.”

  Jessica narrows her eyes at me, ignoring Frankie’s attempt to make it less awkward. “I saw you on Gracie’s Instagram. Interesting thing she did to your lips there.” Her tone says she did not really think it was interesting.

  “I know!” says Britt sincerely. “Truly, that girl is a magician. And I mean . . . you! You looked amazing.”

  Jessica makes just the subtlest arch of her eyebrows.

  “I ##### ####### lipstick on for longer than twenty minutes,” says Frankie.

  “You should probably stop kissing so many people then,” says Jessica, eyebrow still arched. Maybe she’s just like that with everyone.

  Frankie puts her hand on my upper arm. “We weren’t laughing at you, about the buns thing, really. I’m sorry. It was just, he just froze, and this goofball has the silliest face.” Harrison throws a fry at her. She goes on. “Your accent is cute, it really is. And . . . I think it’s really brave ###### ###### #####. Coming to a whole other country.”

  Britt leans in again so I can see her behind Frankie. “Me too. My grandparents are immigrants, and ##### ########. I hope we weren’t #### #######.”

  “No,” I say. “It’s okay.”

  Jessica pointedly doesn’t say anything.

  Harrison clears his throat. “My parents and I went to Italy last summer, and in the cities it was fine because everyone spoke English, but when we went out into the countryside for a few days, literally I did not know how to ask for a slice of bread. It was so #############. Is that what it’s like for you here every day?”

  I smile. He is trying to imagine what it might be like for me. And that is sweet. But I wonder if he really thinks that being on a fancy trip for a few days is the same as leaving behind nearly everyone and every place you’ve ever loved.

  “I can ask for bread,” I say. Then I lift one shoulder in a little shrug. “But buns are more of a problem.”

  And this time when they laugh, I laugh with them.

  Recipe for Disaster

  How do you get an apple in your eye?

  Just how easy is pie?

  Who would eat crow or eat their heart out?

  Or how could anyone eat enough hay to eat like a horse?

  How can a potato sit on the couch?

  In a world where so many things are confusing, even food,

  I dream of a day when it is a piece of cake.

  When You Finally Know the Way

  Neo and I have picked Wednesdays for our continuing movie series. Mr. T. liked our idea and gave us a list of movies long enough to get us through the year. Today’s installment is Sixteen Candles. I have kept my promise not to google it, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’s about someone’s sixteenth birthday, which I like, since that’s how old I am. I told Neo that I’d bring the snacks today, and I grab a container full of the sugar cookies my mom helped me make. I hope I can get them out of the container fast enough for Neo not to notice my mother’s habit of reusing plastic containers that food came in—this one used to be a giant tub of ice cream—instead of the specially made plastic containers kids use for their lunches.

  I quickly unpack the cookies and stash the container under my sweater. Neo comes in and gobbles down four cookies so fast I’m pretty sure he must have eaten two at a time. “Oreah,” he says, or at least I think that’s what he says. He swallows. “Sorry,” he says again. “Hungry.”

  About fifteen minutes into the movie, he says to me, “This family is terrible, no?” I nod. “They make the wedding the day after the girl’s birthday? What family would do this thing? Only Americans would care so little about family.”

  I was wondering the same thing. Couldn’t they have made the sister’s wedding a different day, not so close to the girl’s birthday? Did no one notice when they planned it?

  I pause the movie, but accidentally hit the menu button. I click around a little . . . Spanish subtitles! That could help a lot.

  I say to Neo, “Look. What it says, written down, but in Spanish.”

  “Greek?” he asks hopefully. Maybe we can take turns having the subtitles in Spanish and in Greek.

  I click around. No Greek.

  “I tell you the Spanish and we put into translation app. Only for the stuff you really want to know.”

  He scrunches his mouth skeptically. “This is . . . what is the word? Cheating?”

  “It’s not like googling,” I say in my most persuasive voice. “It’s just for helping us understand.”

  “Okay,” he grants me, sounding reluctant.

  The subtitles help a little, but they don’t make the movie any less weird. Is this how things are in the United States? Or how things used to be? Because there’s an Asian character that is like a cartoon character, not an actual person. And . . . did the boys say this other, much younger boy needed to get the main character’s panties? Eww.

  We stop to plug the Spanish into the app to get the Greek. Neo makes a horrified face, then bursts out laughing. I have no idea what the app spit out in Greek, but it can’t be good.

  “Silly old movie. I do not like this underwear thing. No respect.”

  I laugh. We’re from two very different places, but we have a lot in common. Talking to Neo is not easy, since there are so many words lost between us, but still it feels like a cool breeze after a long, hot day.

  As we watch further into the movie and it becomes obvious that the guy she has a crush on also seems to like her too, it makes me wonder out loud, “Why does this boy just not talk to her?”

  Neo studies the back of the chair to his right. “I don’t know.”

  It finishes, and the ending is sweet. She does get together with the cute guy, in a shot I remember seeing a poster of somewhere, her hair up, a birthday cake full of candles between them.

  Neo pops the last cookie in his mouth. “One more?” he asks. I look at the empty plate of cookies. I shrug. No. No more.

  “Movie. One more movie,” he explains.

  I don’t want to look at the time, because there’s something warm about picking my way through a history of teen movies with this boy who is as lost as I am. It will mean getting home later than I’m supposed to. “Yes,” I say.

  He pulls out Mr. T.’s list. “Warning, next one is weird.”

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  “It says right in the title.”<
br />
  I smile. “What can be weirder than this one?” I ask. He nods, and goes off to get the DVD.

  Neo and I say goodbye at the library door. He heads in the direction opposite of the door I use. I go outside. The buses are all gone. Duh. Of course all the buses are gone. I text my mom, but she doesn’t reply, which is weird. I don’t try my dad, because if he’s working I’d feel bad pulling him away from a paying ride.

  I walk home. The air is clear, crisp, alive. The leaves pool luxuriously around my feet, and a breeze skitters them. It’s like a carpet of so many colors, and I kick them up with my steps. I glance around to make sure no one is looking, then jump in a giant pile by the side of the road. I sink in hip-deep. What a place where there are so many leaves! Where do they put them all?

  It’s a long walk but I don’t mind it. I am filled with a bubbling sense of joy . . . I know the way now. These streets used to feel like unfriendly, anonymous mazes. Now the next turn presents itself in my memory: Right onto Palmer. Left onto Highwood. I marvel at the realization. Somewhere in my brain, when I wasn’t paying attention, I learned the way.

  Buen Aniversario

  I climb the stairs to my apartment, shake off bits of dried leaves stuck to my leggings and the furry top of my boots. The hallway is filled with a familiar, friendly scent: picadillo. Chopped meat, onions, and red pepper. I’ve made it with my mom and grandmother so many times, usually in preparation for a holiday or a big family dinner. Before I open the door, I hear the music: Charles Aznavour sings in Spanish. Old-timey music from before my own parents were born, but which they’ve always loved for some reason. I am intruding. I almost feel like I should knock.

  In the kitchen, my mother is swaying to the music, a bright-yellow apron tied around her dress. She’s in a dress. She’s wearing makeup. My father is holding a glass of dark-red wine. They’re laughing to a private joke before they realize I’m standing in the doorway.

  My mother turns to me. Her eyes are bright.

  “M’hijita! There you are! Where have you been?” she says. There’s no accusation in the question, only delight.

  “I was . . . in the library.” It’s not the full story, but it is technically true.

  “That’s my girl, studying hard. Keeping up with the math?” my father asks.

  I nod. Also technically true.

  “Math is the key in this country. Numbers.”

  I nod again.

  “Come on, sit with us. Get a soda,” he says. He tips his glass of wine at me. I go in the fridge and pour myself a glass of Sprite.

  The song changes to the next one, one about an anniversary where everything is going wrong. Oh, of course. Their anniversary. “Yo cumplo mi deber, yo debo de callar,” Aznavour trills out with background music that sounds slightly like a 1960s caper movie in which a sophisticated safe-cracking should be happening. I had completely forgotten. It’s strange for their anniversary to be on this cold day full of early darkness. It’s spring back home. They were married in the spring. I remember spying them slow dancing to this song when I was little, his hand on the small of her back. She walks over to him with a wooden spoon full of picadillo for him to taste. He does, and smiles at her, glowing. “It just gets better every time.”

  I smile wide and full, cracked open with joy that my parents are still inside the shells they’ve been wearing.

  “See? We don’t need that social club,” my dad says.

  “What social club?” I ask.

  “Eh, just a bunch of old-timers. Drinking wine and talking about back home.”

  I consider telling him that from where I sit he’s an old-timer drinking wine, but, in his defense, he’s not talking about back home. He’s just trying to remake it.

  “I didn’t know there was a social club,” I say.

  “El mundo es un pañuelo,” my mom says brightly. My father doesn’t object to her Spanish, maybe because he likes the saying. The world is a handkerchief. Small, so small, like something you can hold in your hand. Maybe that feels cozier to him.

  He explains an old neighbor from back home has a son who lives not far away from here. When the old neighbor and one of my aunts were comparing notes about where in the US their families live, they made the connection. My aunt told my mom about the social club. “Asados once a month and the men watch fútbol,” my mom explains.

  “We’re in America now. We don’t need to get together with a bunch of people just wishing for the past. We have our own social club right here,” my dad replies, beaming at her. He’s his old self. His eyes say he loves her. “Dale, mi amor,” he says, slipping on the Spanish himself. “Put the lid on that picadillo for a minute y baila conmigo. Let’s dance.”

  I slip off to my bedroom to let them dance alone. I used to think it was gross to see my parents love each other. But now it feels reassuring, like a thing I thought I’d forgotten to pack but found at the bottom of the suitcase weeks later.

  As long as I don’t have to watch.

  I call Valentina. She picks up.

  “We practice English.” She smiles. Oh no, another one. I want to tell her I have plenty of that here, but I know she’s been working on it for when she visits me.

  Her cat jumps up on her lap.

  “¡Pompón!” I squeal. I haven’t seen him in all the times Valentina and I have talked.

  She puts a tiny feathered hat on Pompón. “Now he is glamorous like American. Like you,” she jokes. I smile.

  It is good to see her looking so happy. She’s put foundation over her freckles, something I’ve never seen her do before. But of course she’ll be changing without me too, now.

  Counting on It

  I’m about two blocks away from school. Now that I realize I know the way, I kind of like the walk, even in the morning. The air is like the blast from a refrigerator when you first open it, fresh, hopeful.

  I have my music cranked up on the earbuds my dad splurged on for me. It gives a rhythm to my walk.

  But now I’m in my own world, which is why I don’t hear Harrison until he’s two steps ahead of me. He’s wearing a burgundy school hoodie and his hair looks like he left the house without running a comb through it, which is not a bad look for him. He’s smiling like he’s bananas, and walking backward.

  I take out one of my earbuds.

  “You didn’t hear anything I just said,” he says.

  “Nope.” I smile.

  “I said, ‘whatcha listening to?’”

  “Oh!” I don’t actually know the name of the band. It’s a playlist I found the other day. I’m also not sure how to explain all that. I take out an earbud, hand it to him. His face lights up.

  “I don’t know these guys. They’re ###### good.”

  I like that I am able to show him something he doesn’t know, since it feels like he’s got the whole handbook for everything Here and I am only There.

  He starts bopping his head to the beat. “You hear that bass there? That’s some good bass.”

  “You like music a lot?” I ask. It’s not exactly what I want to ask, but it’s close enough.

  “Yeah. It started with music lessons I ###### ########### #### when I was a kid. Violin in kindergarten #########. Then I ##### piano. Finally ####### guitar, I wanna say like in eighth grade, when #### ###### cool for that.” He smiles sheepishly. “So what all this means is that I’m mediocre at several instruments.”

  “Mediocre?” I ask. It reminds me of a Spanish word. All the same letters, but way different pronunciation.

  “Like, so-so. Okay.” He motions with his hands, the “not so great” wobble that looks like it means the same thing here as it does back home. I laugh, remembering Altagracia calling Harrison soso. So so cute, maybe.

  “I’m in a band,” he goes on. “Vocals, mostly. ##### ##### guitar sometimes, but nobody needs ####### that.”

  I want to ask him more, but he keeps going before I can say anything else.

  “Anyway, #### mom is going to kill me and ######## ######### mus
ical fame and fortune if I don’t do something about math this year. I don’t know what it is, ####### ##### ########! But I am really struggling. Like . . . wasn’t that test completely indecipherable the other day?”

  Indecipherable. I sound it out in my head. I know “in” means opposite, and it sounds like the word for “number” is in there, cifra. So something about the numbers being opposite? Wrong? Something about not understanding. Harrison found the math test indecipherable the way I find so many things here, I guess.

  I look ahead. I got a ninety-eight on that test, but it seems impolite to say.

  “Oh, man, you did okay on the test, didn’t you?” he asks, reading my face.

  “I did okay.”

  “Now you’ve gotta tell me. Okay, I’ll tell you. I got a sixty-two. My mother is going to ######### complete freak-out ##### ####. Cs are a problem at my house and failing is seriously not an option.”

  “I did not get a sixty-two on the test,” I say. Which is true.

  “Seventy?”

  I smile. He really wants to know. “Higher.”

  “Oh man, you are putting me to shame here. Eighty?”

  “If you do all the homework carefully that will pull up your grade. It’s not all about the tests.”

  “The homework is impossible too. Ninety?”

  “Ninety-eight,” I say finally.

  He grasps his chest like he’s just been hit by an arrow, pantomimes trying to pull it out, staggers backward, pretends to die against a tree. I smile but keep walking. He catches back up.

  “If she was ever planning on grading on a curve, you just screwed a whole lot of people,” he says, but I can tell from his smile he is only joking.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I’m not that sorry.

  He jumps in front of me again. The music is still playing on the earbud, and he dances to it wacky, all arms. “I have an idea how you can make it up to me.”