With the Fire on High(53)
Getting our suitcases is a hot mess because some people (Pretty Leslie) thought it was a good idea to bring two suitcases and a duffel bag, although we’re only here a week. We have to wait for the luggage and then we move through customs. Chef walks around counting us over and over again as if one of us might have decided this was a bad idea and climbed back onto the plane. Malachi leans against the wall with me as we wait for everyone else, and kicks my foot gently.
“We’re here,” he says, and then smiles.
“We’re almost here,” I say back, and I know my smile matches his. We still have a bus to take to Sevilla. But still, we are in Spain. Somehow, we made it happen. I look around at all of us, a colorful group of Americans. Not just our skin, although we are colorful in that sense too, but just everything about us. The fitteds, the Jordans and Foams, the cutoff jeans, the bright lipstick and fresh sweats would make you think we were getting off a video shoot and not an eight-hour flight. We look beautiful and hood and excited to see the world, and none of us are hiding from this world seeing us. All of us shining despite what it took us to earn our way here.
Roommates
The bus that picks us up for the five-hour trip to Sevilla is small and we have to sit hip to hip. Chef hurls his bulky body into the front seat and begins talking in rapid Spanish to the driver—I didn’t even know he spoke Spanish.
“What’s he saying?” Malachi whispers in my ear. His breath tickles my neck and it feels so good I almost let out a little sigh before I catch myself. Don’t get caught up, Emoni. That is not what you’re here for. I scoot over, trying not to make it seem like I’m scooting over.
“That they’re taking us hostage to an underground black market,” I say with a straight face. “Something about Liam Neeson coming to save us.”
He flings his arm around my shoulder. “You’re a cornball, Santi.”
The bus starts moving and I press my face against the window. I take in the large churches, the tall buildings that look like elegant wedding cakes, the city center and monuments. As we leave the city behind us, I watch the landscape as Malachi naps with his head on my shoulder. I see so many green fields and squat trees with purple flowers and I find them all beautiful, but then I doze off, too.
A cheer from the front of the bus wakes me up. We are finally in Sevilla, if the welcome sign on the road in front of us is to be believed. The streets are paved in cobblestones, and all the little shops have wide awnings that give off shade. We circle through a plaza where men and women sit cuddled up on benches and eating ice cream. It doesn’t look very different from the States except there are a lot of tan white folks and more colorful architecture; the bricks on the houses, bright pinks and yellows; and trees with bright fruit that shines even in the dark. We pass a family sitting on the corner, holding a sign. They are olive-skinned, with dark hair and colorful skirts.
“Oh, look,” Leslie says, pointing. “Gypsies. I read they have a lot of them here.” The smallest one is a child about Emma’s age, wearing a red vest and short pants. He bangs the cup he’s using to collect money on the cobblestones. The van starts moving again and we pass crowds standing outside bars, then cross a bridge into what seems like a more residential area.
“I read that word isn’t what they liked to be called,” Malachi says to me, but he says it loud enough for everyone, including Pretty Leslie, to hear him.
The van pulls up into the parking lot of a bakery where a group of people are waiting for us. They’re older, with thick waists, mostly women.
Chef shifts in the front seat so he can look at us. All ten of his sleepy teen chefs. “Okay, group. These people will be the host families you will stay with this week. In the morning we’ll meet back here for different tours, you will return to your host family for lunch and siesta, and in the afternoon you will each serve as a chef’s apprentice for one of the eateries in the area. Any questions?”
I look around then raise my hand. “Are we staying alone?”
“Why, you want Malachi to go with you?” Pretty Leslie says, and some of the other girls laugh. I’m glad it’s dark so no one can see my blushing face.
“Emoni, that’s a great question. You will be staying in pairs. And actually, Leslie, you’re roommates with Emoni.”
The First Night
Se?orita Mariana is younger than ’Buela, but I don’t think it’s by much, and unlike the other housemothers, she is slim and trim. She immediately grabs my book bag and is reaching for one of Pretty Leslie’s rollies, but Pretty Leslie swerves away.
“No, it’s okay. I got it.” She pulls all her bags protectively to her.
I smile at Se?orita Mariana. “You don’t have to carry my bag,” I say in English. I hope she understands because I am not looking forward to breaking out my Spanish! I only speak that with ’Buela.
Se?orita Mariana cocks her head to the side. “Está bien. I can help. You just got off a bus.” She holds my bag and begins walking. I look over at Pretty Leslie, who shrugs. We both follow. It’s a winding hill downward, and I struggle to keep my bag from rolling away from me. When Mariana turns into a storefront and opens the door I see that it’s an old-school music store.
She turns on the light and motions for us to follow her. “The apartment is upstairs. My kids marry and leave. Follow me.” She hustles up the stairs in her long purple skirt, still carrying my suitcase. Pretty Leslie follows behind us, all red and out of breath, hauling up her bags as best she can.