~Madisen~

Unable to decide, I order three flavors of empanadas, figuring Noah will polish off my leftovers. The kid has an insatiable appetite.

I wait my turn, salivating at the sight of the perfectly crisped half-moons inside the glass case, polished with a lacquer of bright egg yoke, the rounded edges folded with intricate ripples.

A handful of peers have tagged along on our empanada mission. I sway from side to side as Jonie inquires in a disharmonic American accent about the ingredients inside the empanada de pino, shaking her head when olives are mentioned.

"De queso, de pino y de... jalapeño, por favor," I tell the employee, tentatively, when it's my turn to order. Every time I utter the basic, novice level Spanish phrase "please," I feel like a Kindergartner with a speech impediment, the "r" splatting out as a cracked egg against the kitchen floor rather than flowing as silky merengue. My tongue still clams up in situations where the outcome of a need being met depends on the fluency of the vowels and consonance leaving my mouth.

Not that I "need" empanadas... well, I sort of do. Especially after the intensity of this afternoon's failed navigation into Valpo.

Noah, retrieving napkins from the front counter, stares at me with amused disbelief when I lift up a plate piled with three giant empanadas.

"Stress burns calories," I inform him with a wink. "Besides, I have a good friend who I'm sure will finish my leftovers. Unless you don't want my cooties."

I've noticed that I'm making Noah blush often lately. It's not uncommon for guys to find me attractive; I'm not oblivious to that. But I'm used to brushing it off, pretending I don't notice in order to avoid unwanted advances. Noah is so pure though; I find it sort of cute when he reacts to me.

There are a couple of small tables in the cramped space of the tiny empanadería, and we crowd around one of them. Brock, the guy who flirted with me the other day in Café Journal, takes advantage of the space scarcity by planting himself in my personal bubble. He's tall with sandy blond hair and flawless facial features. His attention the other night gave me a little fifteen-minute thrill, but I can't take him seriously.

"Hungry?" he jests in English, gesturing to my mountain of empanadas. I flash him a fake smile and roll my eyes. On the surface, his comment is no different than Noah's teasing glance a few moments ago, but I have a higher opinion of Noah's character.

"I wanted to try all the flavors," I respond in Spanish.

"You must work out a lot." He persists with English, missing my cue. Brock scans his eyes up and down my body, leaving an unpleasant physical sensation as if he had used his hands.

Screw you, I think.

Before I blurt out something I'll regret from the fighting instinct stirring through my gut, I stuff a bite of empanada into my mouth. It's jalapeño, and it's deliciously spicy.

"Daria, right?" The girl across from me, whom I've yet to cross paths with since arriving to Chile, tears her empanada into pieces to release the steam from the ground beef and onion filling. She wears the face of an adult woman, her expression mild and demeanor low key.

"Oh my God, you two haven't met yet?" Jonie interjects, her pitch rising dangerously along with her eyebrows. She laces her arm into Daria's. "Madisen, you are going to love this girl." Her intense cobalt eyes pop from her face, cartoon animation style.

I expect an eye roll from Daria, who maintains a dry, neutral expression; instead, she leans into Jonie's affection with an air of sisterly acceptance.

"O-kay," Brock mutters in my ear, mocking Jonie. I glare at him. I've now witnessed a couple times the way he interacts with Jonie, and I don't like it. The girl is a tad obnoxious, but that's no reason to be condescending towards someone.

On my next bite, a jalapeño chunk attaches itself against my tonsil like a leech, and I begin gasping as subtly as possible. Both Noah and Brock rush to the counter to retrieve water. Noah's movements are those of a basketball point guard, agile and ready to spring into action, while Brock's strides are stiff, impeded by unnecessary muscles and the stick up his ass.

Brock hands me a cold water bottle, and I sip it while Noah and I make eye contact across the table. He looks pissed. I don't think he is thrilled about Brock's arrogant attitude either.

Now the guy takes the opportunity to massage my back, despite the fact that I'm no longer choking.

Under the pretext of bringing more napkins, I flee Brock's touch, inserting myself between Flora and Daria upon return. We chat for a while, and I convince them to eat most of my cheese empanada. Daria accepts willingly; I don't think she is impressed with her empanada de pino, having picked out the slice of hard boiled egg and every last raisin from the middle. Between choking on jalapeños and Brock's presence, I've lost my appetite.

Since arriving in Chile, I keep falling into random, irritable moods or unexpected energy highs that don't correspond proportionally to the circumstances.

Flora, sweet and bubbly, speaks a fluent but much more comprehensible form of Spanish than Chileans. Her family is Mexican. Daria remains subdued, but as we chat longer, I see her genuine personality emerge. She's a straight-shooter, an anti-giggle girl.

Brock begins relaying a story about his host family warning him of the disorganized chaos that characterizes the Chilean educational system, even at a quality university such as La Católica. As he alters his voice to imitate his host sister, I find myself relaxing and chuckling along with the others. I don't want to date him, but I suppose there's no need to be so judgmental.

"My host dads want me to invite my friends to lunch," Daria says coolly to Flora, Jonie and me. She is good about sticking to Spanish, which makes me even more fond of her. "Do you want to visit on Saturday?"

"Of course!"

"Did you say your host dads?" I verify.

"Yeah. They're gay." Daria's tone is matter-of-fact, perhaps defensive as she eyes me.

"My moms are gay. My real moms, I mean." Daria's shoulders relax as she smiles at me.

"Antonio is a bee-keeper, and he sells avocados. Luis is an amazing chef. They are both very strange and fun."

I beam at the explanation. We're exchanging phone numbers when Brock's voice grates like a brick against my consciousness from the other side of the table.

"Samira, is that the hot Indian girl?" He's waving his phone in Noah's face, our exchange cohort's Discord chat on the screen.

"I have no idea." Noah really can't stand this guy. Disdain is dripping out his ears as he attempts to maintain the rest of his face neutral.

"Yeah, I think it is." Despite everyone else persisting with Spanish, he continues to revert to English. Noah shrugs.

"I'm sure you've noticed her," he drawls, scrolling  through photos without making eye contact with Noah. "Super dark skinned, but fine as hell. She's the one who keeps saying, 'I miss my mom's curry!'"

Noah's eyes grow wide and fiery as Brock breaks into a dramatic Indian accent that rings above all other noise and bustle in the empanadería.

* * *

~Noah~

Before I can react, Madisen is at my side and going at Brock.

"What is your deal?" she fires in English, which means she is super pissed. The girl took Glenn's Pledge seriously and hasn't uttered more than a dozen words of English since stepping foot on South American soil.

"Huh?" Brock stares, clueless.

"Why are you making comments like that?"

"What comments?" Brock returns, raising an arrogant eyebrow at Madisen.

"It's generally best practice not to imitate other people's accents."

The snark shooting from Madisen is impressive; I have only ever witnessed sweetness.

"Jesus. You're one of those."

"Excuse me?" she snaps. I want to jump in to support her efforts, but she doesn't seem to need my help at the moment. Plus, I'm in a bit of a trance watching the scene unfold.

"Can't take a joke, turns everything into a big deal, on a mission to save the world by policing everybody's conversations. One of those."

"You called her dark skinned but fine and made fun of her with a stereotyped Indian accent! I don't go around policing people's conversations, but I do try to be brave enough to call it out when people are being low-key racist."

Low-key racist. That's hilarious--love her.

Brock rolls his eyes while lazily straightening his posture. "Here we go, now I'm racist. She said she misses her mom's curry. It was cute and funny."

"Okay, but she's not your best friend, for you to have that level of trust to joke about how she speaks. You just met her. You barely know her name."

Jonie snaps her fingers in "applause." Daria and Flora look on, a mix of amusement, anger and satisfaction bubbling under their otherwise placid expressions.

Brock looks at me as if I'm supposed to join him in scoffing at Madisen. My face remains hard as steel.

"I'm ready to leave," Madisen tells me gently, placing her hand on my arm for a moment. "Whenever you are."

"Yeah, me too."

"Us too," chime in her girlfriends.

Madisen strides the five steps to the open door, stuffing her plate of scraps into the trash bin on the way out. The other three girls file out behind her. Our evening empanada tasting has officially ended.

"I fucking hate chicks like that," Brock mutters to me as the girls exit.

"Oh, shut the fuck up," I tell him, rage simmering just under my controlled exterior. "Everything she said to you needed to be said."

"Yeah, I can tell you have a little crush on her. Well, congratulations, she's all yours--you got yourself a hot little bitch girlfriend."

"Fuck you! Don't talk about Madisen, you asshole!"

I want to punch him in the face, but I have enough sense to know he would snap me in half. Besides, I have no interest in being arrested in a foreign country. Thankfully, Brock seems uninterested in physical altercation.

I zip out of the restaurant, seething, and we all walk together a couple blocks up to the nearest bus zone. Everyone is silent for a minute.

"Que pandejo," remarks Flora, referring to Brock.

"Weon culiado!" Jonie attempts another insult, but it sounds ridiculous without the clipped Chilean accent and swallowing of consonants.

Madisen and Daria break into laughter.

"Concha su madre," Daria offers without emotion.

The girls hug and kiss in customary Chilean style, and I place my cheek gently against each of theirs for an air kiss in quick succession. I've yet to perfect the action and end up bumping cheek bones a bit too hard with Flora.

"Lo siento," I murmur, embarrassed. She takes it in stride.

After the girls board the micro towards the other side of Valpo, Madisen and I opt to flag down a colectivo for a more direct route home to Viña.

Once inside, Madisen sighs heavily, and we glance towards each other at the same time. She throws me a sheepish smile.

"You're a badass," I tell her quietly.

"Gracias." She stifles a subtle giggle with a hand over her mouth.

When two more passengers board, Madisen scoots to the middle seat, causing my heart rate to spike as our bodies make contact.

"Roses" by Oreja de Van Gogh comes on the radio, and Madisen begins to hum along under her breath. She ceases after a few lines, leaving me with an empty craving in the pit of my chest.

"Don't stop," I whisper in Spanish without filtering myself. "You sing so pretty."

She smiles and leans into me in a gesture of appreciation but doesn't continue singing.

The two other passengers get off a few blocks later. Then the colectivo driver makes a stop in front of a hole-in-the-wall locale and goes inside.

"¿Qué onda?" We are both bewildered.

For whatever reason, Madisen remains next to me rather than sliding back to the right side of the car. I close my eyes and allow myself to enjoy the contact of our legs together, trying not to enjoy it too much, however.

"Sorry you had a scare this afternoon getting to the orientation."

She snuggles more into me, yawning.

"Honestly, I was really nervous. God, how could I forget my phone?"

"How did you eventually find your way?"

"I asked the bus driver. I could barely talk, so he starts calling to all the passengers, 'does anyone speak English?'" She buries her forehead in her hands.

"I ended up deboarding with some random guy in the middle of literally nowhere. There were just rolling hills in every direction. The man didn't even really speak English. I explained where I was trying to go in Spanish, and he got me on a new micro heading the other direction."

"Oh my God." I'm horrified, imagining her alone in the hills with a random man from the micro. She can sense my discomfort.

"Maybe it was stupid getting off the bus with a stranger, but I didn't know what else to do."

"Yeah, I'm glad he helped you and nothing more."

"Sometimes you just have to trust people."

"Well, I have three sisters, so I don't trust anyone."

"You have three sisters?" Madisen exclaims, animated. "No wonder you're such a sweetie." She switches to English for the last phrase. I don't know how to receive the compliment; my heart is fluttering at the same time that threads of dread tie knots in my stomach at the notion that I'm being friend-zoned more and more with each passing day.

"Frick, I wish I would have punched Brock in the face. He's such an ass!"

"No, Noah! No fighting. I don't want you to go to Chilean jail!" She grasps my forearm for effect.

I chuckle. She's too adorable.

"I can't tolerate people talking about women like that. Again, the brother instinct." Jesus Christ! I've just inadvertently compared Madisen to my sisters. I'm an idiot.

In all honesty, I'm secretly ecstatic about the whole fiasco tonight with Brock, because now he and Madisen hate each other's guts, which means I don't have to worry about her going out with him.

Our colectivo driver finally returns after fifteen minutes, carrying a paper plate. When he climbs in, we see he has purchased a completo, which is a giant hot dog smothered in thick sine waves of mayo.

"Interesting," I whisper. Madisen stifles a fit of giggles, burying her face in the crook of my neck!

I'm instantly excited in many places that are inconvenient for me in this moment, with us being in such close proximity. I squirm awkwardly to adjust my clothing.

We pick up and drop off a few more people on our journey to Avenida General. At the plaza, we stop for the lady in the front seat, but the driver doesn't realize that the guy in back is also de-boarding. The car accelerates slightly while the man is only halfway out, and he yelps sharply.

"¡Ay, perdón!" Our driver slams the breaks.

The passenger removes the second half of his body from the vehicle and groans, rubbing his knee before retrieving his shopping bag from the floor of the backseat.

"¿Estás bien?" asks the driver with a genuine yet subdued level of concern.

The other man bends his leg once and grumbles, "Creo que sí." He pays and limps off.

As the colectivo rolls towards home, Madisen links her arm in mine, resting her head on my shoulder.

"It's so weird here," she whispers.

We shake with silent laughter together in the dark of the backseat.