~Madisen~

Tumbling out the doors of the cream-white humanities building of La Católica in Viña, Clara, Noah and I release a collective chorus of groans, sighs and expletives.

"That was soooo embarrassing." Clara rubs her temples for dramatic effect.

"Puta madre," curses Noah in a low voice. "I couldn't get one word out of my mouth with a decent pronunciation." We continue our venting in English for the next couple minutes.

"I messed up literally every single verb in the one sentence I spoke!" I bemoan. "First, I inverted poder and hubiera, then forgot to conjugate both poder and hacer."

"At least you threw in the subjunctive," Clara counters.

"Yeah, you sounded smarter than us two merely by using hubiera."

"I used it wrong though!" I protest with a giggle.

"Well, all I said was: 'I think... he shouldn't... sacrifice his own daughter... because... it's his daughter.' Gah! I'm such an idiot!" Clara buries her face in her hands, as we all fake cry in misery together.

Today's written exam in Greek Mythology was postponed until next week. Instead, our professor gave us a prompt on the spot and required everyone in the class to share their opinion aloud, going around the circle of sixteen students, Kindergarten show-and-tell style.

The three of us are the only exchange students in the course. Our Chilean classmates didn't bother to dissimulate their stares and smirks as each of us, in turn, mutilated the Spanish language along with our dignity.

"Let's go!" urges Noah. "After this white Honda."

He gestures for us to pay attention as we prepare to cross a busy street, placing a protective hand on each of our shoulders before we dart in front of a speeding taxi that is still a ways down the road.

"At this point, I'm hoping to get plowed down by a micro," mutters Clara, and I snort in agreement.

"I can't wait to meet your host family!"

"Yeah," Clara deadpans as we flag down a colectivo. "We might eat lonche sometime before 9:00pm."

"What! I'm starving," Noah laments.

"When are you not starving?" He grins at me when I tease him for his insatiable appetite.

There's a new level of friendly energy between us ever since we spent this past Saturday evening together. I had waken up alone at midnight in Noah's bed, then stumbled into the living room to discover him taking notes on Colección de mitología griega: Edición dorada--the real text, not the "CliffsNotes" version. Endearingly studious in his black-rimmed glasses, pencil against his mouth in concentration, I found it both touching and embarrassing that he left me snoring in his room rather than waking me up.

The three of us pile into the back of the black colectivo, which is driven by the first female driver I've seen here. A guy on a unicycle juggling bowling pins zips in front of us, and our driver accelerates towards him before braking inches from his singular wheel. He appears unperturbed as I gasp and clutch several of Noah's limbs, as if that will save the other man's life.

"It gets progressively stranger here with each passing day," I remark under my breath in English, leaning my head against Noah's shoulder.

"Increasingly more bizarre, as well as humiliating," Clara assents.

"I concur," Noah sighs. "We're doing a group project in physics, and every time I try to participate, my partners just tell me not to worry about it. They act like I don't know any Spanish."

"That's what our professors say to us in Recreación whenever we ask about the texts or assignments!" I exclaim.

Clara imitates Professor Aguilar with hilarious precision: "Ustedes son un caso especial." ("You two are a special case.")

Our driver beeps her horn aggressively at the cars stopped at the red light in front of us. As if on cue, all three of us lift up our hands in a gesture of "why, though?"

When we arrive at Clara's house, her host mom greets us from the porch, where she is knitting an intricate baby sweater from light blue yarn. Her lips are messily caked in orange lipstick.

"Here you are!" she croons in a slowed-down version of Chilean sing-song. Her voice has that scratchy grandmother timbre. "We thought you and your friends would be here earlier."

I watch Clara draw in a long breath of controlled irritation. "We have class in Viña until 7:00pm every Tuesday."

I'm guessing they already reviewed this information at lunch today, as well as yesterday and likely last week too—just as Graciela has us recite our class schedule twice daily, morning and afternoon.

"Ah, that's right," Señora Alamilla replies in a tone that conveys no intention of remembering.

Everyone is introduced; Aida (as she insists we call her) plants a wet kiss on each of our cheeks, leaving half a lip print in orange on Noah's cheek. I snigger at him when Aida retreats to the kitchen, wiping it off with my thumb.

Noah's cheeks burn to pink when I touch him, and something about his flustered reaction shoots a a tickly warmth through my body. My mind flashes to the expression on his face last Saturday night when I took off my sweatshirt, forgetting I had only a skimpy pajama top underneath. The number of times I've sensed guys staring at my body and shoved the uncomfortable prickly sensation down pretending not to notice... yet with Noah, for some reason, it gave me an unfamiliar little thrill.

He hinted at being affected when I cuddled up to him in bed, which was sort of cute. I feel completely safe with Noah.

Mr. Alamilla emerges from the backyard to meet us. Although I can barely understand him, I'm fairly certain he's making inappropriate yet harmless old man comments about how "beautiful" I am. I recall Clara telling us about him stealing kisses on the lips.

Alberto is around eighty, so it's not exactly threatening, but I notice Noah stiffen next to me as Clara's host father informs us that American girls with their light skin are the prettiest. It's gross, but I'm not about to go Kung-Fu social justice warrior on an old man.

The Alamilla couple sets us up on the back patio with fresh fruit and large glasses of iced lemonade, and the three of us continue to shoot the breeze in our choppy Spanish about all the ways the Chilean university system makes no sense to us. Top on our list of confusions are: Professors arriving late to class on a regular basis; exams and assignments being moved, changed or cancelled at the last second; and a shocking number of non-school days due to various holidays or other reasons we're not clear on.

"Lonche!" Aida calls finally, long after we have polished off our refreshments. Noah, who offered to help in the kitchen at least a dozen times over the past hour, mumbles under his breath that he is about to faint from hunger. Clara wasn't exaggerating (too much) when she complained about the slow meal prep in her home.

"Are you going out with your friends tonight, Clarita?"

"Yes," she answers with feigned patience, barely containing an eye roll. "Remember I mentioned at lunch that our classmate has a birthday party at the Casino in Viña."

"Valparaíso, Viña, Valparaíso, Viña," hums Alberto with bravado, leaning back in his chair as he breaks open a crunchy piece of pan batido. "Young people, going here, going there... they never tire. To be young again." His thoughts are delivered with a classic, clichéd nostalgia.

"Don't eat too many grapes," Aida tells me out of nowhere. I pull my hand back from the bowl as if it's about to burn me.

"Perdón..." I offer, confused and embarrassed.

"Las uvas engordan." Grapes are fattening, she informs me. I glance at Noah, whose green eyes meet mine with shared bewilderment. How can fruit be bad for you?

"That's silly," I accidentally comment softly to myself, in English, and Clara snorts subtly beside me.

But for whatever reason, Aida's words sting me. The chewed up piece of bread in my mouth refuses to pass down my esophagus.

Guzzling my glass of water to moisten my sticky tonsils, I notice Clara has barely touched the pan con palta (bread with avocado) that she painstakingly assembled. She has been doing that a lot lately--spending more time preparing food, pushing it around her plate and picking at it, rather than truly eating.

"¿Estás bien?" I whisper to her. An effortful smile fails to brighten her pale face, and an intense disquietude envelopes me.

"I'm covered in flea bites," she whispers back in English. "Just have no appetite."

I bite into another grape, but this time its juice fills my mouth sour and acrid, splashing down my throat with acidic anxiety that threatens a coughing fit.

* * *

~Noah~

After Mrs. Alamilla lectures Clara and the rest of us three separate times on staying safe at the Casino party tonight, we head back to Viña so Madisen and I can change clothes.

Clara is all dolled up in a short white dress, with a portion of her hair pulled into cute buns on either side. I'd be lying if I said I didn't find her appealing, but, painfully, it's like my attraction to any other girl besides Madisen is irrelevant.

As Clara contorts into the colectivo, attempting to maintain her ass covered with the limited fabric available, I can't help but notice how thin her legs are. I saw Madisen's worried expression during lonche as Clara consumed mostly grapes, picking at her bread and re-spreading the mushed-up avocado multiple times.

Then her host mom had to make that stupid comment about grapes being fattening. She is elderly and eccentric, so I give her a pass, but Clara's recent emotional state appears particularly susceptible to bullshit notions such as that one. As I spend more time with Clara, I'm coming to view her as less abrasive and more vulnerable—almost fragile. Growing up in the Pomeroy family, I know a thing or two about female emotionality.

Once home, I take a two minute shower, then change into khakis and a dark blue button down shirt that's wrinkled from being in my suitcase. Slipping my glasses back on in front of the mirror, I inhale a long gulp of air, pleading with the universe grant me a dance with Madisen tonight. After three weeks of being in the same house as her, I'm consumed with the desire to feel her body up against mine. I'm already buzzing with nerves and anticipation.

My heart combusts into a black hole when Madisen emerges from her room dressed for the party, leaving a hollow space inside my chest, sucking the oxygen from my lungs. I immediately flick my eyes away from her in an effort to contain my full body reaction.

Graciela doles out additional safety reminders, then winks to me as we head towards the door. The only thing more awkward than an unrequited crush is knowing said crush is on full display to a stranger, who is now your new mom and is keenly aware of your tortured longing.

"You both look nice," I mutter, striding ahead of the girls to avoid the temptation of staring.

"Aw, thanks, Noita!" Madisen gushes, then adds casually: "So do you. Or is it Noito, because it's masculine?"

"I thought it was Noacito," muses Clara.

"I have no idea. I don't think his name can be used in the diminutive very naturally."

I'm thrilled they are discussing options for my pet name in front of me. I feel so manly.

"We're walking?" Clara whines when I keep straight rather than making a left towards the bus stop.

"It's just down a few blocks, across from the beach!" Madisen chides brightly.

"I know, but these sandals are impossible to walk in," her friend complains. "And they're making my flea bites itch worse."

"You're such a drama queen," Madisen sighs with a grin, translating the phrase literally into Spanish, which sounds silly and makes my heart flip around like a catfish.

"Fine! But Noah will be giving me a piggy back ride later tonight, when my ankles are dripping blood."

"That's so hot," I tease her in my typical, expressionless tone, turning around to face them for the first time. I pretend to fan myself with the collar of my shirt as I walk backwards.

Maybe they'll both have sore feet by the end of the party, and they can take turns on my back. Heh.

We wait to cross San Martin, a line of dilapidated micros speeding past, horns blaring. In a brief window of space between vehicles, Madisen unexpectedly takes my hand and bolts into the street, dragging Clara in her wake.

"Madisen!" Clara shrieks in terror when we leap onto the sidewalk on the opposite side of the road. "Are you trying to get us killed?"

As Clara continues her outburst, I hold onto Madisen's hand for longer than necessary.

"Sorry!" she apologizes.

"That was adventurous," I remark evenly, releasing her hand at last with great reluctance. My heart is racing with the combined adrenaline of skin-to-skin contact and having nearly met early demise at the wheels of a colectivo.

"Reckless!" bellows Clara, her eyes lit up with hidden humor. "That was reckless!"

"It's not like they're actually going to run us over!" Madisen defends. "No one would do that."

Bless her naïve heart. I want to take those clueless, innocent pink lips in mine, gently bite them with my teeth...

"I categorically disagree," Clara shoots back crisply, in English. "They absolutely will actually run us down!"

Madisen giggles, unconcerned neither by her own savage Frogger street navigation nor Clara's diatribe.

When we arrive at the Viña Casino, the birthday girl is engaged in a glamorous photo shoot, surrounded by classmates from our cohort. She's wearing a gold, skin-tight dress that contrasts brilliantly with her dark skin, silky hair decorating her bare shoulders in loose, jet-black spirals.

That asshole Brock was right; she is hot.

"¡Feliz cumpleaños, Samira!" Madisen and Clara greet her with hugs, as Armani intercepts me.

"¿Cómo estái, weón?" He high-five-handshakes me with a spot-on impression of Chilean slang.

"Weón," I echo back to him, drawing out the vowels in a casual acknowledgment of the absurdity of two gringos taking ownership of this word.

"Damn!" Armani whistles to me under his breath. "The girls look reaaaally good tonight."

"Yeah," I reply vaguely. From a safe distance, I let my gaze roam recklessly all over Madisen. Her curves emphasized in all the right places by a lavender dress are driving me out of my mind.

"I know, I know," he jests, jabbing me with his elbow. "You only have eyes for one girl."

I glare at him and discreetly offer the middle finger.

"What about you?" My voice escapes low and strangled with all this pent up frustration.

"The birthday girl," he admits without reservation, winking at me.

"You got competition," I mutter. Brock has arrived and is already being a dumbass, speaking too loudly and invading Samira's space.

"That guy is such a tool," Armani states as fact. "Samira has more sense than that. I'm putting the dance moves on her tonight." He performs a series of goofy yet agile body contortions that have me thinking he probably is a decent dancer. Armani is quintessential cool but doesn't take himself too seriously.

I smirk at his confidence.

"Maybe you should branch out, though, dude," Armani suggests, and I follow the direction of his head tilt with my line of vision to Madisen and... the God damn Italian guy from the beach!

Are you fucking kidding me right now?

As invisible steam blows from my ears, Clara appears before me, her delicate presence angelic in her simple yet sexy white dress.

"What are we all waiting around for?"

"No idea," I reply without emotion. Most of our exchange group is now gathered outside the casino club, dressed for the red carpet, animated Spanglish chatter filling the chilled night air with carefree anticipation. Everyone is scoping out a potential connection for the evening—whether platonic or romantic.

As I blink myself back to reality, my eyes re-focus on Clara, standing closer than normal to me, goosebumps forming along her arms.

"Are you cold?"

"Yeah."

I rub my warm hands along Clara's arms, glancing again towards Madisen, whose body language appears relaxed as she chats openly with Mr. Sicily.

"The weather is turning," I comment, rolling my eyes at the fact I've just struck up a conversation about the weather with the cute girl I'm now touching. I have such game.

"I know. I wish it could stay summer the whole semester. I hate winter. Wow, you're hands are super warm. Thanks, Noah."

I'm not sure what's happening, but I feel weird. Not in a pleasant way.

Clara tilts her chin up, blinking with swirly blue eyes, making her presence in front of me known.

Maybe a little bit pleasant? I can't tell.

"No problem. Let's go in, then."

Clara sticks close to me, interlacing her arm in mine for warmth, her icy hands pressing into my forearms.

Glancing over my shoulder compulsively to locate my roommate, I glimpse the back of her gold-glittered waterfall of waves as she strolls away from the casino. My phone vibrates with a text as the Italian guy slips his hand into hers.