Alex's mom is short and slight with long, chocolatey hair. Streaks of natural silver glimmer throughout her long mane. I sense grit, wisdom and kindness in the subtle wrinkles that decorate her face.
"Mami, esta es Natalia." The way he addresses his mother threatens to melt me straight away onto their beige hopscotch kitchen floor.
She wraps me up in the same way as her son does, managing to form a full-body cocoon of warmth with just two slender arms.
"¡Que hermosa! ¿Hablas español?"
She asks the same question my mom asked Alex earlier in the week when they met. Rather than offering my automatized "un poco," I answer in the affirmative, mustering up every ounce of confidence possible in my Spanish skills.
I navigate the next five minutes with a careful tongue, attempting to pronounce each word properly, conjugate all my verbs and maintain poise. My brain maps out phrases before the syllables materialize on my lips. Alex, on the other hand, dives into every sentence fearlessly, butchering words and verb tenses, course-correcting as he goes.
It's precious, and he catches me staring at him.
"Can we switch to English now? Nati is judging my Spanish language skills."
"I'm not!"
He pokes me in the waist on both sides with his fingers as he passes behind me, activating my tickle reflex.
"Siéntate, m'hija." Alex and his mother, Luz, work side-by-side in the kitchen, chopping, stirring and serving. I offer to help, but they decline.
Alex places a glass of freshly prepared pomegranate juice in front of me, which I sip while observing my surroundings. They live in a small, cozy house that is decorated with colorful artwork—paintings, family photos and various artifacts on coffee tables and bookshelves.
"Natalia, I'm making sopa azteca. Alex tells me you liked it when you tried it last year." Her voice undulates relaxed and unhurried in English, the cadence enhanced by her accent.
"I remember that dish! It was delicious."
"I remember the afternoon when we shared the dish." Alex grins at me with a mischievous bounce of the eyebrows. I lose myself for a moment in his eyes, a layered pattern of overlapping greens and blues.
"I was cooking. He says, 'Mom, can you make extra because there's this girl who lives down the road and I want to take some to her.'" We all giggle.
"Wait!" I interject. "Did your mom know how you knew me?"
Alex chokes. "Are you kidding? She would beat me if I would've told her I had a crush on one of my volleyball players."
Heat rises in my cheeks.
"She's okay with it now though," he clarifies with a grin.
"If he misbehaves with you, just let me know." Luz flicks the damp kitchen towel over Alex's bottom, and he grabs his backside in exaggerated pain, howling.
"¡Carajo, Mamá!"
She fires something at him in Spanish, most of which I don't catch, then adds: "I mean it. Be nice." Luz wags a finger in her son's face.
"I'm always nice."
Over dinner, Luz asks about my family and my experience in university. We flip-flop between English and Spanish, sometimes mid-sentence. I notice Alex watching me intently as I labor in attempt to list my classes with accurate Spanish vocabulary. At first, I interpret his expression as amusement, but when I glance back, his face seems to glow with pride.
YOU ARE READING
A New Reflection
Teen FictionNatalia Stevens is smart, nice and shy-and this is exactly how everyone sees her. Even day-to-day conversations with friends and classmates are difficult, and guys certainly don't pay her any attention. During her senior year, Nati begins to notice...
