Powdered Sugar
~Madisen~
"Commit yourself!"
I run my fingers over the iridescent blue keychain—llavero, I've just learned it's called—closing my eyes as the textured letters scrape gently along the skin of my thumb. C-O-M-M-I-T... ¿Cómo se dice "commit yourself" en español?, my buzzing brain asks.
I've torpedoed headfirst into a churning sea of undiscovered Spanish words, and I long to gulp down every last one of them. Y-O-U-R..
"I don't mean, like, commit yourself to an institution," Glenn clarifies with a twinkle in his mischievous eyes. The cohort of university kids rewards him with a short, collective chuckle.
"It can be tempting to stick close to one another and fall back into the comfort of speaking English, especially as you adjust to living in a new country and go through the phases of culture shock. But those of you who commit yourselves to interacting with Chileans, making new friends and speaking Spanish consistently will improve your fluency exponentially compared to those who play it safe."
I readjust my posture, taking in every one of Glenn's words as I circle the smooth metal carabiner in between my fingers.
"So, who's ready to take the pledge?" Glenn invites with an animated expression. "You commit to speaking exclusively in Spanish for the next six months of your study abroad program. No English, even amongst your university peers. The exception, of course, being phone calls home to family in the States."
My stomach swirls with anticipation. I cannot wait to speak Spanish fluently, the phrases flowing out in bold colors like perfectly curled birthday ribbons.
The waiters begin to serve our group of forty students as Glenn's wife and director of our exchange agency, Marcela, stands to join him at the front of our two enormous tables. Unlike her American husband, she addresses the group in Spanish, with no trace of humor as she informs us about the afternoon plans. Glenn displays a series of silly facial expressions as she speaks, raising his eyebrows, grimacing and blinking repeatedly for no apparent reason. I marvel at the curiousness of this romantic match.
Seriousness permeates each of Marcela's words, released like the speeding bullets of a machine gun but at the volume of pitter-patter rain. The flood of information assaults my brain, then vaporizes before I can make any sense of it.
The largest hamburger known to humankind is placed in front of me by a good-looking waiter. He smiles at me in that invasive way some men have, his virility pervading the air between us and causing me to tense up. A question flutters off his full lips, though I fail to understand even one word of it—due not only to his overpowering proximity, but also because Chileans speak ridiculously fast.
"¿Cómo?"
He repeats it, making no effort to speak more clearly, and the pit of my stomach tightens with the familiar dread of being stuck in the void of miscomprehension.
His expression takes on an air of amusement as I smile with timidly raised eyebrows. In the next moment, I am saved by the visual cue of a tiny cup of ketchup, which he gently tilts left to right while repeating himself one more time. The sentence still sounds like a bag of garbage being dumped out. A few beats after reaching my eardrums, the syllables finally click into place.
It turns out that ketchup is pronounced kechu, the final consonant evaporating into thin air as the Spanish vowel sounds completely subvert the familiarity of the word. Cognates are often the toughest terms in spoken communication, like geometrical transformations that our brain can't quite compute.
"¡Ketchup! ¡Ah, sí, por favor!" I nod gratefully and smile in relief. He winks at me, his cinnamon eyes sparkling.
In an American restaurant, there would be a bottle of ketchup on the table and no need for such a question. It would be as absurd as asking someone here in Chile if they care for a basket of bread with their meal.
As I bite into the burger-sandwich thing, which is wider than my own head, bright yellow egg yoke drips down my fingers, splattering the plate in the design of a flower.
"¡Mira!" I elbow my friend Clara, who is seated to my right. "Una flor." I will be committing to Glenn's Spanish pledge with one-hundred percent dedication, effective immediately.
Clara humors me with a light laugh. My friends have told me they cannot fully decipher my personality. Half the time I am subdued, poised—almost shy; at other moments, I come alive with giddiness over the most mundane occurrences.
"¡Muy hermosa, flor de huevo!" Clara exclaims with a thumbs up and a hint of sarcasm.
I have never seen egg yoke such a brilliant shade of yellow. The burger is delicious, and I'm famished from our morning walking tour through Santiago, the capital of Chile.
In record time, I devour most of my lunch, chatting with Clara in our simple, somewhat labored Spanish. Around us, the crowd of our fellow travelers speaks in varying levels of fluency with a potpourri of accents, English popping in here and there. I desperately hope everyone will take the pledge seriously; I have traveled 8000 miles from my home in Washington state with a resolute purpose.
Noah, seated across from me, catches my eye as I polish off the last bite of my lunch.
"You did a good job on that sandwich, Madisen," he comments in his gentle tone.
Most girls might be embarrassed at having a guy point out how much they have eaten, but I don't have many qualms about that kind of thing. Besides, I can tell Noah is genuinely impressed, rather than making a passive aggressive dig at my piggishness. Eating is a natural human process; I wish society didn't train women to feel so self-conscious about it.
"How was your meal?" I respond, leaning forward in order to understand him better, since we are conversing in Spanish. "What did you order?"
"Bistec a lo pobre. It was good, but sort of intense."
Noah has been in virtually all of my Spanish courses at Whitman, and although we are not super close friends, I am quite fond of him. He has dark hair—just on the border between brown and black—which hangs softly in short, loose curls. His green eyes are consistently calm and focused behind his glasses. He gives the impression of observing the world around him in a uniquely centered, pensive manner.
Noah is one of those rare guys who makes me feel at ease, in contrast to the devilishly handsome Chilean waiter, who has now returned to serve us even more food. A massive plate of melon and berries is placed before me, its rainbow of colors releasing a fresh sweet-tart scent. The perimeter of the plate is dusted with a delicate layer of powdered sugar.
The conversation around me has turned to the topic of thievery. We have been warned multiple times—chiefly by our Valparaíso-born professor at Whitman—that Chileans have a reputation for stealing. My brain finds this information difficult to integrate, as I am used to focusing on the positive attributes of other cultures. Nonetheless, we have been briefed more than once on the proper way to carry a purse, store cash and tuck away a cell phone while walking in the city.
"Did you hear about Sammy's beach incident last semester?" Ruby asks our end of the table with a giggle.
A few of us shake our heads, intrigued.
"She was lying on her stomach, resting on the beach when some dude snatched up her backpack. But she had the straps wrapped around her arms, so when he tried to run off, he started dragging her across the sand. Then, somewhere during the process, the guy's pants slid down! At that point, he just gave up, dropped the backpack and sprinted off."
We all burst into laughter, and my stomach pierces with tiny firework blasts of being in community. My teeth pop open a plump green grape, its tart juice squirting out, filling my mouth with a flavorful sensation of adventure. I drag my finger through the powdered sugar on my fruit plate, forming a parabola design, then gently lick it off.
Noah blushes slightly when I catch him looking at me from across the table.
~Noah~
Watching Madisen suck powdered sugar off the tip of her index finger is both the most beautiful and agonizing thing I have ever endured. She's so fricking gorgeous.
This girl's hair is not any color that exists in the world, yet I know it's one-hundred percent natural. Though she wears unique, stylish outfits and always looks immaculate, she's not the type of person who dyes their hair. Her long, wavy locks cascade all around her, the color of spun gold. It's like each strand is a different tone—light copper, an undefined, non-existent shade of red, feathery blonde and pure sparkling gold.
Not to sound like a fucking psychopath, but visions of stroking my fingers through her hair have—on occasion—kept me up at night.
But it's not her silky mane or melting honeycomb eyes that do me in when it comes to Madisen. It's the fact that she's so freaking nice. The kind of person who really sees others. Pure, genuine.
When my crush was first forming during freshman year, I almost started to believe she liked me back. Her eyes would penetrate mine during every conversation, and she always leaned her body towards me. Not in a romantic way, but in a gesture that conveyed: I care about what you're saying.
Then I realized she does that with everyone. And that's what makes her perfect.
"Now, the moment you've all been waiting for—host family assignments!" Glenn produces a stack of manila envelops and waves them around.
I love how with all our modern technology, they still choose to do the host family reveal the old-fashioned way.
"I'll pass these out; then you'll have a few more minutes to digest your lunch before we head over the the swimming pool for the afternoon."
My stomach lurches at the thought of Madisen in a swim suit, and I make a mental note to avoid her at all costs. It's for my own health.
She is licking powdered sugar off her fingertip again, and I'm starting to lose oxygen to my brain. I force myself to look away; she already caught me staring at her once. Of course, all she did was flash me the sweetest smile before wiping her fingers delicately on her napkin. I don't know how she could be ignorant of the fact that I'm totally gone for her, but I truly believe she has no clue. She appears utterly unaware of her effect on guys.
I saw the way the server was looking at her earlier, while all she was focused on was attempting to comprehend his question about ketchup. Madisen's Spanish skills are quite strong, but she is nothing but humble and adorably self-deprecating. She gets this precious expression on her face whenever she doesn't understand—a mix between embarrassment and complete poise.
"Each of you were hand-matched to a host family based on the profiles you completed online," Glenn explains. There is a collective buzz of energy in the air.
"Oh, with just one complication," Glenn interjects breezily, gesturing towards me with an unconcerned demeanor. What?
"Noah," he calls with a nod in my direction, but he's too occupied with passing out the envelopes to continue.
I wait impatiently for him to get around to me, wondering what sort of complication there might have been with my profile.
"Okay, buddy." Glenn pulls up a chair and plops down to my left, addressing me in English with his typical happy-go-lucky energy.
"Yes..?" I raise my eyebrows in apprehension.
"Here's the deal. Your host family dropped out at the last second, and we had some issues with the backup families as well. This has never happened before."
"So... I have to go back to the States?" I joke, deadpan.
Glenn grins at me.
"It's harder to recruit families since the pandemic, and we lost a lot of our regulars. But we were able to convince one of our long-standing families to take on an extra student this semester. That means you will be joining Madisen's family, the Mendezes."
My stomach drops out; I stop breathing as if I've been kicked in the gut by a very muscular horse.
Great. This is great. Wonderful. Perfect. I'm going to be living with Madisen for the next six months. Fuck me.
In case it wasn't already crystal clear, my feelings for the girl run a bit deeper than a casual crush.
