“And Avery—I mean, y Avery—she’s sick,” I say.
The teacher raises an eyebrow at me again, waiting. She could wait forever for me to translate that into Spanish, because I do not know the Spanish word for “sick.” Still, she waits. Maybe she is going to wait forever. I can feel the silence in the room like it’s part of the air—the thick, heavy, hot air blanketing us all. There are fifteen or twenty other kids in the class, and they’re all turned toward me like they’re waiting too. Nobody’s whispering or passing notes or typing into their cell phones under their desks. They’re just watching me.
If I ever learn the Spanish word for “sick,” believe me, I will never forget it.
“You know, sick,” I say. And then, because I have to do something to stop everyone from staring at me forever, I open my mouth and mime putting my finger down my throat. I mime gagging and vomiting.
The boy next to me, a tall, thin beanpole of a kid, shouts out, “Enfermos!”
He jumps from his seat and runs toward the door. No, not toward the door—he grabs the trash can sitting in the corner and runs it back to me.
“Ella es enfermos!” he cries, holding the trash can under my chin like he’s encouraging me to throw up into it.
The teacher laughs. Laughs! And then she starts to applaud.
“Ella está enferma,” she says, very precisely, enunciating every syllable. I guess Beanpole Boy’s grammar wasn’t right either. She goes on, and the only word I can make out in this new stream of Spanish is “actores,” but it’s weird—it’s like I really do understand what she means. I think she’s praising Beanpole Boy for helping me, and maybe even praising both of us for acting out what we didn’t know how to say.
Finally, the teacher looks away from me and starts talking about something else. Beanpole Boy lowers the trash can and shoves it back toward the corner. He sits back down.
“Gracias,” I whisper to him.
“De nada,” he says.
Oh my gosh. I just had a conversation in Spanish. With a boy.
Avery, Still Alone
Did you see my Instagram? I type into my phone.
A moment later, Yeah, yeah pops up on my screen from Shannon. Lauren must have decided Shannon could speak for both of them, because nothing comes back from her. I wait, but Shannon doesn’t write anything else.
I hold myself back from typing what I really want to say, which is, Oh, come on. My pictures of Retiro Park are beautiful. They are the best things any of us have ever posted on Instagram. You’re my best friends. Where’s the love?
I remember Shannon telling me once that she has automatic replies set up on her texting program, so she can just hit one key when somebody’s sent her something she really doesn’t care about, but it’d be rude not to reply at all.
I wonder if Yeah, yeah is one of her auto-replies.
I click back to Instagram. I only have twenty likes so far, and four of them are from things like @madridtravel, because of how I tagged my collage. So—only sixteen likes from actual friends.
My pictures are beautiful, aren’t they? I wonder.
Maybe all my real friends are just jealous.
I put down my phone. It’s nine o’clock here, which means it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon back home. Probably Shannon and Lauren’s afternoon break at soccer camp ended a little early. Probably that’s all that happened.
What am I supposed to do when everybody who really matters is on a completely different time from me, on a completely different continent?
I stand up and stretch my legs, which are cramping from all the running I did earlier in the day. I may have pushed myself a little too hard on my morning run, but I did a long cool-down. I started just walking around Retiro Park, and then I started taking pictures on my phone. . . . It was strange to be there alone, but also kind of cool. I took, like, fifty pictures of the Neptune sculpture by the little lake in Retiro, and there was no one whining at me, Come on. Aren’t you done yet? I could wait until the sun was in the perfect spot, until the paddle boats were at the exact right angle away from the dock.
But that was this morning, and except for dinner with Kayla and Dad, I’ve mostly been alone all day.
When was the last time I spent so much time alone?
Have I ever?
I decide to grace Dad with my presence—unlike Mom, he doesn’t call it “bonding” when we spend time together, but I know he likes it. But when I push my door open, I find he’s at the kitchen table with his back to me. He’s hunched over his laptop with his phone to his ear.
“No,” I hear him say. “That would backfire. Morale is already at rock bottom—yes, their unemployment rate is high, but that doesn’t make them feel good about having to work for their corporate American overlords. . . . I jest, I jest, but try putting yourself in their shoes. . . .”
Work stuff. It could be hours before he comes up for air.
I start to step back into my room, but then I see that Kayla’s door is kind of half-open. I should probably thank her for covering for me earlier today. Dad came home early—right behind Kayla, actually—so there wasn’t time for us to confer and make up any good stories. So at dinner, every time Dad asked a question like, “What did you learn today?” or “What were the other kids like?” I would say something vague like, “Oh, we learned so much!” or “They were fine,” and then Kayla filled in details. She said the teacher, Señora Gomez, doesn’t speak any English at all, and a lot of the other kids are actually from Bulgaria, of all places, and most of them don’t speak any English either, unless you count things they’ve learned from movies, like, May the Force be with you. Which I guess would be kind of funny with a Bulgarian accent.
Dad asked once, “Avery, did you like the Bulgarian kids too?” and I said, “Sure.” I thought maybe he would ask something else, and maybe even figure out that I’d skipped the whole class. But he just started reminiscing about how he had so much trouble with Spanish back when he was first learning it.
And then he got a work call, and dinner was over.
This is how desperate I am tonight: I’m actually looking forward to talking to Kayla. I’m seeking her out.
But when I poke my head around the corner, she’s not reading or playing on her phone or watching TV like I thought. She’s turned away from the door, facing Dad’s iPad propped up on her desk. I can’t see the screen, but she’s apparently Skyping or FaceTiming with someone.
“No, Spanish people don’t just look like Mexicans,” she’s saying. “A lot of them don’t even have dark hair. That surprised me. I guess I should have known that, but . . . nobody warned me.”
An old man’s voice rumbles out from the iPad speaker, “Yeah, Elmer, it’s not like someone learns how to speak Spanish and their hair turns dark.”
“You two old fools need to stop asking stupid questions,” an old lady’s querulous voice interrupts. “Kayla, honey, are they feeding you okay? I know those Europeans eat strange things sometimes. . . .”
She says “European” like it’s part of the punchline in that stupid old kid’s joke: I can tell where you’re from, ’cause you’re a’peein’!
I try not to giggle, and listen for Kayla’s reply.
“Yes, Mrs. Lang, I’m getting plenty to eat,” Kayla says. “Mr. Armisted had food delivered to our apartment before we even got here. And we’ve been eating out a lot too. At fancy restaurants.”
We have not been eating at fancy restaurants. We’ve been eating at restaurants that would have made Mom sniff at Dad, Slumming again, David? If you want to eat like the locals, you should at least try eating like the rich locals!
Kayla is going on and on about the “fancy” restaurants.
“They bring out these little plates of olives and cheese and meat as soon as you sit down,” she says. “And those olives—I’ve never eaten olives like those. I have dreams about those olives. But . . . I’m also really craving Doritos. Isn’t it weird, I haven’t seen any Doritos in Spain? I thoug
ht you would be able to get those anywhere!”
“And ‘Dorito’ sounds so much like a Spanish word!” one of the old people she’s talking to marvels.
I can’t hold back my giggles over that one, but at least I manage to keep them totally quiet. I can’t let Kayla know I’m behind her.
“And everyone’s being nice to you, right, honey?” It’s the same querulous old-lady voice from before. Mrs. Lang, I guess. “All those foreigners—they better not be mean to you!”
“Don’t worry, all the foreigners have been nice,” Kayla says.
She pauses, and I wait for her to say, Avery and Mr. Armisted have been nice too. But she doesn’t.
“At that class today,” she says instead, “we had to break into pairs, to practice our conversational Spanish. And two of the Bulgarian boys, Andrei and Dragomir, they kind of argued over who got to team up with me. At least I think that’s what they were saying—it was in Bulgarian, so it was hard to tell.”
“Of course those foreign boys are fighting over you!” Mrs. Lang again. “You’re a beautiful girl.”
“I think it’s just because I’m an American,” Kayla says. “If I understood him right, Andrei said he’d never met an American before.”
“Oh, pish, Americans.” Another old lady’s voice. “I’ve never met anything but Americans. I never got to have adventures when I was young like you.”
“You’re American and beautiful.” It’s an old man this time. “I bet those foreign boys weren’t fighting over Avery as much as they were fighting over you. Were they?”
“Um, no,” Kayla says. She starts to glance back over her shoulder, as if she’s looking toward my room or out toward Dad in the living room. I duck behind the door frame. “Avery wasn’t in the room then. She was . . . busy somewhere else.”
I’m kind of amazed. Kayla’s keeping my secret even from a bunch of old people back in Nowheresville, Ohio.
A younger, official-sounding voice says from the iPad, “It’s almost time for the residents to get their medications before dinner.”
“All right,” Kayla says. “Good-bye, everyone.”
“You’ll do a TV show for us again tomorrow, won’t you?” It’s another old lady, whose voice sounds so simultaneously sad and hopeful that it sends shivers down my spine.
“It’s not a TV show, Mrs. Reeves. It’s something called Skype,” Kayla explains patiently. “It’s like using a phone with video. But yes, of course I’ll call again tomorrow.”
“Your calls are the most interesting thing that have happened at Autumn Years since I’ve been here,” a man says. “I could listen all night. No matter what that sourpuss nurse Brenda says.”
“I heard that!” the nurse retorts.
There’s laughter—old-people laughter—but it still makes me feel a little sad and left out. Which is crazy, because it’s not like I’m jealous of Kayla talking to a bunch of old people in a nursing home. I’m not.
The laughter shuts off, and I can tell Kayla hit the end call button. I knock softly at her door. Kayla turns around, the soft smile on her face hardening into something that looks a lot more like fear.
Though I’ve got to be wrong about that. What does she have to be afraid of?
“Oh, were you talking to someone?” I ask, pretending I just walked in.
“Your dad said I could use his iPad anytime,” Kayla says, almost as if I’ve accused her of stealing. “I Skype with my mom and grandparents every night. And with my friends.”
“High school friends?” I ask. My voice sounds mean, even to me. I don’t know why I had to say that.
“Just friends,” Kayla says, her voice tight.
I really do know how to be nice. It’s not like I want to be mean.
“Thank you for not saying anything to my dad,” I tell her. “About . . . you know.”
“Sure,” Kayla says. “Are you feeling better?”
“Some,” I say.
“So you’ll go tomorrow, right?”
Does she want me to?
It’s weird that I’m even wondering that.
“I heard something you said a little bit ago. I mean, not that I was eavesdropping—the walls are kind of thin,” I rush to explain. “Did you really have boys fighting over you in that class today?”
Kayla recoils as if I’ve punched her.
“I . . . ,” she begins. She drops her head, winces, then jerks back up. “The old people at the nursing home where Mom works like to hear happy stories. Their lives are hard enough without me telling them anything sad.”
“So there weren’t boys fighting over you,” I say, and I almost sound relieved, like that’s how things should be.
“I don’t know, Avery,” Kayla says, sweeping her arms out in an exasperated gesture. “We weren’t speaking the same language. I barely understood anything today. But . . . that’s how it seemed.”
For a moment, I think I see how she must have looked Skyping with all those old people. For just that split second, her eyes are wide and excited, and her broad cheeks don’t seem bloated but . . . generous. Joyous.
She is pretty. She can be.
She has European guys interested in her.
“I won’t go tomorrow,” I say. “You can have your choice of the Bulgarian boys.”
In my head, the words sound magnanimous, but as soon as they’re out, something in Kayla’s face shuts down.
Oh. Because I made it sound like if I’m there, nobody would look at her.
“I mean, because then you’ll still be the only American!” I rush to explain. “You’ll still be . . . exotic!”
This only makes things worse. Kayla could never be exotic. She’s chubby. Her hair’s frizzy. She’s like a walking ad for Walmart. Or wherever poor people shop.
“Okay,” Kayla says, in a voice as rigid as steel.
And it’s funny. English is the language I understand. I know what “okay” means. But it really feels like Kayla is saying, Whatever. It’s not like you’re my friend, anyway. It’s not like you and I could ever be friends.
I didn’t even do anything!
I hear Dad coming down the hall behind me.
“Avery?” he calls. “Your mom’s on the phone. She wants to talk to you.”
He hands me his phone and I put it to my ear.
“Sure! Everything’s fine!” I tell her.
Because that’s all she ever wants to hear.
Huh. I guess she’s like Kayla’s old people.
Kayla, after Another Day of Spanish Class
I giggle to myself as I walk home from the Metro.
Andrei, the Bulgarian kid I thought of as Beanpole Boy the first day, is such a clown. Any time he understands a Spanish word that I’m confused about, he starts acting it out for me. Señora Gomez saw him doing that today when she was giving a lesson about taking the subway, and instead of yelling at him she had both of us go to the front of the class and pretend to work a ticket machine.
I would never have willingly acted out anything in front of a whole class back in Crawfordsville. All my teachers would have known not to ask me.
But I don’t know anybody here, so it doesn’t matter.
And Andrei was so funny, shouting, “Pongo! Dinero! En la maquina!” as he pantomimed paying for his ticket.
At one of our breaks, I tried to ask him and the other Bulgarian kids why they wanted to learn Spanish—what good is it to know Spanish in Bulgaria? I think he said that they couldn’t afford to sign up for any language programs in England, because it’s more expensive to live there for the summer than Spain. He spent a long time toying around with his phone after that, and I thought he was embarrassed. But then he played something from a translation app, and it was a robotic voice repeating in English what he just had typed in Bulgarian, because he wanted to make sure I understood: It is better to learn something than nothing at all.
No kid I know back in Crawfordsville would ever say that, in any language.
The kids who are class clow
ns at Crawfordsville High School act out because they don’t want to learn anything, not because they’re trying to help the teacher.
And it’s not like the Bulgarian kids are just nerdy brainiacs, because Dragomir told me he’s getting everyone he can to play football every day after class. Well, I guess it’s actually fútbol—soccer—not American football. But that’s cool. He even invited me today, but I said no, because I had to get home.
Not that I’d be any good at playing any sport, anyway.
It’s just amazing that Dragomir and Andrei and the others talk to me so much: about fútbol and about this restaurant that they’re obsessed with called 100 Montaditos, and about all the ways Spain is different from Bulgaria, and what’s America like?
I mean, I think that’s what they’re talking about.
I got off at the Puerta del Sol Metro stop, so most of the people around me are tourists; the stores and restaurants around me are tourist spots. And it’s funny how I can tell that now. The neighborhood by the school isn’t a place where tourists usually go, so when I’m there it always feels like I’m spying a little bit: Oh, that’s what Spanish people keep on their apartment balconies. That’s how they hang their wash out on the line to dry. They really do shop in those little corner fruit markets, like Señora Gomez told us about in class. She wasn’t lying. (Well, if I actually understood her right, when she described Spaniards buying fruit.)
I’ll have to remember to tell Avery the lesson was about food and transportation today, so she’s ready to answer her dad’s questions at dinner.
My giggles stop. Avery. I can’t decide what I’m maddest about: that she’s making me lie to her dad, or that she’s got a dad who brought her all the way to Spain and is paying for her to go to some special fancy Spanish class—and all she wants to do is lie in bed watching Netflix and texting her friends back home. This is the fourth day in a row she’s missed. She’s not even pretending anymore that it has to do with cramps.
Maybe I’ll walk up the stairs and yell at her, It is better to learn something than nothing at all, Avery!
The Summer of Broken Things Page 10