Velilla

            Ten unfamiliar faces stare at me. I hear Alejandra’s smooth voice rattle off their names without hesitation, “Pily, Sara, Susanna, Lorena, Irene morena, Alicia, Natalia, Vero, Vicky, y Irene la rubia.” I forget their names before she’s finished, but still proceed to give each girl the customary Spanish greeting of “dos besos” or “two kisses” with a quick “hola” in the middle. Little did I know that six weeks from now I would be bidding these girls goodbye with tears in my eyes.

            After being introduced to everyone, Vero turns to me and says in hesitant English, “Ehhhh…. My name is Veronica? I am from Brazil?” I nod to show that I understand and tell her in Spanish that I’m from California.            

            Someone approaches me from the other side and says in English, “Hello?” pronouncing the “H” sound with a little throat clearing as the other girls laugh. They proceed, “My name is… Alicia. España…  party-party todo el tiempo.” She makes dancing movements to indicate the meaning of party and this time I laugh along with everyone else.

            As my first night in Velilla de San Antonio continues, I am bombarded with question after question, each seeming more personal and more surprising than the next. Where are you from? How old are you? Do you drink? Do you have a boyfriend? Do you think my friend is good looking? Not only are the questions themselves overwhelming, but I’m translating back and forth in my head. It becomes almost like an imaginary game of ping pong, Spanish to English, English to Spanish, and then back again.

            As I sit down on the green metal bench in the park, I realize I’m tired and overwhelmed and can’t seem to remember anyone’s name. Alejandra is standing nearby in blue tank top and white pants that sag in a “stylish” way on her slender, but curvy figure. She’s messing with the bottoms of her pants and asking Vero if they look better rolled up or left down. She tuns to look at me with two wide dark eyes above two bronze, sun-kissed cheeks and asks, “Estás bien, Jenny? Dime cuando quieres volver a la casa, vale?” Are you alright? Just tell me when you want to go back, okay?

            “Si, es que estoy muy cansada porque…” I’m trying to remember how to say “time change” but Alejandra just gives me an understanding look goes back to deliberating whether or not to roll up her pants.

            “Alejandra?” Lorena calls out to my host sister, her voice saying Alejandra’s name in a smooth natural tone, much different and more beautiful than my awkward American accent. “Que estás haciendo con tus pantalones? Queda muy bien asi.” What are you doing? Your pants look really cute.

            “Pero es que… es que parece gordita,” Alejandra answers back. But I look a little chubby. Lorena gives Alejandra a look that clearly says “I’ve heard enough of this” and starts going off in rapid, gossipy, dramatic Spanish about how thin and pretty Alejandra is.

            Alejandra gives me an exasperated look and tells me that we should probably be getting home since it’s almost her curfew. As we walk side by side down the middle of the empty streets, all you can hear is the fading chatter of the park where we just came from, the distant rushes of wind from the nearby freeway, and the sound of Alejandra’s shoes dragging on the pavement. We walk in silence for a while, each enjoying the quietness of the night with our eyes focused on the next stretch of pavement lit by the streetlight. After the jingle of keys and the clang of the metal gate, we step inside the house to see our mom asleep with the TV still on.

            Looking back on that first night, when I found everything so strange makes me realize how much I got used to the rhythm of life in Velilla. It would usually be around eight when we came back from the pool around the corner all tired– not exercise tired or thinking tired, but that comforting water and sun sort of tired that makes you crave a tall glass of water and a fresh slice of orange.

            I have the keys to the house in my pocket and Alejandra and I bid Lorena and Vero goodbye as I open the black metal gate. My host mom Pilar comes to the door before I can open it and beckons us inside telling us that we look sunburned and to remember to hang our wet things outside to dry instead of leaving them on our beds. I tell Alejandra to shower first because she always takes a long time getting dressed and straightening her long, layered brown hair.

            I sit down in front of the TV with my older host sister, Angela who is watching “Operacion Triunfo,” a Spanish version of American Idol, and we start discussing which contestants we like the most. “Pablo va a ganar,” she says. “Porque puede cantar, y es guapisimo.” You see, Pablo is going to win because he can sing and he’s very attractive.

            “Pero a mi me gusta Chipper, el canta mejor de todos,” I say. But I like Chipper, he’s the best singer.

            “Pero solamente dices esto porque Chipper es Americano.” You’re only saying that because he’s American. Angela smiles at me sarcastically as my host mom enters the room saying that she likes Virginia.

            “Ay, no me gusta Virginia!” I add.

            Angela chimes in, “Yo tampoco, porque Virginia no puede cantar y es falsa.” Yeah, me neither. Virginia can’t sing and she’s fake.

            My host dad, Oscar, comes in the room looking at the TV with a slightly perplexed expression. “Que es esto?” he says gruffly. “Opercacion Triunfo? Ay, mujeres… estan locas.” Women… they’re crazy.

            “Callate, Oscar!” Pilar orders.

            Oscar looks at me with a crooked grin on his face and waves his finger in a circle next to his head. “Locas,” he mouths. I laugh somewhat uncomfortably as my host mom goes back into the kitchen to get dinner ready. I hear the sound of the shower stop and head up the stairs looking forward to the hot water.

            As I’m drying my hair with a towel in my room I hear the familiar call of “A-le-JAN-dra! Jen-ny! La cena!” Dinner is ready. I flap down the stairs in my flip flops to the smell of olive oil and oranges. It looks like we’re having tortilla de patata tonight, along with fresh squeezed orange juice as usual. I go over to the counter and silently take over the orange juice making – for some reason this is always my job. Pilar and I make small talk while we get the rest of dinner ready, there is nothing like bonding over making food. Tonight she is teaching me words for things in the kitchen like dishwasher, sink, oven, and blender. When I tell her how to say refrigerator in English she makes a baffled noise and claims that Spanish makes so much more sense than English. We laugh as I try to break the word up for her “Re-frigorifico?” she asks.

            “No,” I say in Spanish, “That’s not a word in English.” We’re still both laughing as Alejandra comes in. The three of us sit down and Pilar serves us both large portions of tortilla de patata – egg and potatoes cooked in olive oil like a quiche. I dig in quickly, thinking about how much I will miss the food here after I leave.

            Alejandra on the other hand has barely touched her food, all she’s done is taken a piece of bread and eaten only the crust part. Our mom gives her a steely look and says in a stern, motherly tone, “Tienes que comer.” You have to eat.

            Alejandra puts an exasperated look on her face and I can predict perfectly what’s coming next. Her relaxed face tenses, her eyebrows arch and the corners of her lips turn up as she yells, “¡Que pesa, mama!” while slamming the doughy ball of uneaten bread down on the table. I silently look down at my plate and continue eating, not really wanting to get myself involved in the conflict. Pilar hurriedly moves herself around the kitchen telling Alejandra that she’s too skinny and that she needs to eat more. The yelling continues, and even though its normal for the Spanish to always be yelling about something, these conversations can get tense and heated. Finally Alejandra eats a few bites of tortilla de patata, convincing her mother that she’ll bring the rest with her in a sandwich when we go out. Before we leave, however, Pilar pulls me aside and tells me that I need to make sure that Alejandra eats.

            With the sound of the door closing and our mom’s voice asking us if we have keys, Alejandra and I leave the house and step out onto the streets of Velilla. There is a certain stillness in here during the evening, the sky is a gentle hue of purplish gray and you can see the faint glow of where the sun has set behind the craggy bluffs that separate Velilla, Loeches, and Mejorada from Madrid. We round the corner of the park just two houses down and I can recognize the sound of Irene soulfully singing flamenco as others clap along, there’s Vero’s sweet yet mischeivious purr of “Gracias, mi amorrrr,” and now I hear Lorena’s maniacal, uncontrollable giggling. As we draw closer there’s the faint orange glow of someone smoking and the white light of a cell phone playing a scratchy flamenco beat.

            “Quien quiere un bocadillo de tortilla de patata?” Who wants an egg sandwhich?

            Lorena gives her an unhappy look and says, “Pero tia, tienes que comer, estás tan delgadita.” Girl, you have to eat something, you’re so thin. Alejandra ignores her and proceeds to wave the sandwhich around. I know I should say something and at least try to make her eat it, because she’s hardly eaten anything today, but I don’t feel like it’s my place to enforce Pilar’s rules. After Alejandra successfully gives away the remaining tortilla de patata, I feel a nagging sense of guilt that I should have done something. Knowing our mom will ask me about it makes me feel even worse, because I don’t think I have the guts to tell Pilar that Alejandra didn’t finish the sandwhich. I tell myself to shake it off for now and that I’ll try harder the next time.

            Once everyone has gathered around the bench, we decide to head down to Paradis – a bigger park in the center of town where all the teenagers gather every night. Once we arrive we head for la rotunda, a big circular ledge that surrounds a dry and mismatched assortment of half dead plants. I’m standing next to Alejandra and one of our friends, Edu, is asking me if high school in the U.S. is like the movies; he gets really excited when I confirm that we have cheerleaders and lockers. A few minutes later, Coralio, a boy who apparently has been obsessed with Alejandra for some time comes up to us with a beer in hand looking a little more than tipsy. He’s on the shorter and skinnier side with short greased hair and has a red, pock marked complexion, not what you would call guapo. “Alejandra….” He slurs, “Que guapa eres, ven conmigo, tienes que dejar tu novio.” You’re so fine, come with me, you should dump your boyfriend.

            “Coralio,” Alejandra snaps in an irritated voice, “Callate. No voy a dejar Ivan.”

            Despite Lorena’s attempts to distract Coralio, he keeps on yelling and swearing at Alejandra and I can see her eyes moving nervously back and forth, clearly uncomfortable. “Vamos por allá?” Let’s go, I say. Still a little out of it she follows me out of Paradis past the fountain and towards the basketball courts. I can still hear Coralio and Lorena arguing behind us. It sounds as if Coralio has insisted that he follow us. I can see Alejandra getting distressed so I put my arm on her shoulder and ask, “Estás bien?” Are you okay? She nods, but I’m not convinced; from what I saw this afternoon she needs to take better care of herself.

            There’s a loud thud and I turn around to see Coralio punching the fence next to the sidewalk with all the might he can muster. Nearly in tears, his face bright red, he yells, “Que mas puedo hacer?!” What more can I do for you?

            “Me pone nerviosa, me pone nerviosa,”Alejandra mutters to herself, her face full of worry. Then she turns to me and says, “Es que tengo anorexia.” I have anorexia. I had known about this before and she was aware that I knew, but tonight is the first time that she tells me directly. Somehow this easily erases a barrier between us and she continues, trying to tune out the noise Coralio is making a block back. She explains how her older sister had the same problem and almost died in the hospital, which is why her mom is always so worried about her. Alejandra gets nervous and moody in certain situations and it’s hard because underneath her disorder she’s caring and easygoing. She continues saying that last year Coralio’s brother committed suicide and she doesn’t want the same to happen to him because they’ve been friends for so long. Breaking the dos besos rule, I say, “Necesitas un abrazo.” You need a hug.

            She half smiles and we hug as I say, “Vamos a la Toscana para comprar helado?” Let’s go buy icecream, okay? As we make our way to the other side of town I think to myself that I have learned my lesson. No matter how hard or awkward it may be, I need to do my part in helping Alejandra overcome her anorexia, because it’s more serious than I ever thought.

            We arrive at la Toscana, the local ice cream store and look at the flavors in the fluorescent humming cooler. When I ask Alejandra what she wants, she tells me she doesn’t want anything because she’s not hungry. I’ve heard this one before and this time I’m not letting her get away with not eating. And besides, ice cream can make anyone feel better. So I order a large cookies and cream, her favorite flavor, with two spoons. As we’re walking out into the town plaza I push the ice cream into her hands and say “Para compartir.” To share.