Grapes Upside Down

12. Empanadas

~Madisen~

Unable to decide, I order three flavors of empanadas, figuring Noah will polish off my leftovers. The kid has an insatiable appetite.

I wait my turn, salivating at the sight of the perfectly crisped half-moons inside the glass case, polished with a lacquer of bright egg yoke, the rounded edges folded with intricate ripples.

A handful of peers have tagged along on our empanada mission. I sway from side to side as Jonie inquires in a disharmonic American accent about the ingredients inside the empanada de pino, shaking her head when olives are mentioned.

"De queso, de pino y de... jalapeño, por favor," I tell the employee, tentatively, when it's my turn to order. Every time I utter the basic, novice level Spanish phrase "please," I feel like a Kindergartner with a speech impediment, the "r" splatting out as a cracked egg against the kitchen floor rather than flowing as silky merengue. My tongue still clams up in situations where the outcome of a need being met depends on the fluency of the vowels and consonance leaving my mouth.

Not that I "need" empanadas... well, I sort of do. Especially after the intensity of this afternoon's failed navigation into Valpo.

Noah, retrieving napkins from the front counter, stares at me with amused disbelief when I lift up a plate piled with three giant empanadas.

"Stress burns calories," I inform him with a wink. "Besides, I have a good friend who I'm sure will finish my leftovers. Unless you don't want my cooties."

I've noticed that I'm making Noah blush often lately. It's not uncommon for guys to find me attractive; I'm not oblivious to that. But I'm used to brushing it off, pretending I don't notice in order to avoid unwanted advances. Noah is so pure though; I find it sort of cute when he reacts to me.

There are a couple of small tables in the cramped space of the tiny empanadería, and we crowd around one of them. Brock, the guy who flirted with me the other day in Café Journal, takes advantage of the space scarcity by planting himself in my personal bubble. He's tall with sandy blond hair and flawless facial features. His attention the other night gave me a little fifteen-minute thrill, but I can't take him seriously.

"Hungry?" he jests in English, gesturing to my mountain of empanadas. I flash him a fake smile and roll my eyes. On the surface, his comment is no different than Noah's teasing glance a few moments ago, but I have a higher opinion of Noah's character.

"I wanted to try all the flavors," I respond in Spanish.

"You must work out a lot." He persists with English, missing my cue. Brock scans his eyes up and down my body, leaving an unpleasant physical sensation as if he had used his hands.

Screw you, I think.

Before I blurt out something I'll regret from the fighting instinct stirring through my gut, I stuff a bite of empanada into my mouth. It's jalapeño, and it's deliciously spicy.

"Daria, right?" The girl across from me, whom I've yet to cross paths with since arriving to Chile, tears her empanada into pieces to release the steam from the ground beef and onion filling. She wears the face of an adult woman, her expression mild and demeanor low key.

"Oh my God, you two haven't met yet?" Jonie interjects, her pitch rising dangerously along with her eyebrows. She laces her arm into Daria's. "Madisen, you are going to love this girl." Her intense cobalt eyes pop from her face, cartoon animation style.

I expect an eye roll from Daria, who maintains a dry, neutral expression; instead, she leans into Jonie's affection with an air of sisterly acceptance.