Grapes Upside Down

18. Super 8

~Madisen~

"¡Cantas bonito, Madicita!" Graciela coos when she catches me singing along to Selena Gomez, stepping into my room as I pat down my freshly showered hair with a towel.

"¡Gracias!" I find myself singing often the past three weeks. I've climbed out of the initial valley of culture shock and am in a coasting phase, riding the top of the parabola.

"Will you and Noah be home for lunch today?" she asks in her warm, melodic Spanish, which is becoming increasingly familiar and comprehensible with each passing day.

Rather than an internal eye roll, a balloon of amusement instead expands in my stomach. I'm beginning to love this woman with her repetitive questions.

"No, we have class at 12:00 in Valpo."

"Okay, then I'll pack up some sandwiches and fruit for your lunch," she replies crisply. "Continue singing!"

I launch back into "Good For You," sensing another presence nearby. Poking my head out the door, I cause Noah to jump in his skin and flush bright pink.

"¡Noah!" I crack up. "¿Qué haces?"

"¡Lo siento!" He rubs his neck. "Uh..." After a moment of hesitation in which he tilts his head sheepishly, then seems to steel his courage, he admits in Spanish with a sly smile: "Uh, yeah. Sorry, I was listening to you sing."

Now I blush. He steps closer to me.

"You always stop when you notice someone is there, so I was hiding."

"You were listening to me sing?" I repeat, paying close attention to the embarrassment painted all over his face. Amusement sparkles through my chest.

"I like hearing you. Your voice is beautiful."

There's a rather charged moment of eye contact between us as I attempt to read the tone behind my low-key roommate's very honest, open words. Noah holds his emotions close, and exchanges are even more challenging to interpret in my non-native language.

"Uh, okay. I'll pretend I don't know you're here and keep singing," I tell him, stumbling over words. "Go away now!"

"What, am I supposed to continue lurking in the hall?"

This makes me laugh really hard. Sometimes Noah does awkward things to embarrass himself, but he always recovers with the most adorable humor.

"No, don't spy on me in the hall. Listen from your room or something!"

Instead, Noah enters my doorway, leaps onto the bed and flashes me a mischievous grin.

"Nopo." He is a massive fan of the Chilean po, a fake word that means nothing but is attached to various words and thrown into practically every sentence. "I can hear you better from here."

Noah has seated himself in an expectant posture, legs dangling from the bed, as if waiting for a recital to begin. I stare at him while he grins back at me, waving a hand in an invitational gesture.

As "We Don't Talk Anymore" plays from the portable speaker, I open my mouth in a moment of spontaneous bravery. But Noah's undivided gaze disintegrates my courage when I draw in breath, and instead of hitting him with the chorus, I chuck the pillow from my desk chair at his head.

"Gah!" He howls in an exaggerated response to the unexpected lump of cotton launched into his face. His voice booms louder than normal as he cracks up. "Madicita! How could you do that?"

"Get out!" I command, laughing as I grab his wrists and haul him towards my door. Noah wriggles out of my grasp with ease but allows himself to be recaptured multiple times.