Grapes Upside Down

21. Guagüitas

~Madisen~

"¡Mira!"

I produce one of the bags of candy Noah selected for me at the corner store early this morning.

"¿Guagüitas?" Clara snorts, leaning forward to inspect the pastel marshmallows shaped like babies. Another of our favorite "Chilenismos"--guagüa, instead of bebé.

"De vainilla," I proclaim, a little whirl of glee fluttering in my stomach as my mind pictures Noah this morning, so cute, extending his arms towards me with a bag of treats before we boarded the bus. Curls damp and messy from a rushed, early morning shower, his bashful smile, eyes shining like tumbled moss agate stones.

Part of me wishes I had sat with him for the ride to Pucón, but there's also a sense of relief knowing he's at the opposite end of the bus with Armani. I'm not sure my nervous system could handle nine hours of the jittery sensation that has been intensifying more and more each time Noah is near me.

Clara and I gab on the bus for four hours straight without breaking into English, munching intermittently on Guagüitas, Frugelé and Arbolitos.

After brainstorming our August travel plans (we both plan to stay an extra month after the semester ends), we launch into gossip and speculation over the rather intriguing pictures from the discoteca "Duff" that were shared last night on our Aventuras Locas Discord group. We analyze Armani's facial expression gazing at Samira as they dance close with legs interwoven. 

Would Noah dare to dance that way with me, given the chance?

Clicking off social media, Clara launches into a hilarious retelling of her dream last night, which involved giant flees acting as sous chefs while her host mom prepared Cazuela using just three ingredients: water, corn and parsley.

"¡Odio el perejil!" She shudders, emphasizing a deep dislike for parsley, as if Aida had actually fed her the broth from her nightmare for this morning's breakfast.

My dreams last night felt real, too. I tell Clara about my traumatic nightmare singing on American Idol in front of a giant crowd of people. I stood trembling on stage prepared to sing an Oreja de Van Gogh song, until Lionel Richie informed me the genre for that night was actually Reggetón. Katy Perry and Luke Bryan exchanged snickers, sneering at me as the lyrics of Bad Bunny's "Callaíta" melted and dissolved like cotton candy on my tongue rather than bursting out in popcorn rhythms.

"Las dos estamos locos," I declare, stomach muscles sore from laughing. "Locas," I correct my adjective to the feminine form, then debate swapping the verb from estar to ser. "¿Somos locas?" Are we crazy or are we crazy? 

"Estamos locas." I land on the last phrase with confidence, and Clara flashes me a fake grin and sarcastic thumbs up.

I choose not to elaborate on the second half of my dream. As anxiety engulfed me, Noah swept me off the stage in his arms, snapping at Katy with an alarming level of sass about how "Geografía" was a better crafted song, artistically. The scene cut to backstage, where he had me wrapped up in a hug on a plushy white sofa and was feeding me grapes to sooth my nerves. 

The next thing I knew, I had my butt all pressed up against his frontside... and that last part of the dream, as it turned out, blended into reality. 

I was only partly conscious, so I'm not certain if the moment where Noah groaned, releasing a desperate little pant into my ear and pressing himself into me, was real or a continuation of my random, ridiculous dream.

"¿Cómo estaba tu cita anoche con tu hermano?" With a coy wiggling of the eyebrows, Clara asks me how my "date with my brother" went. 

A stab of something like guilt, jealousy and regret cuts into my chest with the next inhale.