Americano

“Americano,” they muttered with an air of superiority.

Lynnie forced an expression of indifference, and squeezed through the jostling bodies towards a lonely bench on the side of Spanish Market Street.

Sitting down with a sigh of relief, she was free to watch Spain’s familiar dance as opposed to clumsily fidget with the steps she had never learned. Street vendors shouted greetings and prices to the sea of shoppers. Each person bobbed and weaved with the current of the crowds. It all seemed so natural, the motions, the fluid words. But as Lynnie had learned since moving to Spain this summer, the beautiful, swirling world had little room for an exotic Americano.

She scanned the crowds, hoping to catch sight of the tall, confident girl she had met the previous day. She glanced at the slightly faded message etched along her arm. As the fruit of nearly an hour’s translating, the spidery writing had turned into the most promising phrase Lynnie had heard since leaving her home state of Illinois:

“Meet me here tomorrow around noon. –Marisol”

A smile tickled the corners of her mouth at the memory: Marisol’s whole-hearted attempts at conversation, the contagious smile, the overpowering curiosity when the girl’s pen met Lynnie’s arm. A glance at her wristwatch erased any evidence of her nostalgic happiness. 12:10 the glowing numbers read.

Lynnie returned her attention to the crowds. Doubt was rocketing into her chest.

“Lynnie!” a female voice rang out. The accent was delicate and playful, and gave her name a softness that she had never before noticed.

She twisted on the bench and was rushed with relief. Marisol’s lanky figure was steadily advancing forward. Two teenagers accompanied her. All were waving their greetings and smiling.

“Excusa,” she said, tapping an imaginary watch and smiling wryly.

Lynnie smiled weakly in response. The words to accept her apology were evading her.

“Mi amiga,” she continued, “Lucia,” A heavy-set girl to Marisol’s left greeted her between gasps, clutching her side.

“y mi hermano, Jose.” Marisol finished, poking the arm of a tall boy with a crown of short, dark hair.

“Hello,” the boy said carefully. The simple greeting sounded exotic, his accent giving it a flair that Americans had lost in repetition.

Marisol fished in the pocket of her jeans before victoriously emerging with a sheet of folded paper.

She read slowly, carefully, “Please, come back to my home,” Lack of confidence was evident as she searched Lynnie’s eyes for a response.

“Uhhh… si,” she responded, wondering how long it had taken her to string together the correct words.

The usual confidence rushed back to Marisol. She pointed to the street, near the towering cathedral where Lynnie’s father worked as a missionary, and strode away. Jose smiled discreetly before following in his sister’s trail, leaving Lynnie a step behind with Lucia. The latter pointed towards their companions retreating figures and fell in step with Lynnie’s stride.

“How are you?” Lucia asked. Her tone was reminiscent of babysitting a toddler. A smug grin filled the corners of her mouth.

Repulsed by the stranger’s condescending attitude, Lynnie summoned her best Spanish accent and responded, “Bueno, gracias”

She reveled in Lucia’s silent surprise.

Marisol’s thick ponytail was doing a lively dance as she continued to swivel around, looking at Lynnie and Lucia. Jose, similarly, caught Lynnie’s gaze every few seconds and flashed a flushed smile before returning to his sister. Volume varied, but the speed of the words remained at a constant, undecipherable, blur. Occasionally, a familiar word snagged her attention. El, casa, guapa…

Lynnie’s stomach curled into a ball, while a bubble of excitement settled in her chest. For once, a translation wasn’t winning a perverse game of hide-and-go-seek. Guapa, she could nearly hear her father drilling her on vocabulary, meant pretty. Guapa, she had heard Jose’s careful words, seen his dark eyes meet hers…

She returned his gaze with a broad smile, which brightened her face as he hung back to walk beside her.

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(For those who enjoyed this story, it is actually a continuation of the story "Spanish Dance" in the other fiction forum.)