A New Reflection

12. Tamales

Oh my God. What, what what, what, what?!

A voice inside my head shrieks and goes ballistic. Pacing the living room, my mind races with five dozen things I should do to prepare for Alex's tamal drive-by, top on the list being rejecting his visit.

After wasting two minutes in a frenzied sort of tap dance across the hardwood floor, I sprint to my bedroom to change my shirt, which I've just realized is still drenched in water and saliva.

I change into the blue dress I wore recently to school—the day I was hoping to run into Alex so that he would see me in it. The notion that I wanted someone to notice my body—to look at me—is a brand-new phenomenon, and this awareness leaves me dizzy.

Next I rush into the bathroom, grab a washcloth from the cabinet and desperately wipe the glistening beads of sweat off my large, unmanicured feet.

The doorbell rings, and my body implodes into a numb flush as it occurs to me that a normal person wouldn't be sitting around the house by herself on a Saturday afternoon in a cute dress. I'm officially an idiot.

I skip to the door and tentatively twist the lock, opening it with what I can only imagine is an expression of sheer terror.

Alex looks adorable, and I no longer regret the dress. He's wearing khaki pants, neither loose nor baggy, and a simple collared black polo. His face breaks into a small teasing grin when I peek my head through the partially opened front door.

"Hey," he says. "You look nervous. Don't worry, I won't come in."

He motions for me to join him on the front porch, then grabs my hand to pull me out, as if too impatient for me to make the motion on my own. The brief contact sets my skin on fire.

"Sit!" he commands in a light tone, plunking himself down on the top porch step.

I sit next to him, maintaining space between us.

"Okay, I brought three things for you to try."

With a carefree confidence, he opens the plastic bag he's carrying and removes several tuppers.

"This is Sopa Azteca," he indicates.

A hot puff of steam bursts from the container as he snaps off the lid, and the unique aroma fills the air around us.

I don't know how I'm just noticing this, but the Tupperware is wrapped in several layers of paper towel held on by a tightly-wrapped rubber band. Pointing, I let out an involuntary snort.

"Did you wrap this?" I can't hold back my giggles.

"What? Yeah, why?"

"That's so Latino." My words roll out as tiny delicate ruffles.

"Shut up," he says, lighthearted.

"It's just, my mom does the exact same thing," I explain, feeling my smile spread wide. "I'm surprised you didn't bring a termo," I add, referencing the Spanish word for thermos.

Cracking up, he replies, "My mom literally scolded me earlier this morning for not owning one."

He imitates a classic Latina Mom voice, albeit with a slight gringo accent: "Ay, m'hijo, como no vas a tener termo, pa' mantener caliente la comida!"

Attempting to cover my mouth, I bust up laughing.

"I thought you don't speak Spanish," I accuse him, wiping my eyes.

He hands me a spoon to taste the sopa, and it's amazing.

"Oh my God," I exclaim. "Did your mom make this, too?"