Because You're Different ✔

7. Boiling water

We'd taken her to the market — she'd refused to go to a supermarket, saying her abuela would die of a heart attack if she'd know her granddaughter was preparing her friends food bought from a store. Silently, we had carried the bags and paid the market people, while she sped through the little lanes, searching for the freshest laurel and the best tomatoes. Sometimes, she spoke Spanish to the sellers — they seemed to love that, just like they loved her bright smiles, and one of them actually went to the back to collect her the tastiest carrots that they'd kept aside for select customers.

Sam and I were in awe of her tactics. We usually ordered our groceries online; I couldn't remember the last time I physically entered a supermarket. Seeing her like this was a little gift in itself; I'd never seen her as much in her element as then, and I wished she'd speak Spanish more often, even though I understood none of it.

June cursed when her left arm didn't listen to her again and she accidentally spilled the grated cheese all over the counter. I knew she would check if I'd noticed that, so at once, I made sure my face told her I was bored as hell, while in reality, I wanted to chuckle. Once she made sure I hadn't caught her, it was safe to look again.

I was curious as to how she'd fix this. I'd seen her filter eggshells with a strainer, and even though I didn't know a lot about the art of cooking, I was sure people ordinarily didn't do that. This time, I had no idea what she was planning. She opened the drawer under the messy counter, one that contained placemats, and put a bowl into it. Then, meticulously, she started to sweep the cheese from the counter into the bowl.

This time, I couldn't help but chuckle. Talking about being resourceful.

Immediately, she turned towards me, frown on her face.

"What?" I said, taking one of my earbuds out.

"Why'd you laugh?"

"The professor made a joke."

She narrowed her eyes, and it took all of me not to start laughing. She let it go, though, and I realized I had to be more careful if I didn't want her to send me away. I hated to think Sam and I made her nervous, and I couldn't understand why, but I guess you might need to have cerebral palsy yourself to get what she was feeling. I'd offered to cut the onions for her exactly once before the fiery look on her face told me not to suggest something like that ever again. Everything took her thrice as much time as it would any able-bodied person, but she didn't seem to mind, just worked hard to get the tomatoes in uneven pieces, splashing most of them in the process. I'd never seen someone struggle this hard and enjoy it anyway. With the amount of stuff she dropped and all the vegetables that landed beside the pan instead of in it, you'd think a person would give up at some point. Not her.

Fifteen minutes later, I thought she'd detected me watching her, because she was suddenly walking towards me, a little more wobbly than usual, and pulled out one of my earbuds. "Can you drain the water for me, please?" she said instead, and I was glad she allowed me to help her. I could see she didn't like asking me, though.

"Of course," I said. "Although I must confess, I've never done it before."

She giggled. "Obviously. It looks like these pans are brand new. Don't worry, it's easy — well, it's easy if your arms actually listen to you."

She could say it was easy, but I burned myself, luckily not that severely, and she and Sam, who had come to investigate after hearing my string of curses, laughed at me while I held my hand under the cold-water stream. "It needs to be lukewarm," she said, changing the temperature of the tap for me. "Cold water on a burn isn't good for you."

Later, we helped her put the dish in the oven, and for the next forty minutes, Sam and I took turns asking her if it was ready already. I'd never been this hungry in my life. While we set the table and tried to find candles, as instructed by our cook, my gaze flickered to the oven every so often, and I thanked my lucky stars I had told Sam June sounded like a cool girl.

I knew what Sam and June said about Mrs. Guevara's cooking — that it came straight down from heaven. Well, in my opinion, June surely matched her mother's level of skill. I wished she would cook for us every day. Her movements got jumpier with every compliment we gave her, yet instead of holding back, I figured she just had to get used to it. I breathed in deeply, taking in the taste of the pasta, thinking of all the times we had take-out when we could've been enjoying this. "June," I said, my eyes closed. "Please marry me and cook for me every single day."

Sam snorted. "Suck-up!"

"Well," June said, and from the tone of her voice, I knew she was smiling brightly again. "I'll think about it once I'm eighteen, alright?"

When I looked up, she blushed as red as the tomato sauce stuck to the corner of her mouth.