With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Roommates
The bus that picks us up for the five-hour trip to Sevilla is small and we have to sit hip to hip. Chef hurls his bulky body into the front seat and begins talking in rapid Spanish to the driver—I didn’t even know he spoke Spanish.
“What’s he saying?” Malachi whispers in my ear. His breath tickles my neck and it feels so good I almost let out a little sigh before I catch myself. Don’t get caught up, Emoni. That is not what you’re here for. I scoot over, trying not to make it seem like I’m scooting over.
“That they’re taking us hostage to an underground black market,” I say with a straight face. “Something about Liam Neeson coming to save us.”
He flings his arm around my shoulder. “You’re a cornball, Santi.”
The bus starts moving and I press my face against the window. I take in the large churches, the tall buildings that look like elegant wedding cakes, the city center and monuments. As we leave the city behind us, I watch the landscape as Malachi naps with his head on my shoulder. I see so many green fields and squat trees with purple flowers and I find them all beautiful, but then I doze off, too.
A cheer from the front of the bus wakes me up. We are finally in Sevilla, if the welcome sign on the road in front of us is to be believed. The streets are paved in cobblestones, and all the little shops have wide awnings that give off shade. We circle through a plaza where men and women sit cuddled up on benches and eating ice cream. It doesn’t look very different from the States except there are a lot of tan white folks and more colorful architecture; the bricks on the houses, bright pinks and yellows; and trees with bright fruit that shines even in the dark. We pass a family sitting on the corner, holding a sign. They are olive-skinned, with dark hair and colorful skirts.
“Oh, look,” Leslie says, pointing. “Gypsies. I read they have a lot of them here.” The smallest one is a child about Emma’s age, wearing a red vest and short pants. He bangs the cup he’s using to collect money on the cobblestones. The van starts moving again and we pass crowds standing outside bars, then cross a bridge into what seems like a more residential area.
“I read that word isn’t what they liked to be called,” Malachi says to me, but he says it loud enough for everyone, including Pretty Leslie, to hear him.
The van pulls up into the parking lot of a bakery where a group of people are waiting for us. They’re older, with thick waists, mostly women.
Chef shifts in the front seat so he can look at us. All ten of his sleepy teen chefs. “Okay, group. These people will be the host families you will stay with this week. In the morning we’ll meet back here for different tours, you will return to your host family for lunch and siesta, and in the afternoon you will each serve as a chef’s apprentice for one of the eateries in the area. Any questions?”
I look around then raise my hand. “Are we staying alone?”
“Why, you want Malachi to go with you?” Pretty Leslie says, and some of the other girls laugh. I’m glad it’s dark so no one can see my blushing face.
“Emoni, that’s a great question. You will be staying in pairs. And actually, Leslie, you’re roommates with Emoni.”