The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club (11 page)

“You learn so fast!” Andrea beams with pride. “Say something else!”

“
¿Habla usted inglés?
” I fling a hand out as though I’ve just performed a great feat.

“
Sí, por supuesto
.” This time it isn’t Andrea speaking. He’s sneaked up on me again. Mateo. His tall frame slouches in the doorway, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his paint-splattered overalls. He’d look almost sweetly shy, childlike, even, if not for the cocky angle of his head and that crooked smirk of a smile. A lone long black curl flops over one eye. I wonder if his hair is soft, too. No, probably not. Probably thick and coarse and wiry. “
Hola,
” he says.

I offer a small smile but don’t say a word. I want to, acutely aware that I should be speaking, but no words come to me, Spanish, English, or otherwise. Except “water” (I’m suddenly very thirsty, my tongue all starchy), but I can hardly make clever banter out of that bon mot. Mateo dips his head, his hair falling across his face on one side. He looks up at me through those dark curls and grins. There’s a bit of devil in that grin. I am not breathing.

“Oh, don’t be shy,” Andrea pleads. Her voice surprises me. I’d almost forgotten that she was here. “Say more Spanish for us.”

“
¡Los pollos se han escapado!
” All heads, human and canine, turn to the space on my right. It’s Zoey, grinning happily through the iron bars. I have no idea what she said, but it’s clearly funny. Even Mateo chuckles a little, his white teeth shining, his eyes softening. And it doesn’t stop there. Not only does he laugh at her joke, but he practically knocks me over trying to get the gate open to let her in. Suddenly, he’s Mr. Manners. I look at him and then at her with bewilderment.

“The chickens have escaped,” Zoey offers to me, and I recall the line from a story Marcela read in class. “I had a feeling that one would come in handy one day.” But I barely hear her, preoccupied with the sight of back muscles twisting under Mateo’s thin gray T-shirt. Zoey turns to Andrea and Mateo with a giant smile.

“
Hola. Me llamo Zoey,
” she says cheerfully, planting an enthusiastic kiss on Andrea, who is hugely pleased. A twinge of shame hits as I think of how reserved I was on that first night in the city.

“Welcome, welcome. I am Andrea. This is my son, Jorge, and my friend Mateo.”

“
Hola.
” Zoey waves at Jorge, who quickly tucks behind his mother’s leg. At least I know his distrust isn’t personal. “
Hola,
” she says to Mateo, extending her cheek for a kiss. Mateo offers one gently. Not exactly the welcome I received from him. He clearly has manners, it’s just a matter of whom he chooses to use them with. With Zoey, he’s Hugh Grant. With me, Simon Cowell. Well, now I know for certain that it’s me he finds distasteful, not all Americans. Great. That makes me feel so much better.

“
¿Hablas inglés?
” Zoey asks in her endearingly bad Spanish accent.

“Well, of course. Who doesn’t?”

I’m sorry, but that sounded suspiciously like English. Not just English but really really really good English. Almost better than that of my Spanish teacher with the slight British accent.

“You speak English,” I stammer out. “You speak English?”

“Yes,” he says with the most aggravating grin. “And yes.”

“Why didn’t you say that before?” I feel my cheeks flush with anger.

He tilts his head again, his green eyes sparkling with what looks like genuine curiosity. “Why didn’t you ask?”

We are ten minutes and seven blocks from Andrea’s house, and I’m still so infuriated that I haven’t even asked Zoey where we’re going, just let her ramble on about her latest phone call to her mother, who, if possible, sounds even less supportive of her trip than mine. I nod and “mm-hm” a lot, wanting to demonstrate my empathy, but in my head I’m mostly thinking, He speaks English? HE SPEAKS ENGLISH! Which is probably a good thing, since when I do pay proper attention to my surroundings, I realize that we are far beyond my comfort zone—literally. Nothing looks even vaguely familiar. Which way is Andrea’s yellow house? How many blocks are we from a main street? And most alarmingly, why haven’t I seen Zoey holding a map at any point?

My new best friend is shaking her head and thrusting her empty hands to the sky. “How do you think you’re gonna find a nice Jewish boy in Argentina?” she says, delivered in what I can only hope is an exaggeratedly high-pitched Long Island accent.

“Uh, right. Mothers. What can you do? Sooo . . . where exactly are we headed?”

“I dunno. Around. You know.”

“Right. Cool.” I try to sound nonchalant, remembering the look she gave me on the subway when I told her about The Plan. “Cool.”

“I bet you didn’t know you’re staying in one of the city’s hippest areas.”

“I am?” Does that mean we’re still in my neighborhood? It’s a relief to know we haven’t strayed too far, though I can’t help but wonder how we’ll know when we’ve strayed too far if we aren’t using a map.

“Totally. Palermo Viejo is the Argentine SoHo.”

“So, we’ll be sticking nearby, then . . .”

She laughs. Hopefully with me, not at me. “Don’t worry. I promise I won’t take you anywhere that requires a visa.” She laughs again, and this time so do I.

I watch Zoey’s shoes as we move down the street. Her flip-flopped feet almost skip, turning this way and that, slowing when something interesting catches her eye. It’s almost like dancing, the way children dance, not yet fully aware of the beat, just the feel of their own body swaying whichever way it wants to. I look down at my feet. Tennis-shoed and set firmly in the forward position, they move only to accommodate the occasional mass of dog poop. Left, right, left, right. My rhythm is military. Zoey’s whole body is open to the world. Mine is locked, fortified, braced against—what? What exactly is the enemy in this analogy? I picture Zoey slipping through the subway doors and out of sight, off to another adventure or twelve. I picture myself leaving the house, one hand buried deep inside my bag and latched on to the safety of a map highlighted with yellow marker. I think of Jeff.
You’re too perfect.
My ex-boss.
You don’t take risks.
I think of my four-page (and growing) plan, the eleven tasks and three subtasks for the upcoming week alone, the thrill I got last night when looking back over it for the zillionth time that day. I realized that if I consistently tackled two things each day, I wouldn’t have to deal with a single free day for the next six weeks.

“So what do you want to do first?” I say as lightheartedly as I can.
I can do this. I am already doing this.
Sheesh, spontaneity and self-affirmations don’t really go together, do they?

“Hmmm, I don’t know. Let’s just see where this street takes us. Cool?”

“Cool.” This time I almost sort of mean it.

“What do you think?” I pull the craziest-looking shaggy neon-pink hat down over my head. “Très chic?” Zoey tries on a silver top hat with a bend in the middle. We look at ourselves in a mirror. “It looks like a Muppet has taken up residence on my head,” I say, laughing loudly.

“Hey, now.” Zoey sizes me up. “You aren’t actually having fun, are you?”

“You know, it’s been so long, I’m not sure. What’s fun again?”

“It’s that feeling you get when you finally stop picturing your ex having sex with someone else and start picturing him lying at the bottom of the ocean.”

“Ah, yes. That’s right. Then yes, I believe I am.” I know I’m having fun. In fact, I am acutely aware of this thrilling truth. Zoey and I have found so many delights to occupy our time that I haven’t thought of Jeff since we left Andrea’s. I am less successful in my attempts not to think about annoying but hot Argentine men with stunning green eyes and T-shirt muscles. Mateo’s face pops into my head, and I toss it aside along with the furry hat.

I pull on a pair of funky sunglasses. I had no idea there were such amazing stores mere blocks from Andrea’s house. All this time I’ve been living in a shoppers’ paradise and I didn’t have a clue. And with the exchange rate, I am beginning to feel like a bandit. Sam is going to love the hand-painted tank top I got her. No cheesy souvenir key chains and T-shirts for my friends and family. I didn’t even put souvenir shopping in my plan. The thought of making a list of all the people I need to buy for and then checking them off one by one makes me exceedingly happy. But first, food. “I’m starving,” I say.

“Me, too,” says Zoey. “Let’s get out of here and find some food. There’s supposed to be a little plaza around here somewhere.”

“Sure, whatever.” Facing the mirror when I say it, I barely even recognize myself—and it’s not just the sunglasses.

After we’ve looped around in circles a few times, our shopping bags are getting heavy. I make Zoey ask a woman for directions. She says something that sounds vaguely like “Marisa Tomei is cured of a key,” but luckily, her gestures are simple. We thank her, then go left and right and straight.

We hear the plaza long before we see it. It’s only two-thirty in the afternoon, but the place is vibrating with people, music, and cars. In the middle of all the activity, circled by restaurants and bars, sidewalk tables overflowing with coffee mugs and beer bottles, is a small oval-shaped park. This, I assume, is the plaza proper. The top of a rusty jungle gym is visible at one end, but from this angle, most of the park is hidden behind a tall fence covered almost entirely by paintings, drawings, and wood carvings. In front of the artwork, the artists smoke cigarettes and lounge with other vendors selling candles, crocheted hats, and jewelry along the sidewalk.

Zoey stops abruptly on the corner, her suede bag slapping against her hip. “Oooh,” she says, crossing the street without even looking.

I, too, am distracted by something bright and shiny. Specifically, the bright and shiny smile of a gorgeous man sitting at a sidewalk café a few feet away. Light brown hair, dark brown eyes, skin the color of caramel, sharp jaw, pouty mouth, trim build. If I could sculpt the perfect man out of brown clay, this would be him. He looks up and catches me staring. I look away quickly and pretend to examine the contents of a store window. Why do beautiful men always make me feel like I’m eleven years old?

“I’ll be right back,” Zoey’s voice calls to me from somewhere far away. “Find a table wherever.”

“Mm-hmm.” I turn in her direction and nod. It takes me a second to realize I’m nodding in his direction. He puts down his paper, gets up, and walks toward me. This time I can’t look away. The closer he gets, the more striking he is. His eyes aren’t piercing at all. They’re like a little boy’s, playful. His eyelashes stretch from here to Uruguay.

“Hello,” he says in a buttery Argentine accent. “
¿Americana?
”

“Yes.
Sí
,” I stumble. “Yes.” He extends his hand to me. He is the first person here to offer me a handshake. When I take it, he pulls me in and plants a soft kiss on my cheek. The scratch of stubble catches me off guard. There is an undeniable rush of anticipation from regions beneath my denim skirt, and I am instantly aware of how long it’s been since I’ve had sex. “Thirty-two days,” I say out loud before I can stop myself. I look at my feet, blushing.

“
¿Perdón?
”

“The kiss,” I say. “I’m not used to it.”

“Is Argentine way,” he says, noting my response with an undeniably mischievous grin.

“So I’ve been told.”

“I am Antonio.”

Of course you are. “I’m—”

“Beautiful.” My American bullshit shield goes up automatically, and I can’t help but laugh. “This is funny? I no mean to make joke.”

“No, I know, I’m sorry. I’m just not used to hearing that.”

“Now this is joke.” And with that, all my defenses are gone. Shield down. Bullshit or not, it feels good. Antonio invites me to his table, says something about my hair and the sun. My hair is like the sun, maybe, or is my hair blocking his sun? Either way, I want to join him, but all I can think is, This is so not in my plan. It’s one thing to wander aimlessly for an afternoon, buying silly gifts and making faces in a mirror at yourself. But this . . . this is way beyond me.

I look up and spot Zoey across the street, moving from one craft table to the next, tracing her fingers along the edge, stopping here and there to bend down and examine something she likes. It’s as if she’s floating, this tiny little thing, carried along by curiosity and desire. I wonder what would it be like to float like that. I took a camping trip the summer before grade seven with my best friend, Jenny Winter, and her family. We camped near a river, and Jenny begged me to go inner-tubing down it, but I wouldn’t. From the campsite you could see only a few hundred yards down before the water, black and rushing, curved out of sight. “But you can swim good,” she whined. “And it’s not even taller than my head.” Her dad assured me that the river was little more than a flat, slow creek that spilled out into a small lake about a mile away, where he’d be waiting to pick us up. But how could I be sure? I imagined it pulling me out to sea, lost forever. So I stayed put, and Jenny found a girl from a neighboring campsite to go with instead. I watched them float away, sitting back like lounging princesses on giant water lilies, their feet hooked together so they could share a bag of rippled potato chips. Two hours later, Mr. Winter drove up, and they jumped out of the truck, wet and laughing. When they saw me, they whispered unsubtly the way prepubescent girls do, having become instant best friends. From that point on, I was left out of everything. I knew they thought I was a baby for being scared of the water. How could I explain that I wasn’t scared of the water but where the water might take me?