Marcus Vega Doesn't Speak Spanish: Chapters 8–11

My mom doesn’t back down. She plucks them off my brother’s head in one swift motion. I’m surprised. She usually doesn’t confront my brother like that.

We get our carry-on bags off the conveyor belt and head to the gates.

Eventually, the lady calls out some stuff about boarding first class and military personnel.

Eventually, the lady calls out some stuff about boarding first class and military personnel.

A guy in army fatigues walks past us, holding a small duffle bag.

“Hey, man,” he says, “don’t freak out.”
“I won’t,” I tell him.
My brother, the motivational speaker.

Sam takes something out of a metal drawer and hands it to Charlie.
“This is for our honorary pilots,” he says. It’s a tiny airplane pin.
Charlie smiles.

About three hours pass when the captain makes an announcement.
“We have begun our descent into Miami International Airport. Flight attendants, prepare for landing.”

There is a screech and a thump as our wheels meet the runway. The plane jolts forward, and my knees almost rip through the seat in front of me.

On our second flight, I feel much calmer. I even concentrate long enough to skim some of the books Charlie picked up at the airport.

Outside the window, I see a grassy knoll with several words scrolled over it: AEROPUERTO INTERNACIONAL LUIS MUÑOZ MARÍN.

As my mom hails a cab, I write him another email.

“That’s Uncle Ermenio’s place,” my mom says, half-smiling. “It’s cozy.”
“It says ‘hostel,’ Mom.” Charlie points at the creaky old sign above the green double door.

“You just said it was Uncle Ermenio’s house, though.” I’m confused.
"It is. He owns this building and runs it as a hostel. We’re sleeping in this adorable little bungalow on the roof.”

“Mom,” I say, "there aren’t any doorknobs. The window is literally made of plastic bags and tape.”

Sunlight enters the room, but it only creates a sharp beam that barely illuminates anything but the tip of the staircase.

“Bad hip,” he says. “Pero imagine, the wait to get a doctor’s appointment...” Tío Ermenio trails off. “Many doctors on the island have left to the States for better reimbursements from insura—” He stops, leans against the stairs, and rubs his side.

He takes us through the living room, where there are books stacked high in several corners. They lean awkwardly and look like they might topple over at any minute.

I see a few photographs on the mantelpiece.

“Hee-bah-ree-toh.” My mom breaks it down phonetically for Charlie. “It’s a fried plantain sandwich with garlic mayonnaise, tomato, onions. Oh my gosh!”

“Hee-bah-ree-toh.” My mom breaks it down phonetically for Charlie. “It’s a fried plantain sandwich with garlic mayonnaise, tomato, onions. Oh my gosh!”

“That’s enough dad sleuthing for today,” my mom says, rolling our suitcase to the stairs.

"Hello, Hilda? Angela? I want to introduce you to my family.” Tío Ermenio politely waits by the door. “These are María’s very good friends. They met two summers ago when María did a high school foreign exchange program in Berlin. That girl has tremendous ambitions. All three of them.”

“Charlie,” she says, “it is wonderful to make your acquaintance.”

There is a long suspension bridge that runs above the rooftop area to a terrace.

There is a long suspension bridge that runs above the rooftop area to a terrace.

“No, we never had kids of our own. A long time ago my Milagro and I turned our home into a hostel. And it has come in handy to accommodate so many nieces and nephews. We used to live up here, but I’ve moved to the bottom floor because of my hip.”

“Don’t be a chicken,” my brother says. He starts gobbling like a fool with feathers.

“It’s small,” Tío Ermenio says.
The understatement of the millennium.

“It’s small,” Tío Ermenio says.
The understatement of the millennium.