Page 80 of Pride High

“I can’t get the bed right. I’ve tried like fifty times but it still looks sloppy.”

“You need to tuck your sheets. But not like that.”

“Can you show me how?” he asked.

“Why are you so interested in what she thinks of your bed? What sort of plans do you have with this girl?”

“We’re just going to watch a movie together. This is her first time being here and I want everything to be—”

“Perfect. Yes, yes. I’ll show you.”

Mamani went to his bed and passed her cane to him. He watched her wrinkled hands untuck the sheets and fold them again with expert skill. Within seconds, that half of his bed looked like something out of a catalog. “And now bring that to me,” she said, nodding to one of his canvas chairs. She settled down into it once he had. “Your turn.”

Omar did his best to replicate what he’d seen. It took a couple of tries, and it still didn’t look as good as the half that she’d done, but the bed was passable now.

“Practice makes perfect,” his grandmother said.

The doorbell rang a split second later.

“That’s her!” Omar said. His grandma didn’t move. Even when he handed her cane back. “You aren’t going to stay in here, are you?”

“You don’t plan on introducing me to this girl?”

“Oh. Uh…”

Mamani’s eyes were twinkling. “Shouldn’t you answer the door?”

“Right!” Omar raced from the room and down the stairs. He flung open the front door, the breath catching in his throat. Silvia was wearing a navy blouse and blue jeans, a pair of sunglasses perched on her head. She was beautiful as always, hardly needing any makeup, although his eyes did dart down to the glistening lips. He knew from experience that they tasted like berries. “Hey!” he breathed at last. “Come on in!”

“Thanks,” Silvia said, sounding more muted than usual as she entered.

She was glancing around with wide eyes before her gaze fixed on the stairs. Mamani was coming down them one at a time, her hand clutching the rail.

“Oh hey!” Omar said. “Silvia, this is my grandma, Mamani.”

Silvia extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mamani.”

“My name is Nasrin,” the old woman said as she reached the bottom step. “Mamanmeans mother in Farsi, the language we speak in Iran.Mamaniis the same but with more love. My children called me this, and now my grandchildren do too.”

“That’s fascinating!” Silvia said. “I wonder if it’s similar toSpanish.Abuelameans grandmother, but if you sayAbuelita, it’s much more affectionate.”

“You know Spanish? Wonderful! There are many gifts that come with speaking a second language. Especially if it is part of your heritage.” Mamani looked pointedly at Omar, who grinned sheepishly.

“I’m still working on English,” he said. “Once I master that, then we’ll see. Hey, would you like a tour of the house?”

“Just a moment,” Mamani said. She still had a grip on Silvia’s hand as she stared into her eyes. “Are you madly in love with my grandson?”

Silvia laughed. “I mean, I like him. But we haven’t known each other long enough for that.”

Mamani patted her hand before letting it go. “I’m glad you have a sensitive head on your shoulders. I will not worry then.”

“She meant to say ‘sensible,’” Omar explained when they were alone. “Her English is really good, but she still gets words mixed up.”

“I love her accent,” Silvia said as she glanced around the living room.

“Me too. I wish I had one. I’ve tried faking it, but I always end up sounding German. Do you want something to drink?”

“Sure.”

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