The mom chopped and sliced, while the dad fried the corn tortillas into shiny shells. The table was set with red plates and green napkins and white plastic utensils, and how the whole place smelled made the children excited. They could eat mountains of homemade tacos, if their parents let them. They said this to Jean Paul when he came into the kitchen smiling.
Jean Paul, the exchange student, smiled all the time. They piled into their ‘72 Ford Econoline van and took Jean Paul to Disneyland, and on the dizzy teacups his wide smile was like a blurred chalk line. He patted the sick children on their heads after the ride, his white line a twinkle of encouragement. They took him to Newport Beach, and after he tumbled in a wave, he emerged choking and spitting water, but managed a foolish grin. That made the children tease and spit sea water all over his skinny chest. He remained all teeth. They took him to Hollywood, and on Sunset Boulevard an angry taxi driver heard his accent and let him know that in this country everyone spoke American. Jean Paul beamed at the taxi driver in response.
Jean Paul never had tacos, but they could tell by his expression that he appreciated all the bowls of fixings. The long row of hot sauces lined up across the counter. He leaned over and breathed in the lustrous taco shells stacked on the layers of paper towels. The corners of his mouth swelled.
The children told Jean Paul that homemade tacos were beyond bitchin’, a word they figured they taught him.
Then Jean Paul frowned. He stared down into the big pot of refried beans on the stove. Everyone swarmed around him, loading up plates with bulging tacos, piles of beans and rice. The college student hovered over the pot.
“Dig in,” dad said to him.
“Merde,” Jean Paul said under his breath. The children heard him, though. He had taught them this word, and so they laughed and elbowed him. His eyes stayed locked on the brown mush.
“What’s up?” the dad wanted to know.
Jean Paul winced, hesitated, then said, “It looks like mud.”
“It looks like poop,” the children said.
The mom glared at them. “That’s a gross thing to say in front of our guest.”
The dad explained all about the refried beans to Jean Paul. And how he made them extra spicy. Jean Paul looked incredulous. His tight lips formed the sharp point of a pencil. The dad said he had to try at least a bite and scooped a spoonful onto a plate.
Jean Paul stared down at the tiny pile. Instead of taking it, he walked around the dad and opened the refrigerator. He brought out a jar of strawberry jam. Next he scooped jam on top of the beans.
“You’re ruining it,” the dad said.
The children screamed, “That’s gross, Jean Paul. Are you trying to make us puke?”
The mom lifted her eyebrows as Jean Paul slowly spooned the jam covered beans over his lips. The children gagged and scattered. The dad placed his fists under his chin. They watched the college student move the food around in his mouth. It wasn’t long until he looked up.
“Well, there it is,” the dad said. “From ear to blessed ear.”
Dan Crawley is the author of Straight Down the Road (Ad Hoc Fiction, 2019) and The Wind, It Swirls (Cowboy Jamboree Press, 2021). His writing appears or is forthcoming in Jellyfish Review, Lost Balloon, JMWW, Atticus Review, and elsewhere.