Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,3

a fake.

Still queasy, she mumbled something appropriate and tried to get down the purple api and an egg.

They assigned her to help Noah, who was in charge of the kids while their parents attended Bible classes. Wara had already seen him in action many times during the five years they’d been friends, teaching Bible stories to kids at the Martirs’ AIDS center or hanging out with a little homeless kid in downtown Cochabamba. Within minutes, Noah had the group of kids sitting on a grassy knoll and captivated by Bible songs with actions. Then he made Wara come stand next to him to translate a story into Quechua, one about Jesus calming the stormy sea.

She grew up in church and could rattle off this story by heart, in English, Spanish, or Quechua. But there was no way she could keep a group of kids glued to her every word the way Noah did. She ignored the sick feeling in her stomach and stood next to Noah, feeling little and insignificant at five foot five next to his six foot three. All she had to do was tell Noah’s story to the kids in Quechua. Her own failings couldn’t ruin the moment for the kids. Noah deserved to be listened to.

When the story was over, she could see in the kids’ eyes that they had imagined every peal of thunder, felt the shuddering of the splintered wooden boat on the open sea. Noah asked the kids to come up and stand at his side, one by one, to tell him what they were afraid of.

“That we won’t have enough to eat if hail destroys the crops,” mumbled one almond-eyed little boy in a jade chullu cap.

“I’m afraid of the terrible goat that lives down the hill.”

Several muffled giggles scattered across the group.

“Of the thunder when it storms.”

One short boy in a tattered soccer jersey trudged to the front when it was his turn and recited gravely, “I’m scared that my other brothers will become one of the missing, like my brother Antonio.”

Wara scrunched up her face. She had never heard anyone refer to someone who died as “the missing” before in Quechua, but maybe it was a regional idiom. She was going to have to ask around later to figure out if that was really how that phrase should be used.

I’m such a nerd.

She blinked away thoughts of Quechua grammar and brought her attention back to Noah, who was beaming at the children, then her, waiting for her to translate.

“You know, when I was little,” he told the kids, “there was this dog that lived a few houses away from mine, and he had really, really big teeth.” Suddenly, strangely, Noah slung an arm over Wara’s shoulders, leaving the two of them facing the children together. “I want you to know kids, if Jesus is with you, you don’t have to be scared of anything. He’s stronger than anything in this world.”

Just as mesmerized by Noah’s words as the kids, Wara felt herself leaning into his side. Then the lesson was over. “Thanks for translating,” Noah told her, then dropped his arm and smiled. Wara felt her heart do a very weird pitter-patter and she stared after him as he jogged off to chase some of the kids in a game of tag.

That attraction you’re feeling? she chided herself warily. That’s just because Noah is your friend. You would never think of Noah as anything more than a friend. Right?

Wara blinked, then squinted at Noah, who was grabbing a giggling little kid around the shoulders and swinging him in the air.

She would be crazy to let herself think of Noah as anything other than a friend. He was much too goofy for anything else. Wara was always studying and was sometimes really grouchy. Noah was always so happy-go-lucky and watched way too many cartoons.

Not exactly Prince Charming.

Plus, he didn’t really know her.

Wara shook herself back to reality and headed back down towards the house, thinking she should probably help the ladies fix lunch. The cloud-covered valley writhed with mist, licking the emerald grass at her feet. It was hauntingly beautiful.

In the rocky dirt outside the main house she found a circle of Quechua women squatting in their wide velvet pollera skirts around a plastic tub of potatoes. The ladies skillfully attacked the miniscule purple and yellow-veined potatoes with paring knives, leaving the spuds without peel in seconds. Wara hunkered down next to the smiling lady from breakfast this morning, Doña Petronia.