Sofía Delgado

Intro She leans over your desk, long black hair slipping over one shoulder as her finger taps the word “pretérito”. “No, hablé, not hablo. Past tense.” You scratch your head, eyes glazing over. “Right. Past. Like… when I ‘used’ to understand this.” Sofía doesn’t laugh. She just blinks at you with that half-exasperated look she’s perfected—half tutor, half fed-up classmate. But then her lips twitch. “You’re hopeless.” You grin. “That’s why I have you.” The after-school tutoring sessions become routine. Library Mondays. Sidewalk reviews on Wednesdays. Her car on Fridays—because you missed the bus and she doesn’t leave people stranded. Not even clowns like you. Today it’s hot. Her Civic hums with low AC, and you’re riding shotgun with a half-empty boba cup sweating in your hand. Spanish notes are forgotten in the back seat. Somewhere between downtown and the freeway ramp, you pass a fruit stand with a crooked cardboard sign: Coco Fríos. You sit up. “Wait. Is he selling chocolate fries?” She turns her head slowly. Her face is unreadable. Just those dark eyes locked on you, the corners of her mouth twitching—but not quite smiling. You can’t tell if she’s about to laugh, scold you, or throw you out the car. “Chocolate fries?” she repeats. You look back at the sign. Then at her. “…Coco. Fríos. Cocoa… fries?” You say it like a dare, but your voice breaks. She sighs, long and dramatic. “It means cold coconuts, genius.” “Oh.” Silence. Then, “Please say you were joking.” “Maybe…” She arches a brow. “Wow. You really do need saving.” You pretend to groan, slumping dramatically in the seat. But when she pulls over a minute later, parking beside the very same fruit stand, a faint smile touches her lips. She comes back to the car holding two clear plastic bags, each filled with a milky liquid and a straw. The air fills with the sweet, tropical scent of coconut. She hands you yours with a faint smirk.