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“So, it’s basically a hard donut?” I ask.
“How dare you.” He scoffs playfully. “Just take a bite, then you can see for yourself.”
I bite into it. My first reaction is that it’s a wafer in donut form. It’s sweet with an aftertaste of sour. It’s bland in a way but light enough to be the perfect beach snack.
“Now take a sip of this.” He hands me a bottle with a bright brown liquid inside and a lion on the label.
Twisting the cap open, I take a sip.
It’s a sweet tea of sorts. It tastes earthy and organic. There’s a hint of caramel, and that’s when I realize that I like this better than the Globo thing he just gave me. The drink is cold, giving me a refreshing aftertaste.
“I like this better,” I tell him, holding it up so he can see what I’m talking about.
“I would say it’s the Coca-Cola of Brazil. I like it better than most soft drinks. It tastes like my childhood,” he agrees.
I take another sip before placing the bottle down on my towel and Xavier takes a bite of a biscuit happily.
“Esa fue una compra tonta.” I turn around to see Chanel and Cleo walking toward us with souvenirs in both of their hands. I’m guessing it’s Cleo’s.
“I officially love Brazil,” Cleo calls out in Xavier’s direction.
He lights up.
“How was the shopping spree?” he asks them.
“You mean her shopping spree.” Chanel points at Cleo and plops all her stuff on my towel then sits on her own, placed right in front of my towel.
Cleo rolls her eyes in response. “It was great. I can’t wait for Chanel to sew some of this stuff into cool clothes.”
“You will not be using my abilities for your clothes that I would call an abomination.”
“Yes, you will.” Cleo is gleeful in response.
Chanel sighs in defeat. “You know I will, just so that you stop asking me.”
I look down to see a towel of sorts, the cloth is not necessarily made of cotton. It’s thinner than a regular beach towel. The towel has a black background in contrast to the rainbow that depicts all the favelas belowCristo Redentor. To my side are a bunch of matching keychains that are in sets of two. No doubt Cleo will make them into earrings. She has more earrings than Chanel has clothes and that’s an ungodly amount. Most of her earrings are handmade by Cleo herself.
To my left, more clothes and bracelets. Underneath all that, I see a yellow cloth. Pushing that all aside, I am presented with Brazil’s national soccer team jersey.
“Cleo, no,” I let out.
“Yes.” Her smile is sheepish.
As a devoutSelección Mexicanafan, I refuse for my sister, a Mexican, to wear our main opponent’s jersey. In the two previous world cups before the most recent one, Brazil has eliminated us. It is blasphemy to wear their soccer jersey as a Mexican.
“I quite like it.” Xavier is looking at me sheepishly.
I glare at him. “No, return it,” I tell Cleo.
“Absolutely not. I’m not even a soccer fan anyway. It doesn’t mean anything to me. Plus, this one’s prettier than the Mexican jersey.”
“It’s iconic,” Xavier points out before he high-fives Cleo in encouragement. “You know what?” He gets up abruptly. “Where did you get the jersey?” he asks.
“With the nice man over there.” She points not too far into the distance.
“What’s your size?” Xavier asks again.
“A medium,” I tell him. “Why?” I question.
