The law is based on the legend of the werewolf.
I stare into Perla’s wrinkled face, her foggy eyes like dusty crystal balls, and I wait for her to crack her sardonic smile. But it never comes. “¿Qué?”
“The lobizón is the South American werewolf,” she explains in her academic tone. “It’s a mix of European mythology and the legend of the luisón, a different creature rooted in the stories of the Guaraní, people indigenous to South America—”
“Wait,” I interrupt. Perla was a middle school teacher before homeschooling me, so I’m used to taking her lessons seriously. Only I can’t with this one. “What do werewolves have to do with Argentine law?”
Ma brings the bombilla to her lips and nudges my plate, which I abandoned as soon as Perla said lobizón, toward me.
“There’s a superstition in Argentina that says the seventh consecutive son in a family will become a werewolf,” says Perla, her soft g the only sign that English isn’t her first language. “I used to tell you about it when you were little. They say that a long time ago, people really believed it, and to stop the abandonment of these children, the government enacted this tradition-turned-law.”
Ma makes an impatient noise as she sets the mate down, and I let my fork fall to the plate, its clang underscoring my disbelief.
I’m no stranger to a good superstition—Perla thinks describing a nightmare before breakfast will make it come true, and Ma is adamant we keep three salters at the table, one for each of us, because it’s bad luck to pass the salt hand-to-hand—but I’ve never heard of a government-sanctioned superstition before.
“But why is it still in practice today, when we know better?” I demand. “And if the myth is about seventh sons, why does the law also apply to daughters?”
Yet even before I finish asking the question, I know the answer. It was in Perla’s story.
“Because seventh daughters become—”
“¡BASTA!”
Ma’s outburst is so abrupt that even the kitchen seems to suck in its breath, leaving little oxygen for the rest of us. She picks up the thermos, and for a few long seconds the only sound in the apartment is the hot water rushing into the calabaza gourd as she refills it.
Perla brings the mate to her lips when Ma hands it to her and doesn’t speak again.
“None of that is true,” says Ma, her voice rough. “The law started as a tradition brought over by Russian dignitaries who were visiting Argentina. They asked the president to be godfather to their seventh son because it was customary in their country, so we adopted the practice. That’s all.”
Our discussion has been innocuous enough that Ma’s anger must have to do with something else … I think back to when I first walked in, how she and Perla seemed to be discussing something, something serious enough to silence them, and fear hardens into a rock in my gut.
I force myself to finish my food, even though my appetite’s gone. When my plate is clean, I bring everything to the sink and pick up Mimitos’s bowl to start washing.
“Leave it, Manu.”
Ma’s voice breaks the tense silence, and when I turn to look at her, she says, “Quiero charlar con vos.”
There’s a difference between a charla and a conversación: The first is a chat, the second is a talk. Even though Ma said she wants to charlar, by her face and tone, I know she actually wants to have a conversación.
The last time we had one of those was over a year ago when Guillermo from 2B was deported to Colombia. This morning, her forehead is creased with the same worry lines.
My gut is heavy as I follow her out of the kitchen and into our bedroom. When she shuts the door, my throat closes with it.
“I don’t want you leaving El Retiro for any reason today.”
My chest deflates; I was planning to visit the library to get the newest book in the Victorian fantasy series I’m devouring. “But what if Perla needs me to check something out for our lessons?”
The librarians know Perla from her teaching days, and they think I’m her granddaughter. They love her so much that they don’t even give me a hard time for keeping my sunglasses on indoors.
“You’ll have to use what’s here.” Ma scrutinizes my lopsided stacks of books, which she’s constantly asking me to tidy up.
“I promise to be quick and discreet—”
“A sixteen-year-old girl out alone in the middle of the day is never discreet,” she shoots back.
“A) It’s Sunday, and anyway it’s summer, so no one’s in school. And B) I’ll be seventeen in two weeks.”
Still, I know the real reason she’s worried. I may not have friends, but I spend my days devouring books and television shows, so I’m aware there’s a word for someone like me. Someone who looks too different.
(Freak.)
“Ma,” I say in what I hope is a reassuring tone. “I swear to keep my sunglasses on at all times, even in the bathroom—”
“Manuela, suficiente.”
The sharpness in her voice means this is the kind of conversación where she talks and I listen.
“I heard from Doña Rosa that random immigration sweeps will be happening in our area to meet this administration’s deportation quotas. If they ask for your papers, your mirrored lenses won’t be enough to shield you. ¿Entendés?”
Ma works as a maid for a wealthy Cuban family that seems to be pretty plugged into the government because they always know when something’s coming down. Despite the stifling Miami heat, my fingers feel frozen. For Ma and me, deportation is death.
We came to this country a dozen years ago because we couldn’t stay in Argentina. My father was heir to a powerful criminal organization with hooks into the police and government, and his own people killed him for trying to run off with Ma and start a new life. His family blamed Ma for what happened, so she had to run—and when she discovered she was pregnant, she knew she could never go back.
Only we’re not safe yet.
Ma says she filed our visa request with her employer’s sponsorship, and we’re still awaiting an answer. She and I have a deal that she’s in charge of our finances and our residency, which means I’m not allowed to stress about either. I don’t know the process’s particulars, but what I do know is that until our papers come through, we’re undocumented. And since Florida banned sanctuary cities, we’re always at risk of discovery—so there’s a single guiding principle we exist by:
Visibility = Deportation.
And my face is entirely too visible.
Ma is still waiting on a response from me, so I nod my submission. “Good,” she says. “Now why don’t you go shower, then we’ll play a game of chinchón?”
“Seriously?” It’s been forever since Ma’s had time to play cards with me.
“Doña Rosa told me I could come in an hour later today.”
I nod eagerly, my mood improved. But as she’s leaving, I can’t keep from asking, “Any news?”
Without slowing down or twisting to look at me, she says, “Yes, we’re citizens now, and I just forgot to tell you.”
* * *