“Emma’s missing,” Pao said, looking at the ground. “She disappeared tonight. I tried to go to the police, but”—she sighed—“they didn’t believe a word I said.”
“Querida, what do you mean? The police? Disappeared from where?”
“Do you want to know why they didn’t believe me, Mom?” Pao’s voice was louder now. Her frustration was winning against her desire to keep the peace.
“What I want to know is—”
“Because they think I’m just another superstitious small-town kid raised on El Cuco and La Llorona! Because they think I don’t know what I saw. Because people…” Pao took a deep breath. Was she really going to say it? But Emma was gone and everything was falling apart and something inside Pao was falling apart, too. “Because people like you talk about ghosts and old folk stories like they’re real. And everyone thinks we’re all like that.”
It hurt more than she thought it would, voicing this separation between them, putting it out there instead of hiding it in jokes or simply avoiding each other. Pao didn’t want them to be at odds—her mom was all she had. But there was no denying that their perspectives on life were very, very different.
And unless something changed in a big way, they probably always would be.
“Paola…” Her mom’s shoulders were slumped, her eyes exhausted, her black T-shirt stained with bar patrons’ food and drink. Her hair was escaping its bun. Pao felt sorry for her.
But not enough to stop herself.
“I’m tired of it, Mom,” Pao said, a small part of her watching in horror as it all came spilling out. “The superstitions, the stories, the rituals. They make people think we’re crazy and backward.” She gestured around at the green candles that couldn’t always keep the lights on, at the tarot cards that brought comfort to everyone but them. “It makes everyone feel sorry for us or make fun of us and…not take us seriously when we really need them to.” She stopped then, but the damage was already done. The words she’d been holding back for weeks, maybe months, had been released, and there was no taking them back.
“If you think my candles and cards are responsible for all the prejudice against Latinx people in this world, Paola Santiago, you have a lot more to learn about the people in it,” her mom said. She was angry—Pao could tell by the deeper crease between her eyebrows. “Now, I understand that you’re upset,” she continued, calmer now. “You must be terrified for your friend, and furious that the police didn’t listen to your story. But to blame all this on me and my beliefs would be a big mistake.”
Pao felt like someone had punctured a balloon inside her chest. She wanted to cry, but she didn’t feel she had the right. Not after the things she’d said. She had drawn a line, and now they were on opposite sides of it. Pao crossed her arms, trying to hold everything in.
“I’ve had a long night at work,” her mom said, crossing her own arms, a mirror image of Pao. “I’ll call the Lockwoods first thing to see if I can help. In the meantime, we both need some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning—after you’ve cleaned up this mess.”
As her mom walked past the kitchen, Pao wondered if this mess could be cleaned up. Glass and wax could be swept up, and the new scratch in the linoleum floor would barely show, but what about all the frustrations that had caused her to lose it in the first place? Pao’s anger was ebbing, but the toothy thing beneath it stubbornly refused to budge.
And perhaps most bothersome of all, practical Pao couldn’t stop seeing that pale, long-fingered hand creeping closer and closer….
The next morning, Pao woke early to the smell of coffee, which her mom didn’t drink, and the sound of adult male voices, which Pao hadn’t heard in this apartment in living memory.
Wearing her slightly too-small space pajamas, Pao walked out into the living room to find her mom addressing Dante, his abuela, and two uniformed police officers.
Her heart sank. If there were police at her house, that meant Emma still hadn’t been found. Pao’s brain calculated quickly. It was seven thirty, which meant Emma had been missing for thirteen hours and forty-five minutes. A car could have traveled almost a thousand miles by now….
But Pao didn’t even know if Emma was in a car. She didn’t know anything. The variables were too many—and multiplying exponentially every additional moment her friend stayed missing.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any cream,” Pao’s mom was saying. She wore a silky robe over a camisole and striped pajama pants. “But you’re all welcome to coffee.” Pao noticed that the mug her mom clutched was shaking slightly.
Normally, Pao would have stood beside her for support, or at least given her a look across the room to make sure she knew they were in this together. But this morning, Pao’s mom avoided her gaze, the tension between them too great even with all these other people around.
“Is this Ms. Santiago?” asked one of the officers. Neither of them was the cop she’d met at the station, and Pao wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse. At least she knew what to expect from Mustache Man.
“I’m Pao,” she said, not offering her hand.
“Officer James.” This guy was all business, with none of the sneering prejudice of the man from the night before, but still Pao didn’t trust him. Bigotry wore a lot of different faces—she knew that well, even though she hadn’t started seventh grade yet.
“This is Officer Tyler,” the first cop said, introducing his partner. “We’ve discussed things extensively with Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood, but what we need from you two”—he gestured between Pao and Dante—“is to show us exactly where your meeting place was. We’d like to search the area, and canvass the route between there and the Lockwoods’ house to see if anyone saw the girl.”
“Have you found anything?” Dante asked before Pao could.
Señora Mata looked chastisingly at Dante, and Pao could almost hear her thinking that children should be seen and not heard.
Officer Tyler, on the other hand, considered him speculatively. “Last night’s patrol didn’t turn up any clues. We’re hoping daylight will improve our chances.”
“What are we waiting for?” Pao asked, marching toward the door without bothering to get dressed.
Señora Mata hung back, clearly not up for the mile-and-a-half trek across the desert, and Pao thawed a little when her mom said, “No se preocupe, Carmela. You go on upstairs. I’ll look after Dante.” Pao felt a rush of gratitude toward her mom for hurrying the process along, but then of course she delayed them by insisting on getting dressed first.
Two steps forward, one step back, Pao thought.
Finally, they set out for the river, the officers asking Pao and Dante questions about their normal route and if anyone else knew about their gatherings.
She and Dante answered as honestly as they could, but Pao didn’t think they were telling the police anything very useful. Her restlessness was back, feeling like little robotic insects skittering up and down her bones.
No one was hurrying enough, and Pao couldn’t reveal the reason for her urgency: The nebulous connection her nightmare had drawn between the figure they’d seen and the Mesa kidnapper.