“Fine,” I grumble, and go inside to boil the water for the French press.
When the cobs are all ripe, I’m going to pluck and dry and grind them in my molcajete. I’ll mix them into a masa, thick, roll them in Abuela’s old tortilla press. Cook with cheese and hot peppers, eggs on the side, diced avocado. Our own special, homegrown, coffee-fed corn tortillas. I think Dad would like that.
12
“GREEN EYES,” ROSE ANNOUNCES AS she walks into my room this evening. She throws her backpack down and takes a seat in my desk chair, leaning back.
“Green eyes,” I repeat.
“Yes.” She stands and falls onto my bed, arm outstretched dramatically, as though she were reciting a monologue in a tragedy. “Just like Harry Potter.”
Then it clicks. “Oh! You mean the new guy.”
“You mean new…” She pauses. “Man.”
“Ew. What do you mean by that?”
“He’s tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. Tan.”
“White boy tan, you mean?”
“Yeah.” She lifts her head to look at me. “How’d you know he’s white?”
“You said his name is Noah, remember?”
“Oh, yeah.” She sighs, drops her head back down. “Noah DuPont. That’s his whole white boy name.”
“So he’s French?”
“Dunno. Didn’t speak to him. He’s in our earth and space class, though.”
Oh, right. I’d nearly forgotten about my schedule change.
“We also have a new earth and space teacher by the way.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Presley went into early labor.”
“Wow. Is she okay?”
“I guess so. She’s on bed rest for the rest of her pregnancy.”
I crawl to my headboard, lean back, and cross my legs. “So we have a new boy and a new teacher all in the same class.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Rose pushes up again. “How was the first day of your temporary exile?”
I shrug. “Kinda long, actually.”
“Aha!” Rose reaches for her bag and pulls out a folder. Tosses it in my lap.
“What’s this?”
“The cure for your boredom, my lady. All the assignments you’ll miss for the whole three days.”
“Really?” I open it and pull out a couple of worksheets. “This is un-freaking-believable!”
Rose cocks her head. “You okay?”
“Yeah, why?” I’m examining the list of assignments from trig class.
“I’ve never seen you so excited about anything before. Like, ever.”
“Well, this,” I say, holding up the papers, “isn’t part of the terms of my punishment. I’m not supposed to be able to catch up.”
Rose scoffs. “Really? That’s ridiculous.”
I hum in agreement, my eyes still on the papers. “So you walked up to all my teachers today, asking them for my work?”
“Nah, I’m not that good of a friend.” She laughs. “Ms. Gerber gave it to me in art.”
“Ah.” My favorite teacher. Even though she has the hots for Dad.
“Guess you know they’re all on your side.” Rose gestures to the folder.
“Yeah.” Goosebumps prick along my arms. This town is so tiny and close to the border, sometimes it feels like everyone thinks all the brown folks ought to be on the other side of a big, ludicrous wall. So I like being part of a secret revolution against Jeremy and Tim McGhee. It’s like being on the side of Wonder Woman versus Ares. Or maybe God and Lucifer.
13
OUR NEW SCIENCE TEACHER WANTS his first assignment submitted tonight, but he gives me until Saturday at noon, or so he writes in my notes. That’s how I spend a weekend morning writing about my favorite astrological body.
* * *
My mother used to take me into the desert to watch the moonrise. She told me the moon used to shine full all month long but that extra light made the plants on Earth grow too much. The whole world was covered in vines and trees and shrubs that started to strangle one another. So the moon decided to birth her own body every month.
When she is new, she is so small, like a baby, we cannot see her. With the darkness of the moon’s birth, the world became balanced again.
My mother said her mother told her this story, and her mother told her, and on and on back until the first woman, whom the moon told directly. (My mom’s mom also said the first people were kernels of corn, so I take it all with a grain of salt.) Either way, I grew up thinking the moon told stories.
This is my favorite astrological body. The one I’d like to learn more about.
* * *
There were a lot of things I didn’t write. Like, after I found out my mom was dead, I went out and begged the moon to tell me otherwise, to tell me it could see her, still breathing, tracking her way through the Sonoran. And how sometimes I wonder if the moonlight that touches me when I light saint candles in the night is the same moonlight that also touches my mami’s bones. And if somehow, I’m connected to her through that light. Like I’m still touching a part of her.
But Mr. Woods says one page is enough.
14
AT THE END OF THE assignment, Mr. Woods writes, What unusual question would you ask if you were getting to know someone better? (Points deducted for inappropriate content.)
I type, Which plant are you a descendant of?
15
SATURDAY NIGHT AT ROSE’S, I’M surrounded by bottles of oils and creams, salivating from the smell of her mom’s cooking. “When is dinner going to be ready?” I ask.
“Five minutes ago, it was in twenty minutes. You can do the math, my lady.” Rose grabs the extra-virgin cold-pressed olive oil. “Should I?”
“Rose, no. Remember, you made me memorize it two weeks ago: olive oil makes your hair look like—”
“Seaweed, I know, I know. But I saw this adorable vlogger who swears by it!”
“Rose.”
She sighs. “Fine. Coconut oil it is.” She mixes a few spoons into her concoction. “What shows did you bring?”
“The library didn’t have anything new. So don’t get mad at me.”
She rolls her eyes. “So our options are Battlestar and Buffy again?”
“Well, I found this VHS of Pretty Woman in the linen closet. With Julia Roberts? Looks super old. Like, older-than-Buffy old.”
She scrunches her nose. “Julie who? You know what, don’t answer that. Buffy, then. I need some Tara in my life right now.”
“Mmm. Okay.”
“Don’t forget to lock the door. If Dad—”
“I know, I know.” Rose’s dad would probably die of a heart attack if he caught a glimpse of a vampire or bug monster or any non-Jesus creature on the show. I put the DVD in and search for a good Tara episode.
Rose’s father thinks most things are the devil: pop and rock and country music, any movies rated above PG, boys, bright makeup, cleavage, long earrings. I’ll stop there because it’s quite a list. He’s okay with only a few things, really: me, homework, and, well, that’s about it. He likes my dad, I guess, but I think it’s because he feels sorry for him.