We’re not allowed to do almost anything at Rose’s, but I try to get a couple meals a week there regardless. Her mom cooks food good enough to present to God in heaven. When Mrs. Damas calls that dinner is done, I run to the kitchen to fill my plate with red snapper and peppers, red beans, and rice alongside a pile of tostones. Mrs. Damas smiles. “What’s your mix today?” She gestures to our heads.
“Oh, the usual,” I say. “Coconut oil and honey.”
“I’m trying that new deep conditioner Gram sent,” Rose says, and Mrs. Damas’s smile drops. She’s not a big fan of her mother-in-law, apparently, and Rose tends to enjoy this. Mrs. Damas doesn’t respond, though. Instead, she says, “Sia, Rose tells me you’re helping with the First Communion prep this month.”
Though it’s hard, I refrain from groaning. I’d almost forgotten that Rose had guilted me into teaching the class with her. It’s the last one before the First Communion mass, so it’s always packed with energetic children who need to be chased and caught every five minutes. Literally. I have timed it. I swear, those little jerks are organized or something. But I do owe Rose. She’s tutored me in trig all semester and I’m actually passing. “Yes,” I say as Rose grins at me from behind her mom. “Looking forward to it!”
“We’re always blessed to have you, Sia.” Mrs. Damas touches the cross at her neck. It’s gold and beautiful. I used to have one just like it, in silver. Before Mom died.
Mr. Damas clears his throat. “Grace.” It’s more of a command than a reminder.
Rose and I bow our heads and close our eyes, listening to his monotone recital. “May everything in our lives bring us closer to Christ, who suffered relentlessly despite our unworthiness. Keep these two young women away from the prying eyes and hands of the Devil, my Father.” I raise an eyebrow at Rose, who bites her lips, trying not to laugh.
“O God, we are not worthy of this life, or of this food, and we thank you. Thank you for giving us the gift of Jesus, who died on the cross so that we may have eternal life.”
“Amen,” I say. Maybe a little too enthusiastically, because Mr. Damas raises an eyebrow. “Praise the Lord,” I add. This appeases him, I guess, ’cause then he begrudgingly allows us to eat dinner in Rose’s room like barbarians.
16
WHEN I GET IN MY car, my hair is shinier than a new Mercedes. Rose begged me to stay over again. I told her I have to finish all that homework, but she knew. Getting up Sunday morning at the Damases’ means I have to go to Mass. And I can’t. Not for two years now. I mean, I can barely handle chasing kids who are supposed to be rehearsing their First Communion.
Before going home, I take a detour into the desert and park near the humanoid cacti. I reach into the back, grab La Guadalupe’s candle, light it in my lap. The flame flickers back and forth with my breath.
When I was, like, eleven, my grandmother said there were countless worlds in addition to ours. The underworld, the ghost world, the world of beetles and bats and hummingbird moths. There’s a world for warlocks and brujas and one for coconut trees and even a world just for our dreams. That one, she said, was always changing.
As soon as Abuela returned to the kitchen, I rolled my eyes at Mom.
“Oh, please,” I said. “How can there be so many worlds if I can only see one?”
“There are many ways to see,” Mom said. She then closed her eyes for a second, as though she were savoring the smell of bubbling fideo de pollo. As though she could see something impossible under her lids. When she looked at me again, she just said, “Come on.” She turned to the back door.
“What? Why?”
“I said come on, Artemisia.”
I grumbled and stomped through the door behind her. The backyard of Abuela’s trailer looked like the whole wide desert. It still does, I guess.
“Face me.”
I turned, scoffing. Finally, I looked at her.
Mom smiled. “You remember what I told you about the saguaros? That—”
“They dance when no one’s looking? Yes. And I actually believed it, you know.” I glanced at the cacti, their arms and heads all traitorously stiff.
“Stare at me.”
I dragged my gaze to her once more. “Yes?”
“Keep looking.”
I looked and looked at Mami’s brown-gold eyes, until my own watered.
“There,” she said. “You see that?”
I didn’t want to admit it, but yes. I did see it. The cacti all around us. They shimmied.
And then, so fast I almost missed it, one to my right side extended one green, prickly arm out to another. Like it was asking her to dance.
I stopped breathing for a few seconds, jerking my eyes right on their plant-bodies. But they were as still as the dry air.
“They—did you—Mom, did you see—”
“Muy bien,” she said, grinning. “Come inside, m’ija. Tengo hambre.”
She had to take my hand and pull me in, where we sat under braids of garlic and ate sopa con Abuela. Otherwise I think I would’ve stayed out there for hours, staring, waiting for those saguaros to spin and turn and dip like they were in love.
17
I GASP AS A RED truck—the red truck—pulls in close.
The sunset reaches across the sky. It’s light enough that I can see the driver’s face. He looks young. I pinch the flame, place La Guadalupe in my cup holder, and open the door. I walk quickly; the dry wind rattles against me as I approach his window. He jumps a bit as I rap it with my hand.
“Uh, hi?” he says as he rolls it down. He looks older than me, but not by much.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask. “Who are you?”
He furrows his brow. “Is there some law I’m breaking—”
Truthfully, we’re both breaking the law, considering you can’t drive off road here. “What is it, exactly, that you’re doing?”
He picks up a notebook and waves it about. “I’m writing.”
I stare at him. He’s wearing a taupe linen button-down and jeans. I wonder if he’s from Bloomington, the closest town to ours. “Why here?”
“Why not? It’s fucking gorgeous.” He gestures to the sky.
“This is my spot.”
“Sorry, I didn’t see a ‘No Trespassing’ sign.” He tries to hide a smirk.
I fold my arms. “This,” I sputter, pointing to the space between the two green humanoids. “This is the beginning of the world. And you’re just mucking it all up with your weird, rusty truck.”
“Your Jeep’s got rust, too,” he retorts, but he’s smiling. I try to memorize the specifications of his features in case I run into him again. Dark hair. Hazel eyes.
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes and huff back to my car.
“Who are you, anyway? What are you doing out here?”
I don’t answer. He yells again as I slam the door shut and drive away. I think it’s something like, “What do you mean, this is the beginning of the world?”
18
I SHOULDN’T HAVE YELLED AT some boy like that. Especially some white boy. The last thing I need is for the sheriff to find out about my spot and come here and arrest me or something. I’m sure he’d love that.