I turn to see Rose crossing herself. “Lord have mercy,” she says.
I cross myself, too, even though I haven’t done the likes of it in years. Just to be safe. “Let’s get outta here. Whatever that was, it gave me the creeps.”
“Agreed.”
24
AFTER I GET IN BED, I pull my red quilt to my chin and angle my face toward the moon. It’s waning, pulling the full of its belly in and in and in until everything gets its much-needed break from the light, just like Mom’s story said.
When we first moved to this house, like, ten years ago, I’d insisted this room should be mine. It’s the one with the biggest windows, facing the succulent garden filled with plants you’d think should exist on another planet. Thick, waxy leaves that spiral out in mint and pink and violet, with names like “echeveria” and “houseleek” and “living stone.”
Mom sewed the curtains that hug the glass on either side. I was really upset about leaving Abuela’s house, and so I had requested some dark colors for the curtains. Navy, burnt umber, black. “The night will be dark enough,” Mom said. “Let’s go with something brighter.”
We settled on the color of the ocean, but lighter, like it was mixed with milk. “Teal,” Mom called it, but it’s more magical than that to me. Like it should share a name with an otherworldly succulent. String of sea pearls, maybe. The exact shade of turquoise in my grandmother’s rings, minus the cracks of brown and black. Mom chose thin linen, so when it’s afternoon, I can close them and my whole room looks like the inside of a raw aquamarine.
Now the night is dark as Mom promised, thick like paint. Our outside lamp lines the succulents with an edge of copper. The stars shimmer like glitter. It all reminds me of the woman in the sky who created the universe, of the gown she’s wearing, inky with tiny silver sequins sewn in, shivering when she dances.
It’s so unfair that the world ceased to be beautiful once Mom was gone.
As one star twinkles real bright for a moment, I think of the blue lights Rose and I saw. What in the world were they? I bet Mom would know. She always knew everything.
The last thing I remember before falling asleep is my mom’s favorite Shakespeare line. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
25
I GIVE A BEWILDERED LOOK when I see the thing Rose brings me to wear.
She crosses her arms. “I’m not going to be the only one all dolled up, Sia. And this isn’t one of mine, so don’t you start talking to me about your wide hips. It used to be my mom’s. Like, it’s legitimately from the seventies.”
“But it’s so, so…” I pause. “Bright.”
“Emerald. A jewel tone. I keep telling you that you’re a winter.”
“And I keep telling you that I don’t know what the hell that means.”
“Look, you and Mom both have hips and tits. It’s going to fit perfectly.”
I sigh. “Fine,” I say, tearing the dress from her hands and pulling it over my head.
I like that its sleeves are long and flare out, and that the skirt reaches my feet. A low-cut v-neck frames a modest amount of cleavage. “When the hell did your mom ever wear something so… so…”
“Sinful?” Rose suggests. “You know when. Before she met Dad.”
I look in the mirror. Maura Damas has probably got a real good story about this dress, but I bet she’d never tell me about it.
Rose sits me down and pins up my hair. She rubs rouge on my cheekbones, brushes on red lipstick. “There,” she says. “Now you look like Eva Mendes.”
I scoff. “No one looks like Eva Mendes.”
“She’s foxy. And you’re foxy.”
“You are,” I say and it’s true. Her wrap dress is goldenrod and covers everything except a long slit to her mid-thigh. She’s put gold shimmer all over her eyelids and the tops of her cheekbones, mahogany on her lips. She looks like she’s ready for the cover of Vogue, not Samara Kingsley’s annual spring breaker.
“Ready?” she says.
“Yeah.” I nod. “Sure.”
26
THE SKY LOOKED EXACTLY LIKE this the last time I talked to my mom. Dark clouds all lined up like warriors against saltwater blue.
I was in the passenger’s side, though. Dad handed me the cell as he drove.
“Hey, Sia.” Mom’s voice sounded choked.
“Hey.”
“You doing alright? How’s school?”
“Fine. It’s whatever.”
“Any new crushes?”
“Ew, Mom.”
She laughed a bit, but it sounded forced. “Amor. Save that last tin of dulce de leche for me, eh?”
“Fine. Sure.”
“Give the phone back to Papá, okay? I love you.”
“Same.”
I tuned out for a while, just counting the black wisps of clouds until Dad yelled, “No, Lena, don’t you dare, you can’t do it alone. Nadie cruce y vive. ¿Qué estás pensando? Lena, Lena, por favor.” After a minute, he was calm. “Sí, sí. Te amo también.”
As soon as he hung up the phone, he swerved off the road so hard the seat belt dug into my belly.
Before I could yell at him, though, he was banging his fists against the wheel. “Shit,” he screamed. “Shit, shit, shit!”
The line of blood from a knuckle reached his wrist when he turned the car back on. We were supposed to go to the grocery store, but Dad just whipped the car around and we went back home.
I may as well have said nothing the last time I spoke to Mom. I didn’t even tell her I love you in return.
Sometimes I wish I could go back and shake me.
27
“I’M SO HAPPY YOU TWO Ladies could make it,” Samara says when we arrive. She sounds like she means it. “Come in!”
Samara’s highlighted curls look brushed out, framing her face in a magnificent cloud. Her dress is gold and short, nothing that would look good on me, but on Sam it’s effortless. She’s switched out her nose stud for a gold ring, too. “God, love the dresses. Groovy, right? Did I get that right?”
She and Rose talk for a while about sewing or something and I roam around. There are too many people. Some god-awful song is on way too loud. I think even my hair is vibrating. I make my way to the kitchen and pour some ice water.
“Oh my God, do you see that, Sia?” Rose runs up, pointing discreetly. “McKenna Carlson came with the new guy!”
“What?” I say, turning fast. Sure enough, Noah’s in the corner, talking to a bunch of people, McKenna hanging off his arm.
“Yeah, she literally pounced on him first chance she got,” Samara says.
“Wasn’t she dating Matthew Hemingway, like, yesterday?” I ask.
“Not anymore, I guess,” Rose muses.
Samara shrugs. “She can date who she likes, right?” Rose and I agree, but I don’t know, I feel kind of weird about Noah being here with her. But that makes no sense, so I keep the thought to myself.