We’re not even officially seeing each other yet, and here Arthur wants me to move in with him. What is he thinking? Last night we had both been too tired to do anything, but what if we hadn’t been? What would have happened if we’d started messing around? I’m not ready for that. I’m barely ready for this.
I walk back to Arthur’s bedroom and stare into a sliding mirror that’s attached to the closet door, then remove my shirt and toss it on the bed. I look at myself. My scars aren’t nearly as red as they once were, and they aren’t as bumpy, either. I run my thumb across them.
When I look at myself, I see a man, but is that what Arthur would see? There’s no way to know without asking someone to intrude on his thoughts, and I won’t allow Gwen to do that, despite her repeated offers to do so. I reach for my shirt, and it suddenly moves to my left like a skipping stone, until eventually landing on the floor.
Arthur had never mentioned a ghost in his house, but it wouldn’t be the first time something like this happened to me—and only me. Spirits and my connection with the dead are two of the main reasons why I’m drawn to brujería—death doesn’t scare me, never has.
The shirt is folded neatly and sitting on the floor when I grab for it a second time. Being in Arthur’s room like this feels very invasive and I don’t like it. I shouldn’t have come in here. Something catches my eye right as I slip my head through the neck of my shirt, though.
Two picture frames.
A picture of us, the three of us—Gwen, Arthur and me—waiting in line at Kings Island. I remember the day well. We’d waited in line for like two hours to ride the Diamondback, and it hadn’t even been that scary. We had all been sunburned and exhausted, Gwen had thrown up on herself during the ride, but I didn’t think it lived up to the hype, while Arthur had seemed content just being there with us.
The other picture is just the two of us, Arthur and me. I still have really long hair and breasts—even though I’m wearing a binder—but he’s smiling and has his arm around me. I take the picture frame into my hands and look at it more closely. I remember the day this photograph was taken—the day right before I moved into my dorm. Leaving Gwen and Arthur for the first time like that had easily been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. My freshman year of college really sucked.
I bend down to place the frame back on the side table and am struck with an overwhelming sensation of grief and mourning, the feeling familiar and somehow oddly welcoming. My knees buckle underneath the weight of it all and I fall onto Arthur’s bed, still clutching the picture frame.
What the fuck is happening?
Visions, or memories that are not mine, swarm my mind, pushing out any thoughts that belong to me. From the scenery, I gather that these are Arthur’s memories. Memories from the past two years or so. Most of them involve Arthur sobbing, or getting into fights with his father. The hardest one to watch is his father slapping Arthur during a heated argument over me. Other memories include Arthur smoking weed until he passes out by himself, and drinking and falling asleep in an empty bathtub.
“Why are you showing this to me?” I shout, trying to gain purchase on my consciousness. “What do you want me to say? It’s not like I know what I’m doing here. I’m in pain, too!”
The final memory I’m shown must be a recent one because Arthur is here, in the trailer, pacing back and forth, talking to himself. I’m concerned at first, but then realize he’s repeating himself over and over again, possibly rehearsing something he’s about to say. When I hear my name, I listen and watch him intently. When his tone changes abruptly, I can tell that he’s getting frustrated with himself because he doesn’t know how I’ll take his confession that he loves me—he’s terrified, actually. I know this not because I know what he’s thinking, but because of the way he’s gripping the sides of the sink and shaking his head.
Tears run down my face, and when I blink, I find myself sprawled out on his bed, gasping for air. The middle of his mattress is soaked with my tears. Who knows how long I’ve been here, lost in Arthur’s thoughts?
I sit up and look at the picture once more. Arthur’s suffered so much more than I could have ever thought. Underneath his easy-going, delightful personality is a relatively fragile human being, someone who has struggled with self-imposed isolation and loneliness.
When I get to the front of the trailer, I find my bag and retrieve the green toothbrush. I walk to the bathroom and sit it next to his in the porcelain holder. I have no idea if what I’m doing is the right thing, or what just happened back in that bedroom, but I need to stop hiding behind this wall that I’ve erected all around me. It’s time.
Arthur and I will be connected regardless of what happens this summer. The bards sang about it hundreds of years ago, and they’ll sing about it again.
* * * *
Mordy and I hang out the next day. His sister has to help their uncle with another ceremony, so she doesn’t join us. We have lunch together at a coffee shop a few blocks away from the craft store. Emmett ignored me most of the day yesterday, and I was thankful for it, if I’m being honest with myself. Hopefully Mordy will clarify some things for me today, because the broken-glass-everywhere scene was rattling, to say the least.
“I’ll have the veggie burger,” I say. “Extra pickles, please.”
The waiter takes our menus and informs us the soda machine is broken.
“So you’re a vegetarian?” Mordy asks, his chin propped up on two fists. He’s wearing a pair of eyeglasses today, and his dreads are wild, like eels trying to swim away from a net or something. His T-shirt, overalls and high-top Converse are blindingly white as usual.
“Yeah, since I was fifteen, I think.” I take a sip of jasmine tea, mentally noting just how delicious it is with a slice of lime.
“Don’t you miss meat, though?”
The conversation we’re about to have is one I’ve had about a thousand times before and don’t really care to have again. My cheek twitches in response, and I wait for him to ask more questions about my dietary habits.
“I mean, I dig it,” Mordy says. “Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s totally admirable. I just like my ropa vieja too much to ever give it up, you know?”
“Trust me, I do know. I miss tacos al pastor, but it’s a moral thing that I can’t shake no matter how hard I try. It’s just a personal thing. I don’t care about what other people do.”
Mordy nods and takes a sip of coffee. “It’s cool. I’m not here to harsh your mellow.”
After our food arrives, we talk briefly about life in Avalon. Mordy has lots of questions about Gwen and my family, about magick and about my personal feelings on destiny. Most of the questions are easy to navigate, and the conversation flows as effortlessly as water, but then Mordy asks me about Arthur, and I have trouble describing our friendship, a dam suddenly appearing.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“Not exactly,” I say. It feels like a lie, like I’m betraying Arthur by saying this, but we haven’t made any formal commitments to each other. Not yet. “Though he is my best friend, and I am staying with him at the moment.”
Mordy’s eyebrow arches and a smirk forms in the corners of his mouth. “So what you’re saying is that he’s ready to be your boyfriend, you’re just not sure.”
I don’t want Mordy getting the wrong idea here. I am sure about being Arthur’s boyfriend, I’m just afraid of what obstacles we’ll face in the future, of what it will mean when we’re finally allowed to love each other openly, of the expectations Arthur will have of me once it’s finalized. But mostly I am deeply afraid of fucking everything up.
“Are you into girls at all?”
I shake my head. “No,” I say. “I once dated an eighth grader when I was in the sixth grade, but it ended after three straight months of her trying to get into my pants. I guess I just didn’t know how to describe the way I felt inside.”
Mordy nods, as though he understands what I’ve been through.
“I didn’t know
the words yet, you know?”
“So, no pride demonstrations in here Avalon this summer? No drag queen story hour?” Mordy asks.
I laugh. “Only if hell freezes over within the next two weeks. And it’s pronounced Ay-va-lone, not Avalon.”
“Well, excuse me. How long have you lived in Ay-va-lone?”
The waiter comes and removes the dishes from our table, and brings me a small pot of fresh tea. I pour myself a cup before answering Mordy, because it’s a short, but complicated story.
“I was born here, and then I was placed in foster care after my parents overdosed on heroin. I think I bounced around Kentucky until I was like eight or nine, then I came back here.”
“Damn. H? That’s hard as fuck. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Oh,” I reply. “It was literally over fifteen years ago when that happened. I don’t remember Juan or Sherry, but I’m sure they loved me as well as they could, given the circumstances.”
“Well, I’m glad to see that you’ve managed to come out on top. You’re strong, and I respect those struggles.”
“Thanks,” I say. I guess I had never really thought of it as a struggle, or something worth dwelling over. At least, not my parents’ deaths.
“And now? Your Facebook says that you no longer go by Gonzales.” Mordy says this in a way that is less of a statement, and more like an accusation. “What happened there?” My name is no longer Gonzales, but I asked for the name change—not Gwen, not my mom, not my dad.
Fred Lotte, the patriarch of the family, our dad, had insisted that I think carefully about changing my last name, always maintaining that it was a part of my heritage. But after I’d lived with Gwen and our parents for longer than I had lived with my biological family, I asked them if I could become an official part of their family. They had argued that it wasn’t necessary, that I was already a Lotte.
What’s funny is that I’ve chosen both my first and last name, and I have no regrets.
Even though I don’t know him that well, I assume that Mordy probably grew up surrounded by people who shared his ethnicity and culture, whereas I had not. If his presence on social media is any indication of his past, our upbringings were different. I don’t have any pictures with my biological family, no connection to anyone other than the Lottes. My identity hadn’t fully developed until after I had been adopted by Fred and Anna, and even now I have difficulty from time to time. But I’m proud to share a last name with Gwen, and I wouldn’t give up Fred and Anna for the world. Like so many things in my life, it’s complicated.
I choose my words carefully, but say them as firmly as I can. “Things are different here. I mean, do you have any idea what it’s like to grow up in a town where most everyone is white? I have really had to overcome some serious shit in order to accept any kind of love from anyone.”
Mordy puts down his cup of coffee and makes a fist, then hovers it over my tea.
“Go on, tap it,” he says. So I do, and when our skin touches it feels electric, scorching even. “You’re real peoples out here, you know that? You say what’s on your mind, and I can see that when I talk to you, you’re listening to me. Not thinking about how I look or sound, or what I’m going to do next.”
I nod to him and pour myself another cup of tea. “So, enough about my messy-ass life. What about you? Why are you here? And don’t say ‘visiting my uncle’, because your sister and uncle are practicing sorcery in his barn right now.”
Mordy’s laughter fills the empty cafe, and the barista glances at us.
“Yes,” he says. “They are doing just that. But I am here visiting him and his family.”
“Right,” I say. “Why?”
“Morgan was originally sent here by our abuelo to gather information about some incidents that happened right before he moved to California back in the day, and then I got into an argument with my abuelo about it, and drove out here myself.”
“What kind of incidents?”
Mordy looks around to make sure no one is listening to our conversation.
“Do you remember when those kids from that day care went missing? I think it was called Debbie’s Daycare, something really generic like that. You were probably nine—”
“Ten,” I say, cutting him off. “Yeah, I remember when that happened, because Gwen and I were pulled out of day care after the second round of abductions occurred. Damn, that was years ago. I had forgotten all about that.”
“Right, from a different day care. So you remember how crazy things got once the media got a hold of the story. It was all over the damn news for weeks. How the Feds and state police tore this place up. Child protective services shut down three in-home day cares. Everyone was terrified to go to work because when they got off, their children might be missing.”
“I do remember hearing about that,” I say. Something black flashes in my peripheral vision, and I look out of the window to my left. A large blue jay lands on a light post and very pointedly stares at us.
“Fuck him,” Mordy says, now looking in the same direction. He pulls out a necklace—or rather, a braided string of small animal bones—from within his white shirt, and shakes them at the animal. “Come at me, you little pissant. I will add to you to my collection.”
The bird doesn’t move, instead keeping its glossy, beady eyes glued to Mordy.
“Emrys would not dare enter this place, because there are two powerful black magicians in here. Let him watch us convene. Little fucker.”
The barista and waiter don’t seem to mind us, the enormous blue and white bird now perched outside or the lack of customers, instead flirting with each other, talking about how it’s supposed to rain this evening, and how they’re looking forward to seeing a movie together tonight. How they are oblivious to the overwhelmingly dark manifestation outside, I do not know.
“Who is Emrys?” I ask, then snap my fingers in Mordy’s face, trying to get his attention. “Mordy! Earth to Mordy! Hey, Mordred!”
Somehow the blue bird rotates its head in a complete circle, then spreads its wings as if in response to hearing Mordy’s full name, and flaps them three times before crowing and flying away. Mordy seems entranced by the whole situation, and shoots me a dangerous look once the bird leaves our sight.
“Fuck, not Emrys himself, but possibly a spy.” His voice is as dark as the coffee in his hand. “Lance, please do not call me Mordred in front of others.”
“Okay,” I say. “I only did it because I wanted to get your attention.”
“I’m sorry,” he replies. “But Morgan is the only one who calls me Mordred.”
Mordy excuses himself and heads to the restroom. I turn my phone over on the table, and see several texts from Arthur. I’m trying to be better about answering his messages, because I want him to know that I care about him and the things he says, but he sends me one every thirty minutes, and I have trouble keeping up with them. Some of them aren’t important, but others are, and I try my best to address those.
Last night we fell asleep on the couch again, and when I woke up, I could feel his cock pressed against my side. The desire must have traveled from his body into mine, because I had to get up immediately and hop into the shower, afraid of what I might do if I lingered there any longer. Arthur would never pressure me into having sex, or being intimate with him in any way, but my brain and body have never gotten along, and I know they would betray each other if given the chance.
When I finish responding to Arthur’s texts, he tells me he loves me, that he’ll see me later tonight. I still haven’t told him that I love him, and I’m not sure if it bothers him or not, but I’m not ready to actually say those words to him.
“Before that asshole shit-eater out there arrived, what were we talking about?” Mordy asks, returning to the table. His glasses are hooked on his shirt and his face looks wet, like he’s been splashed with water. “Cops?”
“Cops and CPS,” I say. I slide my phone back into my side bag and focus on what Mordy’s saying. “Them in-hom
e day cares.”
“Those kids that returned, I read somewhere that they were never the same again, as if their very life force had been stolen from them. My Aunt Jessie was one of those kids.”
I gasp. “What? You actually know one of them?”
“Know one of them? Hell, I was practically raised by her.”
“Raised?” I ask. “But how, if they never went back to being normal?”
“Santería is a healing practice. My abuelo fled this town with my mother and her sister. My aunt did not speak until she was seventeen, and that was after years of intense prayer, meditation and sacrifice. Tío Myrddin has stayed here though, fighting the good fight, protecting children from the evil lurking underneath Avalon.”
Now, I believe in magick, and I believe that anything is possible, but Mordy is suggesting a conspiracy, or a subterranean barbarity of some kind. I can’t do anything but look at him stupidly.
“Earlier you said that there were two black magicians here. Were you talking about the two of us?” I move my index finger back and forth, pointing at our chests.
Mordy reaches for my free hand and takes it in his own, electricity or something similar to it passing between the two of us. “I was,” he replies. “Lance, when you walk into a room, the light bends, submits to your darkness. I’ve seen it. I’m seeing it. Surely you feel it inside.”
When I first started getting into magick, I’d thought it was all herbs and charms, candles and meditation, that kind of stuff, but then something inside had changed while I was learning about witches who were incinerated at the stake, famous witches throughout history like Lilith, Medea and the Witch of Endor. The treatment and exile they’d endured. Then a weird sort of vengeance, combined with a profound longing and sorrow as deep as the ocean, had started seeping into my prayers at night, and had often overshadowed the spells I would cast with Gwen. We’d practiced Gwen’s folk magick for a few years, a form of seemingly harmless white magick—until I’d moved away—because enchantments would have gone haywire if I hadn’t repressed the rage I felt toward certain groups of people in town.
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