If I eat next to nothing this summer, I can go to Louisiana. And live on campus.
There’s one more thing that’s so ridiculous, I probably shouldn’t even be thinking about it, but I can’t help it.
It costs $265 to get 158 tarot decks printed by Occulette, the best of the best as far as deck printers go. It’s the cheapest plan, but the stuff is worth it, according to my research. Thick cardstock, the paper smooth as windless lakes. Nothing is going to bend or peel or crack for one hundred thousand spreads. And that’s how a tarot deck should be. Passed on and all so we can have the cards of our literal ancestors.
We can afford it, but I’m pretty sure Mom would rather give Father Luke a blow job than let me contribute to the devil’s work. I mean, I haven’t asked, specifically, but I’d place a large bet on it.
I can print my decks and live on campus if I can figure out a way to live on cold SpaghettiOs all summer without wanting to cut out my own tongue.
… Or not. According to my internet searches, lots of tour buses have kitchens. Some even have full-size ovens and fridges and stuff. Surviving on grilled cheese all summer is an option now. Much better than cold SpaghettiOs, in my humble opinion.
I grab my sketchbook and trail mix and don’t look up until the plane rumbles back to earth.
12. Why Does It Seem Like in All My Beginnings, I’m a Total Jackass?
WE’VE LANDED AND gotten our luggage. Well, I got our luggage. Star approaches the driver holding up the STAR FUENTEZ sign first. He grins when he sees us—or Star, specifically.
“I’ve been following you since the old house,” he says. “God. I can hardly believe I’m talking to you. And you’re even hotter in person.” He coughs, pink spots high on his cheeks. “I mean, I think it’s so cool, that despite everything, you’re staying true to God’s plan, you know?”
Star responds with a Bible verse or something, and this is the part where I put in my earbuds, stare out the window, and tune everyone the flip-flop out. Except that’s the moment my phone chooses to kick the bucket battery-wise, so there goes that grand plan.
The traffic is as stuffed as a Thanksgiving turkey. It takes us forty minutes to get to the bus-slash-restaurant-slash-store, but our driver doesn’t notice. He doesn’t even breathe. I’m tempted to check his neck for some sort of extra nose or gills or something. “I’ve been telling my friends, but they don’t believe me. No one is going to believe I got to drive Star Fuentez from the airport. Seriously, do you need to stop somewhere to eat? You sure? There’s a Port Burger on the way. But you probably don’t eat burgers, huh? I mean, you’re Star Fuentez. Hahahahaha—” And the earbuds go right back in, even with no music, because I’m that desperate. I don’t know how Star doesn’t regularly scream her face off and then light it on fire. But she keeps nodding, smiling, making this guy feels like he’s the first person on earth to reveal his journey back to Jesus to Star Fuentez.
When we finally reach our stop, he asks, “Will you take our picture?” He doesn’t look at me as he hands me his phone.
He puts his arm around Star like they’re old buddies. She leans her head in, toward his shoulder, but keeps the rest of her body a foot away, the classic Creep Alert sign. My instincts crawl out of my body like cobras to see what this guy is being a jerk about. There. His fingers are gripping the underside of her left boob.
I delete the photo immediately and permanently. “One more, except stop fondling her.”
“Moon,” Star says, but her eyes show nothing but relief.
The guy jumps back like he had no idea. “Sorry,” he says, but his eyes are twinkling. I’ll bet he’s mentally composing a text to every dudebro he knows that he got to grope Star Fuentez. Joke’s on him, because now I’m deleting even the proper photos. “There you go, friend,” I say, giving him a glare along with his phone. Asswipe.
He sort of wilts under my gaze and stuffs his phone in his pocket. “Good to meet you,” he says to Star, then gives me a glance before jumping in his car and driving away.
“Thanks, sis,” Star says, hugging me.
Sometimes I wish she’d tell me thanks in front of her fans. Or even just Mom. But whatever. I hug her back and say, “You need to stop posting about waiting for marriage. It’s bait for pervs like him.”
“But it inspires young girls like me. Like us.” Star pulls back to give me a meaningful look, and I know we’re both thinking of that time she told me I can be a virgin again if I confess to God and, like, hold a marriage to Jesus or something. I tried so, so hard not to laugh at the time, and it’s happening again, so I’m relieved when some girl comes running up, screaming Star’s name.
“Chamomila!” Star shrieks, and they hug for eternities, long enough for a new universe to compress and expand and make galaxies and stars and moons and an entirely new conscious species vastly different from humans.
Chamomila Jones somehow looks even less real in person than in her photos. Her body is the bronze of a perfectly applied spray tan, and it’s shimmering, displaying toned muscles everywhere. She’s in a sports bra and leggings with holes cut almost all the way up to her perfect butt. I’m not sure what Purity Culture would say about that, but she looks incredible. I can feel my cellulite deepening just by proximity.
“This is my sister, Moon,” Star says.
I reach my hand out, but Chamomila crushes me into a hug that probably fractures my spine. “It’s so good to finally meet you!” she says into my neck. “I’ve heard so much about you.” I doubt Star spends more than three seconds talking about me to anyone, but I’m sure Chamomila knows three things about me: I’m not a virgin. I don’t regret it. And therefore I need to be prayed for.
She releases me (I swear, I choke for air like I’ve been drowning) and gives my collarbone a long look before turning to Star. “Come on, we’ve got to get you checked in!”
I touch the spot she stared at with my fingertips—a pink, ugly scar about three inches wide. I bet Star never told Chamomila where that’s from. Nor ever will.
In a shocking turn of events, I’m left with almost all the luggage, so I’m certain I look like one of those junk people from Labyrinth who trap mountains of garbage on their backs. I have to move so slowly. Like if a sloth and a turtle and floating algae all had a baby, it’d be me right now. If I lose my balance, one of these bags is going to kill me. I’m certain of it.
There’s a group of beautiful people next to the bus, all welcoming Star. They’re radiating light and drinking green juice and whipped-cream-topped coffee, so I decide to start my own club, the Uglies, population: one. I take the luggage off, one by one, noticing the red marks on my skin from the straps. As long as it’s just me suffering, that’s what matters. I groan and grab my Spanish-English dictionary from my bag.
Mom, along with cooking and sewing and baking and general well-being-ing, has refused to teach us Spanish. “You’re in America,” she says. “What do you need to know Spanish for?” Over the years, Mom’s tried everything to get rid of her accent. An online class, underpronouncing her r’s, and saying the most random phrases, like “Let freedom ring!” and “Always blessed under the US of A!”
Star’s never cared to learn, but I took Spanish for my language classes and loved it. And now I spend half my days with my Spanish-English dictionary, trying to find the most beautiful words in Spanish. I’ve already got a huge list in my sketchbook, with gems like helecho for “fern” and lluvia for “rain” and tierra for “earth” and frambuesa for “raspberry.” Everything about these sounds makes me feel more alive somehow. The idea that languages transform and move and become something new, just like people. Imagine. Somewhere, all the way back in the beginning, there was a first word. Who said it? What was it? The idea gives me goose bumps along my arms, neck, spine.
“Luna!” Star says, making me nearly fall over a Coach tote. “What are you doing over here by yourself?” She grabs my arm and pulls.
“But—the bags—”
“Don’t wor
ry. Cham says Andro’s brother’s going to get them.”
Chamomila appears out of nowhere like a wraith, making me choke on a piece of air I was trying to inhale. After I’m done coughing up an organ, I turn to Star. “Andro has a brother?”
“Oh, yes he does,” Chamomila says, sticking her gorgeous, skinny hip out. She fans herself. “He’s even thicker than Andro.” She nods her head toward somewhere behind me.
I turn, and my heart sort of jumps up out of my body and slaps my face when I see Andro Philips and the tall and bulk and big-handsome-smile of him, and oh, gosh, did he angle one of those smiles at me? No, of course not, I think as Cham smiles back and waves. Silly Moon.
And then, next to him, another guy, as bronze as Andro, but shorter. Like, six foot three instead of six foot five, so still a giant, basically. And yeah, he’s solid. Like, his biceps make Andro’s look like baby fat.
“Wow,” I say, and judging from Star’s face, she’s got the same reaction going on.
“I know,” Chamomila says with a smirk. “It’s too bad he’s just Andro Philips’s brother. Otherwise I’d…” She makes a cat-growling sound, or at least tries to. Sounds more like a chicken getting slaughtered to me.
I scoff and turn it into a cough when Chamomila narrows her eyes at me.
“Did you say something?” Chamomila asks me sweetly.
Star widens her eyes to say something like, Don’t embarrass me in front of my friend.
I shrug. “I thought that was kind of mean. ‘Just Andro Philips’s brother,’ you know?”
Chamomila stares and laughs. “Oh, right, I get it. We Christians always have to defend the less fortunate, right? It’s what Jesus would do.”
“Are you serious right now?”
“Moon.” Star’s eyes are about to pop. But so’s my last nerve, so I keep going.
“I mean, I’m just Star Fuentez’s sister to about everyone.” Even my own mother.
Chamomila doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed. And then she has the audacity to say, “Oh, I’m sure you will accomplish something that will surpass that soon.” She shrugs. “Who knows, maybe Santiago will too.”
What a little—“Oh, I get it,” I say. “When you’re just the sibling of someone so accomplished, you’re basically extra-hairy Chupacabra poop, huh? And who would rawr at extra-hairy Chupacabra poop?”
“Luna.” Star is gesturing behind me with her eyes and fingertips, but I’m not done yet.
“Because any of Andro Philips’s siblings would just be losers. Just big, ridiculous lo—”
“Luna!” Star’s chin is jutting past me, and I spin around with dread falling through my body like dried leaves in a windy autumn forest. And yep, there is Andro Philips’s brother. All 150 percent muscle of him, glaring at me like I’m some mud stuck to his shoes.
“You’re the Fuentez sisters, I take it.” His voice is rumbly, like it comes from his chest, and he won’t remove his murder-eyes from my face.
“Yes,” Star yelps. “Moon and Star. That’s us.”
After glaring at me for another few seconds, the guy gives us name tags. “Andro wants you to wear these.” He scowls when my fingers touch his. Star and I slap the tags on our chests at the same time, eyes wide. About as twinsy as we ever get. And then she decides to put on the charm.
Smiling, she says, “What’s your name?”
“Santiago.” His voice is so deep, I can feel it in my feet. “I’m the merch guy.”
Merch guy. He’s the merch guy? The guy who heard me call him a loser. The guy I’m going to work alongside all summer long. “Oh God—” I say, then slap my hand over my mouth.
“Now you’re praying, Moon?” Star says, echoing one of Mom’s lines.
“Just for death, sister,” I croak, my cheeks so hot, I could melt a glacier on them.
Santiago gives me one last glare before walking away. I turn to Star and Chamomila. “Please tell me that he didn’t hear me call him extra-hairy Chupacabra poop. Please tell me he didn’t hear that.”
They don’t have to respond.
Star’s got a finger pointed at me. “If you’ve cost me this opportunity because you don’t know when to shut up…”
But I can’t think about anything other than Santiago, how under his murder-glare, he looked hurt. Shit, shit, shit.
“It’s okay, Star,” I say. “If Andro says something, I’ll volunteer to leave.” Now let’s pray to Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and the legions of saints and angels that Andro says something.
Meanwhile, Chamomila the Craphead can’t stop giggling. “You were sputtering nonsense and he was right there. The whole time, he was right there. Star, you didn’t tell me your sister was so silly.”
“You know what you are, Chamomila?” I say. “You’re a—”
“Okay,” Star says, jumping in. “I think Andro’s calling for us to join that circle over there.”
Before I follow them, I turn and see, not more than ten feet away, Belle Brix, smoking a cigar like my ninety-year-old great-grandfather. She’s even kind of dressed like him, with a brown button-down top and slacks, though I don’t think he’d go for the black leather jacket. And she’s grinning at us.
Jesus’s toenails, what have I gotten myself into?
13. The Most Perfect Kitchen, So Dang Close and So Dang Far
“ALL RIGHT,” ANDRO says, clasping his hands together. “Why don’t we introduce ourselves, grab a bite, and then hit the road? Yeah? Rock and roll!”
His voice is so chipper. I wonder if Andro’s ever been tempted to not expect the best. He’s so beautiful and successful, it’s hard to imagine that he wasn’t born with the touch of Midas—everything in his path turning to cold, smooth gold. Or, rather, billion-dollar apps. He leans into Belle Brix, who must’ve finished her cigar off in record time to join us. “Belle! Why don’t you get us started?”
Belle Brix smiles. “I focus on makeup at BelleBrixArt.”
Star scoffs next to me. “Makeup isn’t art.” It’s under her breath, but Chamomila and I both hear it, and Chamomila laughs.
“I’m releasing my first lipstick line this season, called Brixsticks. All the colors are available in matte and a glitter blend. I have plenty of samples if you all want to try!”
“I might take you up on that,” Andro says to some chuckles, and goes on to the next in line. Oak Longsteinson, who introduces himself as an internationally renowned author, free climber, and entrepreneur. Chamomila describes herself as “willed by God to guide people toward their best health.” I want to laugh, but at the same time, I can’t. Everything sounds so fake. Everyone has to have a title, a tagline, a logo. It’s like we’re introducing companies and not real, live people.
And then it’s my turn. Andro leans into my name tag and laughs. At first I’m startled—Andro thinks I’m funny? Or funny-looking, more like. But then he says, “Wait a minute—you’re not Star!” Then everyone else laughs too.
And maybe it’s ’cause we’re all nervous. Maybe that’s why everyone’s losing their minds over something not all that hilarious. But I can’t help thinking I’m the joke. Ha ha ha, of course this size 16 frump isn’t Star Fuentez. And I catch Santiago’s eye and he’s smirking too, and I think, Dang. Touché, Santiago. He must’ve handed us the wrong name tags on purpose. Which, if that’s the case, I guess I’ll take it. It’s not every day you get to call someone poop and get away with it.
Star and I quickly switch name tags and I say, “I’m Star’s photographer. Moon. And yes, that’s my real name. And, uh, I’m here to, uh, work in merchandising.”
“You and Santi both,” Andro says, throwing an arm around his brother. “I have a feeling you two are going to be the best merch team in the nation, right? Rock and roll, right? Let’s hear it for Santi and Moon!” And everyone actually claps and cheers, like we the merch people won an Olympic gold medal or something. Well, everyone except for Santiago, who glowers at me, his jaw really sharp under the streetlights, which are flickering on. And all I
can think now is if Santiago hating my guts means we’ll make a great team, then maybe merchandising should be an Olympic sport. Because we’ve already won the gold.
* * *
After the last person says their spiel, Andro calls us to join him at the restaurant—some fancy lantern-lined French bistro. “You coming?” Star says. “We gotta pay for the meal plan real quick so it’s covered.”
“I’m not getting the plan.”
“What?”
“I’m trying to save money, you know?”
No, I can tell she doesn’t. Like, she hasn’t even considered the option. I don’t know what they’re paying her to be here, and frankly, I don’t want to know.
“Star,” Craptastic Chamomila calls. “We gotta get selfies by the lanterns!”
“Suit yourself,” Star tells me. “Meet you on the bus, okay?”
“Yeah, sounds good,” I say, but she’s already gone, along with everyone else.
And I’m sitting in a half-empty parking lot, hands in my pockets, looking like the world’s biggest loser. Because that’s exactly what I am. With a deep, dramatic sigh, I make for the bus. Better see what I’m working with.
14. I Swear, I Didn’t Start Out as a Loser
I MEAN, MY parents named me Moon, so even in the way, way beginning, the odds of non-loser-dom weren’t all that great.
I think I was five or six when I realized that Mom loved Star more than me. But that wasn’t so terrible, even that young. Because I had Dad. He was the biggest, strongest man in the world, and though I knew he loved me and Star equally, I was his favorite. After Star declared she hated camping, he took me and only me. Out into the mountains, wide and snow-tipped and seemingly just as tall as my father.
On those trips, he loved to tell me about beginnings. About how alongside the first people on this continent were animals so wild, it was like they were imagined and not real. Mammoths that made modern elephants look like babies, saber-toothed tigers with teeth longer than ice cream sugar cones. Dire wolves that could probably fit a man’s whole head in one of their mouths. Armadillos the size of a school bus, armored and just as strange-looking as their descendants. They were all huge and ancient and amazing, roaming these lands, leaving footprints so large and deep, a man and child could probably fit inside them.
How Moon Fuentez Fell in Love with the Universe Page 4