How Moon Fuentez Fell in Love with the Universe

by Raquel Vasquez Gilliland

  He always brought honey and cinnamon to make my favorite hot cocoa, topped with toasted coconut marshmallows he got special from the health food store. And when I leaned on him, he never pushed me away. He’d hug me right back, exactly like a parent ought to.

  Yeah, once upon a time, Moon Fuentez wasn’t a loser at all.

  And then Dad left. And everything went downhill from there.

  15. Sleeping with the Flipping Enemy

  THE INSIDE OF the bus is a Fotogrammer’s dream. Hardwood floor, little windows with sheer eyelet curtains, everything covered in warm fairy lights. There’s a reading nook next to the living area, both filled with rugged-yet-chic furniture. The throw pillows look hand-sewn from vintage fabrics, and the rugs on the floor are knit from huge, cloudlike yarn. It looks more like a mountain cabin than a gas-guzzling steel tube-monster.

  And there, right in the middle, is my saving grace. An honest-to-God kitchen. I leap inside and open drawers and cherrywood cabinets and find it stuffed with pots and pans—fancy-looking stuff, dark and minimal and sleek. Under the oven is a drawer full of bakeware, which I’m checking out on my knees when someone grunts behind me.

  I turn, and my stomach drops. It’s Santiago. Of course. As usual, he’s glaring at me. He’s got his arms crossed, and his biceps look like they’re trying to kiss each other, only there’s some gargantuan pectorals in the way.

  “I’m sorry.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it, and actually, I don’t want to stop it. “For what I was saying when you walked up. I was trying to be sarcastic, but I guess it didn’t come off that way. I’m such an asshole. I was so angry at Chamomila for being such a wicked witch of the western persuasion, and I was trying to make her see—and my mouth, once it starts, it just keeps going, like the Energizer Bunny on crack. I never know when to shut up—that’s what my mother is always telling…” I stop because he hasn’t even blinked. His glare is worse, which I wasn’t sure was possible. So what do I do? I open my mouth again. “My brain did the worst thing possible, which is, it short-circuited. Poof. In a cloud of smoke.” And now my brain shuts down, because Santiago isn’t giving me an inch. He’s not giving me a fraction of a period. Honest to God, he looks even angrier. “Anyway.” I swallow and glance down. “I am sorry.” I turn and bump my elbow on the corner of the oven. “Shit. I mean. I didn’t know this was going to be here, did you?” I gesture around. “And it’s all stocked! With really nice-looking stuff.”

  “The stuff’s mine,” he says. I forgot how deep his voice is. I have visions of Vin Diesel and Alan Rickman singing Gregorian chants together.

  “Oh.” It’s all I can manage.

  “The pans. The spatulas. The utensils are mine too. And the can opener. Everything but the electric coffeemaker is mine.”

  I wait for him to offer something. Like, maybe that I could borrow whatever I needed. But all he does is narrow his eyes. I’m not sure he’s blinked this entire conversation.

  “So… you’re not on the meal plan?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. Very slowly.

  And for some reason, my response is to nod like my head is attached to a spring. “Okay. So everything’s yours. Got it.”

  “Everything but the coffeemaker.”

  “Right.” I stand and edge around him. I need to get out. With my back sliding across the wall, I say, “Well. Good talk. I’m going to go see a man about a dog now.”

  Finally the guy drops the menacing look and furrows his brow. I give him a big smile and his brows join together to become one big brow now. That line, about a dog? It’s slang from the 1920s. I did a report junior year for English. It means “I have to get whiskey.” Which is true. I need a whole bath of whiskey to deal with the shitstorm that today is turning out to be. Too bad I’m still mega-underage.

  As soon as I squeeze around him, because no, Santiago didn’t even think of moving, I run out and head to the corner store on the other side of the restaurant.

  * * *

  Okay, so the 2-Kwik-Mart doesn’t exactly have options. But I grab a basket and do the best I can.

  First, yogurts. I add a few packages of the chocolate flavor, because duh. And a jar of peanut butter. And jelly. Bread next, because that’s the natural progression of things. Ooh, butter and cheese! Oh, and microwave popcorn, extra-ridiculously buttery. Like, four packages of those in my basket, which is already threatening to overflow.

  Fuck, though. If I’m going to manage grilled cheese, I need a pan, since Santiago holds grudges harder than John Wick, the Punisher, and my mother put together. And you know, my mom hasn’t spoken to the mailman in eight years, since he once delivered a Weight Watchers brochure. I tried to explain that it was his job, but she threw one of the kitchen chairs across the room, so I hightailed it right out of there like a yelping coyote.

  I find a sad, dented little pan covered in some nonstick coating that’s probably carcinogenic according to the state of California. But it’s all they’ve got. So I toss it in my basket along with a package of plastic cutlery, since Santiago couldn’t be bothered to offer to lend me one freaking fork.

  “You did call him an imaginary creature’s poop,” I mumble to myself. That’s fairly unforgivable.

  “What’s that?” the cashier guy barks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Just me, Moon Fuentez, off my rocker already at sweet seventeen. I should retire and sell all my bikinis and yell at the children loitering on my lawn already.”

  The man blinks. “That’ll be $25.98.”

  Not bad. I bet Star’s dinner cost twice that. Though Star, I’m certain, isn’t dealing with some old dude staring at her chest. Or, specifically, the wide whale of a scar on mine.

  “That looks like it hurt,” the guy says.

  “Does it?” I ask, but he doesn’t sense the sarcasm at all.

  “They make creams and stuff for scars now. You should look into that.”

  I know he thinks he’s being helpful. Fine. But did he honestly think that had never occurred to me? That the girl with a giant scar on her collarbone, pink and ugly and raised, had never thought, Hmm, wonder if there’s something I could do about this?

  So I have no regrets about muttering “Asshole” before I grab my meals for the next two weeks and get on my way.

  * * *

  Santiago’s cooking something that I’d give up my fingernails for. I have no idea what it is, only that it smells so good, I might throw in my camera along with my nails. Might.

  But I ignore him as I walk by, even though when I get close enough to almost taste the salmon—salmon!—I want nothing more than to get on my knees and beg for a bite like a dog. I should get a parade for resisting the urge. I put away my dairy products and jelly and frying pan and refrain from drooling all over the polished hardwood floors.

  Past the kitchen are the bunks. There’s a name tag attached to each one written in a sparkling Papyrus-type font, arrows printed on all sides in mint green. I search for “Moon” on nearly every single bed. I’m beginning to think my assigned mattress is strapped to the top of the bus when I finally find it. All the way in the back, next to the boxes of merchandise. It’s a top bunk. And guess whose name is on the bottom one? Santi-freaking-ago. So, you know, guess I have to fake my death and run away to Montana now.

  Sounds like people are back from dinner, so I find Star in the living area. “Hey, got a sec?”

  Star wrinkles her nose. “Why do you smell like peanut butter?”

  Because I had about half a jar for dinner, that’s why, specifically when you were enjoying gold-crusted caviar and platinum lavender mousse. But instead, I say, “Do you think we could switch our assigned beds?”

  She narrows her eyes. “But I’m next to Cham.”

  “And I’m…” I lower my voice when I see Chamomila narrowing her eyes at me. Little witch with a b. “I’m right next to Santiago.”

  “OMG, what?” Star covers her mouth and laughs and laughs.

  “Please, Star,” I say.
“He’s going to kill me in my sleep.”

  “And can you blame him?” Chamomila’s scooted up now. Shit, I didn’t think she could read lips like some government-trained assassin.

  “The beds are assigned for a reason, Moon,” Star says in her snitty voice she uses when she’s trying to impress someone with how resilient she is.

  “What reason is that?” I ask.

  She blinks for a couple of seconds before responding. “It would be an insult to Andro to rearrange everything.” She gives me a long look. “He’s already disappointed that you opted out of the meals.”

  Andro? Disappointed? In me? I was certain he’d forgotten my name immediately after learning it, like everyone else does once they realize I’m with Star.

  Before I can ask, though, Andro himself walks in. “All right! I don’t mean to break up the party, but I’m going to bed, and I suggest you all do too. We’ve got our first stop at nine a.m. The Roanland Opera House.” He looks directly at me and smiles for a full trillionth of a second. I can’t remember the last time a guy made me feel like my atoms were bursting into a whole new existence, so I glance down with what is probably a look of terror on my face.

  “Close your mouth, Moon. You’re drooling,” Chamomila hisses. And Star does her classic fake laugh because yeah, that’s not even remotely funny, and I’m not sure how I could hate Chamomila Jones more, but I do. And you know what? My sister’s being a big cabbage-head nematode too.

  I stand and leave, not bothering to respond when Star calls, “Good night, Moon.”

  * * *

  “Oh no,” I whisper to no one as I stand in the bathroom, alone, having just brushed my teeth. Because all I brought to wear to bed is a giant T-shirt and tiny shorts, my usual getup. But. It looks like I’m not wearing anything under the shirt. And there are boys here.

  I can hear my mother’s voice, ringing all around. Boys have already seen you naked. Why start caring now?

  “Hey, you done yet?” a deep voice rattles right at the door. Great. My nemesis. I take a breath, grab my things, and refuse to look at Santiago on my way out. And he does the same on his way in.

  Oh, thank goodness. We’re going to pretend the other doesn’t exist. I’m really good at that, especially the not-existing bit, so. Yay.

  I climb into bed, spotting a pile of books through the open sliver of Santiago’s bunk curtain. So Mr. Freeze reads. The bathroom door clicks open before I can spy any titles, so I quickly climb into my bed, which is smaller than his. Makes sense, considering he’s the size of an average wildebeest.

  I lie back for a moment, feeling the shift of the frame as he gets in. Is it weird to bunk with someone who’d rather watch you eat your own hair than speak with you? ’Cause I’m thinking it’s weird. Mega-weird. Weirder than bunking-less-than-twenty-feet-away-from-Andro-Philips weird, though? I honestly don’t know. I feel like I’m in an episode of Stranger Things, like I somehow got sucked into a universe where everything is upside down and inside out.

  My phone gives a little buzz, and I roll my eyes.

  Samuel: WTF Moon? Ur on the fotogram tour and couldn’t even tell me??

  I type back, It happened really fast.

  Samuel: Bullshit. I thought I meant more to you than that. There are several emoji to indicate he’s not completely serious. Which he never is.

  Me: howd you find out, anyway?

  Samuel: Star’s feed. Bejesus, real gold on dessert?

  Me: Tell me about it.

  Samuel: I miss you. Can’t believe you’re not going to be around all summer.

  My fingers linger on the keys a little. Samuel is… sigh. He’s Samuel. We fooled around once and we’ve been friends since, though I always get the feeling he keeps in contact with me for the offhand chance we might hook up again. He’s never said anything outright, but no one’s friends with Star Fuentez’s sister just to be friends, you know? They’re always after me for something; that’s all I gotta say about that.

  Finally I write: Oh, you’ll have a lot of company, I’m sure.

  And I am sure. Samuel, star basketball player, lean with big brown eyes, impossibly long lashes, and dimples. He’s never short on company of any gender.

  Send me a nude.

  I snort. In your dreams, friend.

  Then I turn my phone off. Before sleep, I imagine that instead of a bus, I’m on a spaceship, blasting through a glittering nebula that still tastes like the beginning of this whole, wild universe.

  16. The First Time I Ever Had Sex

  IT WAS AFTER Dad was gone and Mom had spent nearly the whole day yelling at me to stop being such a shitty daughter because I didn’t wipe down the living room walls as well as she wanted. And so when Iris Bowler asked me to go to a party with her so she could see if she might catch her girlfriend cheating, I screamed “YES” with the force of a nuclear explosion and snuck out the window after I was sure everyone was asleep.

  When I got there, though, all my enthusiasm totally faded away, like a dried-up patch of earth sucking up rainwater. Iris disappeared to investigate her girlfriend’s faithfulness, and I was alone, surrounded by classmates I’d rarely spoken to, everyone drinking and yelling and dancing. I walked into the backyard and collapsed right into the overgrown grass, cold and damp against my legs.

  “Hey,” a boy said. He was leaning up against the house, looking at his phone. I knew him. His name was Mike, so basic, but he had these lovely hands I’d noticed in art class, as though they were made for things like building gorgeous wooden dressers and benches and bed frames.

  And I was so sick of everything, everything sucking all the time, and so I walked up to him and said, “Want to make out?”

  I ended up right back on the grass, with him on top of me, and everything went so fast. At the time, I really felt like I was ready for all of it. How my body burned underneath his woodsmith hands, how I had to try so hard to not moan when his lips found my neck, chest, belly, thighs. But now I’m not sure. I’m not all that sure I was ready for it in my mind, even if my body wanted nothing else.

  He used a condom. It hurt a little, in a sore, full kind of way, and then it was over, and as he lay on top of me, he lifted up a little and gazed into my eyes. And he was so reverent. “That was amazing,” he whispered. And I felt like I was worth something, for the first time since Dad left. It made my heart break and repair itself all at the same time, over and over until I was certain I fell in love with this boy right then and there.

  And then a firefly landed on his hair, blinking like a warm fairy lantern. “Look at that,” I whispered, intending to brush it away. At that moment, ten more fireflies arrived.

  “Wow,” he said, and before he could even sit up, a hundred arrived, swirling around us in the dark until it felt like Mike and I were planets, spinning in space.

  When they landed on us, Mike yelped and jumped up, scratching at his arms and hair. “Are you some kind of witch or something?” he asked, sort of serious, sort of laughing.

  “Or something,” I said. Because no, it wasn’t quite a witch. It was La Raíz. The root that connected me to the sin of Eve, surrounding me right then with such beauty, it took my breath away.

  “This is too weird for me,” Mike muttered, walking away.

  It was too weird for me, too, but at the same time, it felt exactly like what I deserved. I finally had proof that I had released the curse that day I opened Mom’s milk jar. Finally had proof that I was the cursed daughter.

  As for Mike, I never spoke to him again.

  17. Peach-Stained Lips and a Plum-Stained Head

  MY ALARM COMES way too soon, chiming with what I imagine to be copper singing bowls, but they sound a little like cars crashing in my brain right now. It takes me a good four minutes to turn it off.

  I peek out of the curtains on my little personal window. We’re parked at some resort-looking building, gold-lined, with Greek-looking columns, ivy covering half of it, making it almost look like it came from the woods. Like the ivy just
presented it to earth.

  I flip open my dictionary and search for “ivy.” Hiedra. I let the deep green of it wash over me: pointed leaves, prickly against my skin. Ivy is pricklier than hiedra. Hiedra is a blanket of vinery, covering me as I slip into a thousand-year sleep in the forest.

  Hey, you up? I text Star. She doesn’t respond, so I guess I’ve procrastinated enough. I grab my bathroom bag and head down the ladder. Before I reach the last step, I see an enormous arm where my foot ought to go next, and I slip, stumbling onto the ground.

  “Motherfucker,” I say as my head slams on the hardwood.

  My leg is on someone. That realized, it doesn’t take me long to recover. In fact, I stand so hard, I see little white planets dancing for a full thirty seconds. Once my vision clears, all I can process are muscles. There’s a sea of them, right in front of me.

  Santiago is balanced on the floor, shirtless and planking. Apparently, I fell on him and he didn’t even notice. He shifts his weight a little, and those cuts along his back do a lovely ripple under his skin, as though he were Poseidon with an ocean wave of a body.

  It’s early, and now my head hurts, so I probably stare longer than I should. Because muscles. They’re everywhere. His muscles are married to all his other muscles, and they have little muscle babies in their little muscle carriers, bunching and rippling together like one big, happy family.

  “Can you not walk around me?” His voice is gruff and loud and deep. If I touched my own skin, I bet I’d feel it. But he sounds super annoyed, so I gulp instead, grab my bag, and tiptoe around him on my way to the bathroom.