“Yes. Less like burlap. More like a cloud. Or yarn, even. Though yarn can be really harsh sometimes. Especially certain wools. So I retract the yarn suggestion.”
He grunts a little and turns back to his food. “I don’t like you.”
I walk to the living area and grab my things. “You know what? I don’t like you, either. So let’s just go back to pretending the other doesn’t exist.”
“Fine by me,” he mutters.
And that’s how my evening ends. I spend the rest of the night in my bed, drawing under my cell phone light. When I awaken in the morning, I still have a pencil in my hand.
18. Reading Cloud Breath and Fox Prints like Cards
I DON’T EVEN know how tarot works. I barely understand myself most of the time, much less this strange and windy way we can communicate with the universe. It makes no sense as to why I’m in love with tarot enough to spend nearly two years making my own stinking deck.
Except… I can recall the exact moment tarot enchanted me. Mom was going through some… stuff, let’s call it. And she sent us to live with Tía. Her sister, Esperanza. And Mom really doesn’t like Esperanza, would rather give me a big hug than owe her sister anything, so you know she was going through shit.
Tía’s house is outside of New Orleans, a turquoise-painted bungalow. And when I say turquoise, I mean literally. She’s an artist, and she got on her knees and on a ladder and painted the broken and black veins that the real stones actually have. “Ribbons,” she calls them.
Tía Esperanza is my favorite family member, and I feel no guilt whatsoever in saying I love her more than I love my mom. I wish she were my mom. Sometimes I wonder if Mom can sense this and it’s why she hates Tía, but I don’t know if Mom cares about my allegiance all that much.
Whatever. All I know is I walked in on Tía at the kitchen table, the lamp lit like amber caught in the afternoon light. And spread on the table, these cards, all elaborately painted in the colors of jewels. That’s the feeling I got when I looked at them. Smooth, cool jewels, passing over my neck and my arms, my face and my legs. For a moment I was walking on stones, these glowing sunset and moonrise colors beneath my feet like a river, and I actually stumbled.
All of Mom’s warnings about the habits of el diablo went out the door. I looked at Tía and said, “Can I?” I’m not even sure what I was asking. Can I get my cards read? Can I grab them and rub them on my arms a little bit? Who knows.
Tía. She knew what I was asking, because she said, “You sure?” I’d never been more sure of anything, even without actually knowing what we were discussing. And thus began my apprenticeship with Tía, the divination apprenticeship. It was the best and worst part of that summer. But that’s a story for another time.
19. Thinking of Flowers (and Absolutely Nothing Else, Nothing at All, I Swear)
“WE’RE STOPPING IN about an hour,” Andro calls from the front of the bus. Great. I’ll have to spend some quality time with my jerk-faced nemesis. But then Andro pops his head in and says, “The Westernly has their own merch they want to sell, so you guys are off the hook for today.”
“Cool!” I say before my brain reminds me I’m talking to Andro Philips and I should sound a little less like a loser. “What state are we in again?” But then Andro is gone.
“Don’t you have a schedule?” Santiago’s voice is somehow quiet and booming at the same time.
“You don’t exist, remember?” I respond, but it is a commonsense idea, so I pull up the sched on my phone.
Ah, Montana. My aunt’s last email comes to me. Think of the flowers. I smile and climb down and head to the bathroom, pretending all the while that Santiago the Jolly Green Giant was never born. I don’t even stare when he rolls out of bed without a shirt on and gets right to his planks. Not for even a single second. I swear! Not one.
20. Okay, So About That Summer with Tía
… AND HOW DIVINATION was the best and worst part of it? I’m just going to lay it all out here and get it over with.
First, there are the Rules.
Tía Esperanza’s Rules to Learning Divination.
First we must start with twigs and swirls in the dirt and leaves, both fresh and skeleton. We take daily walks in the wilderness—on the banks of rivers and in the deep, dark woods, and see what we see. Learning to listen to the land is the important part.
Then we’ve got to look up. Pretty much the same thing as rule number one, but with clouds and lightning and wind as it rustles tree branches like hands in hair. The gods of the earth and the gods of the sky are pretty different, though. It’s like learning a whole new language.
Then comes tarot. Tía considers tarot to be one of the lesser forms of divination. “Everything is spelled out for you,” she says. Easy for her to say. Even with a guidebook, most of my spreads seem like gibberish to me. But tarot is a stepping-stone for the next step.
The most powerful form of divination uses mirrors. This is the kind I refuse to learn. And I’ll tell you why right now.
Mirrors are what ancient Mesoamerican shamans used for divination. There’s so much we don’t know about our ancestors; thank you, European colonizers who destroyed everything in their paths like literal demons.
But we do know that they used smooth stones made of obsidian, hematite, pyrite. Sometimes they filled bowls with water and read the shapes and stuff in there, but Tía preferred to focus on the stone tradition. And yeah, they gazed right into them when they needed answers.
The best part of that summer at Tía’s? Everything. Vanilla ice cream swirled with passion fruit in crunchy waffle cones. How she’d take us to the French Quarter, all filled with musicians and artists, and buy us pralines, all melt-in-your-mouth caramel-sweet. And how she’d let me sleep in the backyard in a tent because that made me feel closer to my dad. All sticky summertime, all blooming flowers in the colors of a sunset at sea, all Tía cooking up something wonderful in the kitchen all the time.
And then I grabbed her most prized mirror stone. Pyrite, wide, big, smooth, so reflective, you could light a room with it.
I should’ve left it well enough alone, you know? But no, I grabbed the thing and set it on the kitchen table, right in front of the full moon. The most potent moon for talking to your ancestors. But I didn’t learn that until later.
I dipped my gaze right inside it, like I was pressing my fingertips into a gold glass lake.
And I saw my father. In the stone, but it was as though he’d stepped into the room. I jumped away from the table and had to breathe, counting to two, three, seven, before I felt okay enough to toss the stone right back on Tía’s altar.
Tía walked out of her bedroom, empty water glass in hand. “Moon!” she said. “You look like you saw a ghost!”
I had. I didn’t tell her this, but I had.
And that was the worst part of the summer.
21. The Best Omelet in the Known Universe
“IS THAT WHAT you’re wearing?” Star asks, not disguising her tone of disgust.
I look down at my brown leggings and peach wrap blouse. I mean, I’m decent, aren’t I? This top even covers most of my cleavage.
Star, though, has on a fancy white dress. Its neck is high and square and there’s a little eyelet flower design along the edges.
“What’s wrong with my clothes?” I say.
“The Westernly is nice.”
“Oh. I’m not going in. I don’t have to work today.”
“I know. Which is why it’s perfect for you to take photos of us.”
“Star—”
“Moon. I haven’t uploaded one of yours in too long. Everyone’s been asking why there’s an abundance of cell phone pictures lately.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, sorry, but I don’t want to.”
“And why not?”
I sigh. “I’m pissed at you, Star, okay?” There. I said it.
“Don’t say you’re pissed. You’re not a horse.” Another one of Mom’s gems. I’ve long given up trying to ex
plain to them that humans also urinate.
“I’m sorry,” Star says. And she does look it, her eyes glassy, her lips in a little pout. “Sometimes I forget that you’re not proud of your sexual history.”
“Well, it’s not like I’m ashamed of it,” I snap. “I’d just appreciate it if it stayed private.” Telling Mom I had sex really isn’t worth it anymore. Even now, thinking about the look on her face—eyes and mouth wide like a Gorgon, reaching for her collection of rosaries—that doesn’t cheer me up in the least.
“I’m sorry, Moon,” Star says, wiping away a tear. “It won’t happen again.”
It can’t happen again. You don’t get to unspill the beans. Not those kinds of beans, anyway. They’re scattered across the floor now like bugs, shiny for everyone to see. And judge. But I sigh and say, “Fine. But you know it doesn’t matter what I wear, Star. No one’s looking at me.”
Star doesn’t respond to that, but in his bunk, Santiago snorts.
“Something funny, Thor?” I ask in his direction.
“Be nice, Moon,” Star whispers. “He doesn’t have it easy.”
“And what on Middle-earth is that supposed to mean?”
But Star ignores the question, looks at my clothes, and says, “Well, you’re not eating dinner with us in that, so I guess it’s okay.”
“Jesus Christ on a fiddlestick. Can we lay off my outfit, please?”
“I hope you’re praying,” Stay says in a singsong voice as she flounces away.
“Yes, Star,” I call back. “I’m praying for a Jesus sighting on a fiddlestick.” And then I mutter, “So I can masturbate with it.” Behind me, Santiago starts choking. After affirming that he’s not dying, I consider correcting myself, saying I would never masturbate with anything remotely religious. Unless there’s a religion that worships human fingers. But I bet that won’t make this situation any better. Plus, it violates the whole not-existing contract. So. I throw my bags over my back and get the heck out of there.
* * *
Crap, crap, crap. I almost forgot that I freaking hate people. They’re everywhere. Screaming for Andro and Van and Oak Longsteinson, shrieking for Belle and Chamomila Jones, and of course, squealing for my sister. I hold my camera up, wincing as another screech digs into my ears like a machete, stabbing me right in the brain.
I love the click my Nikon makes, even though it’s artificial. But right now, not even that rain-like shutter can soothe me. Click, Star smiling at the masses that surround her. Click, someone telling her, “I’ve been following you since the beginning!” Click, people asking Star to pray for them, like she’s the pope’s daughter or something. But what gets me is she does. She puts her hand on their heads like she’s anointing them with the blood of Christ. I’ve never wanted to strangle my sister more than the first time I saw her do that. Now I grit my teeth and click-click-click.
“Hey there,” Andro says, and I almost drop the camera. “Oh, didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s no problem.” I keep my eyes on the viewfinder.
“Let me see?”
Dang it. Nodding, I hand him the Nikon.
“Jesus. You’re talented.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m serious.”
I guess I didn’t sound thankful enough, so I give him a wide smile and nod. “Uh-huh. Thank you.”
“You ever do self-portraits?” Andro looks in my eyes and it’s all I can do to stay upright.
“Uh—”
“Moon!” Star bounces over. “Ooh, let me see!” She stops at one where the light is formed around her head like a halo. I knew she’d like that.
“Lovely,” Andro says, and Star beams. “You’ve got a gift, Moon.” And Star’s smile falls, falls, falls like all those angels who sided with Lucifer. Before she can sing or do a backflip or anything, anything to get his attention back, he checks his phone and says, “Oh, time to meet at the restaurant.” He gives me the camera. “You joining us, Moon?”
“Oh,” Star says. “She didn’t get the meal plan.”
“You should come.” Andro smiles and puts his hands in his pockets. “Really. I’ll buy.”
I think Star and I both have the same look on our faces. Like, a mix of What the fuck and Is this a joke? With a pinch of Is Andro confused about who is who? Does he realize he’s talking to me, Moon, the ugly one?
I break first. “No, sorry. I’ve got some flowers to, uh, check out. Flower power.” I flash the peace sign, turn, and run, almost knocking over Belle Brix.
“Flower power, huh,” she says. “Far out, I must say.”
“Oh God,” I say, putting my hands over my eyes. “Jesus Christ on a dildo.”
Belle cackles. “Oh my God, Moon. You really have to join us for dinner sometime.”
“Not tonight,” I say, stopping when I see the omelet bar being set up. They’re doing breakfast for dinner? My stomach wants to die from jealousy. It literally growls with the force of a thousand whale bellies.
“You look hungry.”
“I’m… not that hungry.” In truth, I am starving.
“Why didn’t you get the meal plan, anyway?”
“I’m trying to save money.”
Belle snorts and then stops. “Wait. You’re serious. You’re the sister of millionaire Star Fuentez and you’re trying to save money?”
“She’s not a millionaire,” I say. Yet. When Belle gives me a look, I groan. “Look, it’s a long story, okay?”
Belle shakes her head. “Meet me on the steps outside in, oh, an hour?”
“But—”
“An hour,” she calls as she walks away.
While I wait for whatever an hour will bring, I climb a tree.
According to my internet search, it’s a banyan—wide, thick, its arms low-hanging like a spidery earthen beast. Banyan. The word feels like a hammock, swaying under my body, with speckled light pouring in between leaves.
My father said that scientists can extract pollen from deep archaeological sites and learn about what, exactly, ancient forests and meadows consisted of. “Based on pollen taken from the bottom of the Bering Sea,” he said on one of our camping trips up north, “we know this whole area had summers full of wildflowers.”
What did the first humans think of flowers? Did they ever wonder why the earth so willingly burst into beauty every spring? All those colors making a wide, wild sea on the horizon… it must’ve been pure magic. It still is, really.
That in mind, I pull some wild violets from my pocket, plucked on my way back from the Westernly. I clip a few banyan leaves and arrange everything on a flattish part of the trunk until it feels right. Until the colors pour over me, wet, smooth, and soft, like sand under a passing saltwater wave.
I adjust the settings on my camera and photograph the Knight of Wands. After, I sling the camera over my shoulder and lean back, enjoying the breeze, not even letting the growls of my stomach ruin my mood.
When I climb back down, my eyes stop at the bus. Santiago’s watching me like a creep, eating a sandwich made of truffles and lobster, probably. I give him the finger. He takes a big bite and returns the favor.
* * *
“Voilà.” Belle sets the plate in front of me. On it? The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. An omelet. Steamy yellow perfection, filled with spinach and cheese and I don’t even care what else, because it’s food and it’s hot and there’s no peanut butter in sight. I snatch it out of her hands and groan like a porn star with my first bite.
“And you said you weren’t that hungry,” she says, raising an eyebrow.
“Shut up.” And I stuff another enormous bite into my mouth. “I haven’t eaten anything warm in a week.”
“Yeah. Tell me about that.” My mouth is really full, so she adds, “When you’re finished. I’ll wait.”
Belle’s got on jeans, high-tops, and a tank covered in pink glitter. Her makeup looks legit mystical. Like she had it done in Neverland or something. Everything’s perfectly contoured, there
’s a dusting of pink glitter on the tops of her cheeks, and her lips are stained with a strawberry-peach color. You can’t tell what’s makeup and what’s not. That’s why she’s got seven hundred thousand Fotogram followers.
When I plop my fork down after the last bite, she grabs my plate and pushes it to the side. “Well?”
I groan. “What?”
“Spill.”
Truth be told, I sort of don’t want to tell her, out of allegiance to Star. But Star has pretty much proved she’s got no allegiance to me, so I spill with only a fraction of a second’s hesitation, not without considering the word “spill,” how it feels like a distant galaxy is being poured over my legs. “So my mom is super religious.”
“No shit.”
“Right. So, yeah, Star’s whole brand is real. My mom really, really, really loves Jesus. Like, really, really—”
“Okay. Mom loves Jesus.”
“Her sister, Esperanza, she practices the old-religion stuff.”
Belle shakes her head. “Like…”
“Like pre-Columbian Mexican-type spells. Blessing of the egg, cleansing of the broom. Et cetera, et cetera.”
“So what’s this got to do with living on cold bread to save money, when your sister sleeps in a bed made of it?”
I snort. “Well, my mom manages Star and her money. And she would never let me go to college far away. Especially not to a college next to my aunt, who she knows I’d be visiting all the time.” I don’t mention the tarot card stuff, because that seems like so much to explain right now. “She’d probably literally disown me. She will, I mean, once I do it. Which I will. Thanks to eating cold bread all summer, I can afford to live on campus.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“And your sister won’t lend you the money?”
“I haven’t even thought to ask.”
“You should. Your sister is a lot of things, but she’s generous.” Belle’s cheeks look a little pinker than earlier.
How Moon Fuentez Fell in Love with the Universe Page 7