“Somehow I doubt that.” He cracks three eggs into a bowl. I can barely successfully crack an egg in five whole minutes, but Santiago is just like one of those professionals on the Food Network, getting the job done in seconds. “We can’t do much more than that; otherwise it won’t heat evenly.” He grabs a whisk and goes to town, cradling the bowl inside his left forearm. “Do you want add-ins? Cheese? Onions?”
“Yes,” I say, my mouth watering.
He tells me to whisk. Meanwhile, he grabs some Tupperware from the fridge. Onions, peppers, black olives, all already chopped up. “Melt a knob of butter on the six-inch pan,” he says, handing me a stick.
I obey, watching the butter sizzle on the black iron, thanking the gods I’ve watched Jamie Oliver enough to know what constitutes a knob of butter.
Santiago adds a few handfuls of the veggies, then pauses. “You eat meat?” When I nod, he grabs a container labeled TOFU and sprinkles cooked bacon all over the sizzling onions and peppers. “Andro will eat it all otherwise,” he says, pointing at the label. I nod. And smile. A little.
He tells me to stir the veggies, and then he whisks the eggs some more. A lot more. It feels like eight hours have passed. Finally he pours them in and they bubble and pop. He turns the heat down and squeezes right in front of me, the back of his thigh rubbing at my hip. I take a step back.
“What’s wrong with you?” he says, tilting his head in my direction.
I shrug, not exactly sure what he’s talking about.
“I mean, why aren’t you being a pain in my ass?”
I know he doesn’t mean it literally, but I take the time to check out his ass before saying, “I don’t want you to change your mind about feeding me.”
His jaw gets really tight, and he starts pulling the egg toward the center of the pan with the spatula. “See that? First we have to spread the liquid around, let it cook evenly.”
I nod.
After a couple minutes, Santiago flips the omelet and gives it a satisfied smirk. Because the omelet is perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. No flakes of black from the pan, or even any crispy brown spots.
I give him the biggest grin, and he stops smiling entirely when he looks at me. In fact, I must look like a horror-movie clown, because he drops his spatula in the pan, cutting right into the omelet.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “What kind of cheese?”
I open the fridge. He’s got so many. Cheddar, both sharp and mild, pepper jack, Swiss, and lots of stuff I’ve never heard of, like Gruyère and gouda and mascarpone? I thought that last one was a cartoon character or something.
“Grab the Gruyère.”
“O-kay,” I say, but I guess I’m too slow, because then he reaches past me and grabs the bag of white grated goodness. His arm kind of leans on my shoulder, almost pushing me to the floor with its weight. Seriously, how does he not fall over all the freaking time?
“So why aren’t you on the meal plan?” I ask. I’m thinking way too much about Santiago’s arms and need a distraction.
He scrunches up his nose. “Whatever they’re eating out there, I can make better—and cheaper—in here.”
I shrug and nod. Makes sense to me.
He sprinkles the cheese on and closes the omelet, sliding it onto a plate immediately. “Voilà.”
“Merci,” I say. I’m so hungry, I don’t even care that he sits with me to watch me eat.
After my first bite, he asks, “Good?”
And I can’t help it. I burst into tears.
He looks so alarmed, like he thinks I might spew food and snot in his face, but ventures with, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.” Even better than the fancy hotel omelet-bar omelet. Even better than honey on pizza. I haven’t had something this wonderfully comforting since before Dad left all those years ago. But when I look up at Santiago, he appears… pissed? What the hell?
And then he speaks. “Am I that much of an asshole?”
Not sure I heard that right. “What?”
“That you think I’d change my mind about feeding you? And that you cry when I make you literally the simplest meal in the history of cooking?”
I make a face. “First of all, omelets are really tricky, jerk.” That gets me a little smile. “Second, not everything is about you, Thor. Jeez Louise.” I put a huge bite of omelet in my mouth, and when I glance up again, Santiago is smiling. One of those big, happy, real smiles that get his eyes soft and warm and his lips wide and peach.
“There you are,” he says. “Where’d you go, Moon?”
Before I can respond, he stands really fast, putting things in the sink. “Tell you what. We go half on groceries. I’ll teach you how to cook food that doesn’t come from a piece of plastic.”
“Really?” Then I stop. “Wait. You’re going to poison me, aren’t you?”
He snorts. His back is to me, but through his shirt, I can see the way his muscles move and stiffen. “I should’ve let you use the kitchen first thing. Then you wouldn’t be crying over a fucking omelet.”
I’ve stuffed the last bite in my mouth, and I’m so happy I rest my head on the table and close my eyes. “Santiago, you may be an impossible, triple-F Jolly Green Giant, but again, not everything is about you.” I pause. “Even if your omelet was knock-you-naked good.”
He chokes a little and then laughs. Full. On. Laughing. I’m not as clear on sounds, but his laugh is like river rocks, smooth under my hands, just like what his pectorals probably feel like.
“What’s ‘triple-F’ mean?” he asks me when his belly laugh is mostly controlled.
“Hmm?”
“You called me a triple-F Jolly Green Giant.”
Oh. Right. “Your bra size.”
I’m rewarded with another burst of laughter. It’s lovely, so lovely, that now I think of warm summer rain, making everything smell alive and green, like a whole wet forest of ancient, slow-growing lichen. I sit with this feeling for so long, until for a brief moment I can close my eyes and actually feel it, the fine laced hairs of mint green all around me. When I open them, though, I about fall out of my chair.
Because on the window, in the fading evening light, are about a dozen amber-colored butterflies, fluttering their wings.
“Oh no,” I say as several more fly up.
“What is it?” Santiago asks.
“It’s the ridiculous, freaking curse! Jesus Louisus!” Now the window is so covered in butterflies, I can scarcely see the burnt-orange sky anymore.
“Moon. What the fuck are you talking about?”
I’m up, walking along the bus. Every little window is covered in butterflies. I don’t even need to reach the driver’s compartment to know the windshield is blanketed in a sea of creepy wings covered in owl-like eyes. “The windows,” I say to Santiago, who’s following me.
“Holy shit,” he says. “That’s a lot of bugs.”
“Whatever you do,” I say. “Don’t open the window or door right now. They’ll go away pretty soon, if past experience is anything to go by.” I sit on the sofa in the lounge and put my face in my hands.
“They must be attracted to the omelet?” Santiago says, sitting next to me. He sounds very unsure of that theory.
I may as well just get on with it, right? After all, it isn’t possible for Santiago to think I’m any weirder. “No, they’re attracted to me. Well, not necessarily me, but this curse in my bloodline.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I heard that right. Because from here it sounds like you said you have a curse in your bloodline.”
“I know what it sounds like. But it’s real. It’s called La Raíz, and it’s been passed down in the women in my family since Eve, supposedly.”
“Why ‘The Root’?”
I lift my head. “You speak Spanish?”
“My mother’s from Colombia.”
I drop my head again. “Yeah. It’s the root connection to Eve and the tree and the original sin and blah-bl
ah-blah.”
When I peek up, Santiago is trying not to laugh.
“This isn’t funny!”
“Sure it isn’t. You’re saying you’re cursed to be visited by thousands of butterflies on occasion. You’re fucking with me, right? You’ve got to be fucking with me.”
It’s hard to explain why I’m so disappointed that Santiago doesn’t believe me. I mean, that’s the only rational response to something like this. I guess there was this feeling inside me, soft like floating dandelion seeds. The feeling that he’d understand somehow.
“Hey. They’re gone now.” He nudges me with an elbow. I definitely do not notice how warm and firm he is.
I peek again, and he’s right. They’re gone. “Great,” I say. “Come on. I’ll help with the dishes.”
26. The Worst Freaking Part About La Raíz
… ISN’T THE BUGS or the creepiness or the all-around what-the-fuck of it. No, the worst bit is how utterly random it is. Since those thousand fireflies descended on me in that damp, grassy yard almost three years ago, I’ve been trying to figure out this thing’s rhyme and rules. Any rule would be nice to know, before being freaking cursed, you know? Surely some woman from Eve’s time to the contemporary world would’ve figured something out by now.
But no. The La Raíz happenings are unpredictable. It arrives the first time you have sex, so okay, there’s one rule we know, but from then on, it’s a whenever-it-feels-like-it, free-for-all house party.
It comes when I have sex, but sometimes not. It comes when I concentrate really hard with my tarot cards, sometimes not. It comes when I’m so intent on making art, I don’t even notice it until a million ladybugs have descended upon me, and—surprise! Sometimes not!
I learned this the hard way when I was in art class junior year. I hadn’t had a La Raíz–related event in months, and I thought I was safe or something, as though for some reason La Raíz had forgotten about my existence, the way we forget how people hurt us if they’re nice for a little while. I assumed, somehow, that I was free.
I was working on a painting, of a woman made out of papayas, and I’d started mixing sand into my palette, which gave it this amazing texture. It felt so good, like the words “papaya” and “amarillo” and “juniper” all put together. I gave up on my brushes and started painting with my fingers.
The little flaps of wings were easy to ignore at first. After all, everyone was talking, and the art teacher, Ms. Hershner, was playing a soundtrack from some old movie. It was easy to focus on my paint, on the conversations flitting back and forth as though they were the winged ones, and on the tubas and saxophones in the background.
And then this vibrating tickle swept across my back like legged lace. What really alerted me to something wild happening, though, was the fact that someone screamed.
One hundred thousand ladybugs (as mentioned above). I didn’t count, but I’m pretty sure that’s an accurate estimate. They crawled all over me. It looked like I was made of them, that my arms and chest and back and knees were formed by red, polka-dotted beetles.
“Okay,” Ms. Hershner said, all calm, “let’s get you outside, Moon.”
Everyone stared. Everyone just freaking stared at me, the cursed ladybug girl, as I walked out. Everyone pressed their noses to the windows as I stepped into the school courtyard… and even more lady-freaking-bugs landed on me.
Ms. Hershner tried to shoo them away, but… yeah. They leave on their own terms. It took only a minute for them to whisk away into the sky like seeds in the wind, but let me tell you. Everyone wanted to be friends with me after that. Not.
I can’t believe I thought Mom was lying. And now I’m legit cursed for it. Like it wasn’t enough that I had to be perfect, beautiful, dainty Star Fuentez’s twin sister. I have to attract bugs, too. Like a bloom. But not a sweet, nice one. Something big and in-your-face, something you can’t run away from fast enough. Like one of those orchids that smell like dead things.
That’s me, Moon Fuentez. The flower no one wants to be around, unless you count massive amounts of bugs from time to time.
27. Andro the Flirt and Santiago the Jerk
WE’RE ON THE road almost all day today, so I stayed in bed for ages, my face against the window. The landscape is getting darker and mountainous. The colors are absolutely thrilling, mixed with the clouds in peach and goldenrod. Everything made of rock crystal, sparkling on the tips of my fingers and the fog of my breath against the glass.
When the bus parks to let the beautiful fools off to break their fast, I brush my teeth and throw my hair up in a giant bun, then drag my computer to the dining table. Santiago is already there, giant book in front of him.
“Hey,” I say, plopping down.
“Hungry?” he asks.
I glance up at the clock. “I gotta edit photos for Star, so I can’t do our cooking show. I’ll just have a bagel.”
He rolls his eyes and starts doing the kitcheny stuff he likes to do. I try not to watch. But he makes it really hard. I swear he does it on purpose. His shoulders are so broad, I bet if I were to try to hug them, I’d dislocate my own. And his movements are smooth, too, like, I don’t know, a waterfall or maybe a—
“Oh, hey, Moon, was hoping you’d be up.” Andro slides into the seat next to me. “What are you working on?”
“We’re about to eat,” Santiago says gruffly.
“This won’t take long. Was wondering if I could commission that font?”
“Uh, okay,” I say, pulling my laptop screen down. “What do you have in mind?”
I take some notes as Andro speaks. He talks for a while, using a lot of meaningless buzzwords, like “informational superhighway,” “passion,” “holistic,” and “rock and roll.” “Do you think you can work with that?” he asks.
“Uh.” He’s so close to me, I can smell the woody notes of his cologne. “I’ll whip up some samples by early next week. Does that sound good?”
“Sure does.” He winks and my stomach feels nervous. We’re looking in each other’s eyes like… I dunno. Doves? Love doves? Do birds make eye contact with one another? It doesn’t matter, because a second later Santiago drops a plate in front of me, startling us both with its clatter.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Andro says, standing. “Email me your rates, okay, Moon?” He gives me a card, holding my hand for a split second before disappearing through the door.
Santiago collapses in the seat in front of me, digging into his dish, which looks identical to mine.
“What is this?”
“Breakfast pasta.”
I don’t wrinkle my nose. I don’t. But the giant can somehow sense my reaction. “Just try it,” he grumbles. His hair is all mussed this way and that, gold in the sun. And I smile and take a bite.
And then I pretend to faint. “Oh my God.” I shove another bite in and ask, covering my mouth, “What’s in it? Besides the personal blessings of Jesus Christ?”
Santiago gives me a half smile. “Olive oil, eggs, onions, garlic, Parmigiano-Reggiano. The real stuff, imported.” Then his face goes gloomy again, and he stares at his plate so I can’t see his expression anymore. “He’s got a girlfriend, you know.”
“What?” I’ve propped my laptop back up and have just sent Star her restaurant portraits.
“Andro. Has a girlfriend.”
“Oh.” Now I’m working on the Wheel of Fortune. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because he’s a big flirt. Really good at getting girls’ expectations up.”
I wrinkle my nose. Because I hate big flirts. Even in someone as beautiful as Andro. If I were his girlfriend, I wouldn’t like the way he gives cute little compliments and lingers in smoldering glances. And of course Andro’s a big flirt. Why else would he be so nice to me—me, Moon the Weedy Weed, awkward and loud. Round, my mother would add, as though I’d need the reminder. Only this morning, I found another cellulite dimple on my ample thigh. “Figures,” I mutter.
“What figures?”
I shake my head. “You know. A decent guy acting like I’m not gross. Figures that it’s his force of habit or whatever.”
Santiago doesn’t say anything for a while. When I look up from editing, he’s staring at me, looking about a heartbeat away from ripping my head off. “What?” I take another bite despite his anger, because nothing but God could stop me from finishing this dish as fast and as unladylike as possible.
He lifts his hand. “Why do you always do that?” He sounds so pissed.
“Always do what?” I ask, my tone just as sharp.
He lowers his voice until all I can think about are dark, muscular fairy kings, lurking in magic forests in search of some lost mortal to seduce. “Fish for compliments.”
When I process what he’s said, my hands weaken and my fork goes to the plate in a clatter. I don’t know why his accusation affects me so much, but I’m a dragon now, hard-scaled and breathing fire. “I do not fish for compliments.”
“Trust me, Moon. You do little else.”
I close my eyes because hot smoke is slithering out of my ears and nostrils. “Santiago. There would actually have to be compliments in the sea for me to try to fish for them.”
He laughs and points. “There you go again! You’re fishing for compliments about fishing for compliments.”
“I’m not…” How can I explain this, that when Andro tells me I’m good at fonts and photos? That’s the first compliment I’ve gotten from someone who isn’t Tía, or Star trying to make me feel better about her goddess looks next to mine, or a random follower from FG. And how those tiny, no-big-deal compliments Andro gave me, like it was nothing, how precious they are, like raw, sparkling tourmalines tucked away in my pocket. But I can’t. The words are getting sharp inside me, and I finally open my mouth and breathe out fire.
“Fuck you. And fuck your food and your cooking show. I’m done.”
His eyes widen ever so slightly, but other than that, he keeps his face expressionless. Like he barely even cares. I hate to admit it, but that hurts a teensy bit more than it should.
I know I’ll regret canceling the cooking show by the time I get hungry again in four hours, but I don’t care. I lock myself in the bathroom and cry for ten minutes as silently as I can.
How Moon Fuentez Fell in Love with the Universe Page 10