“Seventeen.” I slide his book into a bag, and I can see next to me Santiago watching. Speaking of creeps.
“You applied to art school programs yet?”
I nod. “Yeah, actually. Only one.”
“I go to a great program at NYU. Maybe you could apply there too.”
I nod without saying anything, because what? NYU? NYU has one of the most respected photography programs in the nation. They accept, like, .0001 percent of students who apply. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but still. NYU is a big deal, and the fact that this guy just casually mentions it? Like he really thinks I could?
“You’re not paid to chitchat,” Santiago says. His voice is even more deep and gruff, and his jaw is so sharp, I want to use it to file my nails razor-thin so I can claw at his beautiful face. He looks every bit the grump I first met, before I learned he loves hazelnut coffee and tangerine-lemon aftershave and watching the night sky pass through his bunk windows, because as a nebula, he’s attracted to nebulas. So I roll my eyes at the dude in front of me as an apology.
He gives me a big smile in return. “I’m Adam, by the way.”
“Moon.”
He grins. “What? Really? Like, for real?”
I nod. He’s actually kind of cute. In a skinny, pale, nerdy way.
He shakes my hand but drops it fast when Santiago barks, “Moon.” Jeez. He sounds like the Hellboy version of the Incredible Hulk. I give Santiago a look so sharp, he really should drop dead. Instead, he levels it right back at me. I scoff and turn to Adam.
“By the way,” Adam says before he leaves. “You really should post pictures of your face. You’ve been depriving us!”
I can barely look at anyone for the next ten minutes. It takes that long for my cheeks and neck and chest to stop feeling like they’re made of molten caramel. He probably just meant you have pretty eyes, I keep reminding myself. Gotta stay real.
Santiago doesn’t speak to me as we pack up later on. It’s not weird, but it’s also not normal. Not lately.
Finally I say, “Why are you so cranky today?”
His shoulders stiffen a bit, and he shrugs.
Oh no. I’m not letting it go that easy. “Santiago. What is it?”
“You talk too much,” he says gruffly.
It’s like he dropped a box of Andro’s self-help books on brand building and rock and rolling on my head. I don’t know why it hurts so bad. I haven’t even known the guy three weeks. I guess, I don’t know… I guess I thought that despite our open dislike for each other, Santiago and I were something like friends. Not actual friends. I wouldn’t tell him about my dad or why I hate bridges, especially ones that go up so high, the skin of the water below looks like another sky. So, no. Not real friends. But maybe, like, halfway there. Okay. Ten percent there. And Jeez Louise, besides all that, I’ve had enough of people telling me in so many ways to shut up, so someone—mainly my mom—could hear themselves, or Star, better.
Even though I was ready to raise an army to crack Santiago’s bad mood open, now I’m at the edge of the battlefield, throwing my sword down. That’s what those words feel like, by the way. You talk too much. Each consonant is a slick blade running along my neck, not quite cutting, but almost as painful. And so I turn my head and help load the bus wordlessly. He makes tacos for dinner, and I refuse to say anything beyond what’s necessary for our cooking show.
“What’s your problem?” he asks a couple times. I answer with “Cramps,” which I find tends to make guys ask fewer questions, not more.
I barely eat, and as soon as the dishes are clean, I go back to my bunk to finish Andro’s font. After that I check out my folder, the one with all my tarot images inside. And once I’m there, that’s when I realize it. The Wheel of Fortune was the last one. I’ve finished the deck.
Holy crap.
31. So It Looks Like I’m Not the Only Daughter Hoarding Secrets and Lies like Dragons with Their Gold
MY BAD MOOD was like molasses at my limbs and lungs and heart. But now that’s all washed away. In its place, flower buds. Everything tight and about ready to unfurl, smelling all sweet like nectar and looking all gorgeous like petals against thick moonlight.
My energy is wild and the group isn’t back from dinner yet, so I grab my camera and sneak out the door. I’m pretty sure I see Santiago spying on me through his little bunk curtain. Jerk-face to infinity, that’s what he is.
The night is glorious. We’re in a parking lot next to an outdoor shopping center, but in the light of dusk, everything is mystical. All bathed in that indigo light, the beginnings of stars and planets dotting the horizon like sequins. The clouds are dipped in rose gold, long and thin like a series of bangles adorning some ancient bride, clanking together because she’s nervous and excited and scared.
And that’s when I see it. Not quite a butterfly, or a moth, or a hummingbird, but it looks like a mix of all three, flying around in a circle right in front of me. I pull out my phone and do a quick search. It’s a hawk moth—brown, fuzzy, with red-lined wings. By the time I look up again, it’s gone. Before I turn back to the bus, though, three swarm past me, the buzz of their miniature wings making me shiver a little. And then a half dozen more follow, making me jump out of my skin a touch.
What if there’s some wildflower patch they’re all heading to? The idea grasps me with heavy, metallic jaws and won’t let go, so I slide my phone in my pocket and see what I can see.
There’s a line of cypress trees on this side of the parking lot, and it’s blocking a lot of the sunset. Everything is still brilliant, though, and magical. Maybe more so because the stars are even more visible here, so vivid in their winks. And then I give a little gasp.
Jesus on a fiddlestick. There’s someone right there, against the trees. Two someones, actually. From here it looks as though their faces have been melded together so sweetly, so gently, like two cake layers attached with buttercream frosting. I want to look away, to give them privacy, but one of them is too familiar. It’s the long willow of her body, the pale silk of her hair. It’s Star.
Before I know it, I’m around twenty or so feet away. Enough to tell that when Star pulls back ever so slightly from the kiss, I recognize exactly who she’s with.
Belle Brix.
And just behind Star, completely and utterly unnoticed by them, is a spiral of hummingbird moths. They’re waiting, waiting, waiting to be Star’s first miracle. I don’t know how I know this, but I know it with enough certainty that I’d bet my camera, my computer, and all the fireweed honey in the world on it.
The next time I look at them, it’s through my viewfinder. Click.
And now, ew, they’re starting to move their hands around way too much, and I can’t ignore the feeling that I’m invading something precious and wonderful and none of my business. So I turn around and totally break for it, making my footfalls as quiet as possible.
When I get back on the bus, I don’t even make it into my bed. I fall onto the sofa, where I hold my camera with trembling hands and stare at the photo again. It’s grainy and blurry, but if you knew them, you could tell who it was. You could also make out the little fairylike creatures that surround them, looking like winged autumn leaves that forgot to fall the rest of the way down.
There are so many thoughts happening to me right now. They’re just like those hawk moths, buzzing and flittering their fuzzy bodies against my brain. But three thoughts are the most dominant.
One, I am not the only cursed daughter.
Two, Star and Belle are currently making out against a cypress tree in the rose-gold sunset.
Three?
Holy crap.
32. Sexy Selfies That Are as Slippery as Seaweed
THE PRINTING COMPANY charges a ton if you purchase a single deck to be printed. Because I’ve literally had next to no time to myself, I haven’t finished retouching almost thirty of my images, so I won’t even be printing the whole deck. You’d think that would make a difference in the price, but it
doesn’t. Makes no gosh-darn sense if you ask me.
I really didn’t factor that into my budget, especially now that I’m spending more than planned on groceries. Which I’m not complaining about. Santiago might be a cantankerous bastard, but none of that affects his food, which somehow continues to get better. I don’t know how that’s even possible, but since the day he decided to get pissed at me, we’ve eaten carnitas rice bowls and lobster rolls and braised beef with all the trimmings. He still acts like he’s allergic to me, which is actually fine. I still hate his ridiculously muscular ass.
So I welcome the night we’re getting at the Serenade Hotel. It means I’m getting a much, much needed break from Santiago.
And tomorrow I’ll be receiving the first printing sample of the Wild Moonflower tarot, minus twenty-nine cards, at least, thanks to the Handmade Sun God Andro Philips Font Fund. I was able to afford the almost-deck and expediate the shipping. Now all I need to do is pray several rosaries it doesn’t look like shit.
* * *
Santiago’s already in the ballroom lobby when I walk in. Talking to Star.
I ignore the lurch in my stomach and act like neither of them exist as I walk by, looking around for Andro.
But Santiago was looking at her with interest. Not that I’m going to care. I just didn’t realize she was still trying. I mean, didn’t she spend last evening with her tongue in Belle Brix’s mouth? Why does Star always get to have everything and everyone she wants? But as I said, not going to care.
“Andro,” I say when I spot the Sun God himself.
He grins and opens his arms wide. “Moon.” For a second I think he might hug me, but then he clasps his hands together. “My designer finished up. The new font will be live tonight.” He grabs my room key, presses it into my hand. “Just one more thing, though. I’d love to credit you. What’s your website?”
I freeze, my palm up, not quite grabbing the key card yet. “Uh—”
“Mr. Philips.” A manager-looking dude approaches.
“Email me,” Andro tells me. “Or better yet, text.”
I nod, but he’s already turned away.
As I walk to the elevator, I plan one last look at Santiago and Star. Jeez. Even their names sound great together. All that alliteration. Then again, Star and Belle do too. Like rock-star princesses.
But yeah, one more look before I stop caring. I tap the up button and casually lean my hip by the elevator doors as I wait, hoping I look like I’m admiring the ugly-as-mashed-potatoes paintings on the walls, the gold foil pressed into the trims of the columns, baseboards, frames. And then I settle my gaze on Star.
She’s smiling up at him, intertwining her fingers in her hair as she shifts her weight to her other foot. She’s doing a good job of looking adorably nervous. I almost buy it until she flicks her gaze to his left arm, staring right at it for far too long. A surprising wave of anger rolls through me, and I fight hard at the urge to pull her by the hair and yell at her until she explodes into a supernova of energy. Good Lord. She’s going to hurt him and convince herself that she’s doing him a favor the whole while.
And as his back is to me, I can’t see if her charm is working yet. But then the firm lines of his muscles tense a little, and he turns enough for me to jolt, forcing my body to face the elevator as it opens. The last thing I ever need is a person to know how much I wish I were in my sister’s place. And something tells me, if Santiago looks at me right in my eyes, he’ll know. Immediately.
But then I make the mistake of turning around to face the ballroom. Just as the elevator closes, Santiago catches me. Though it’s a split second, the moment has the weight of whole universes. Eons of universes. The worst part, though, is his expression. It’s completely unreadable. I suppose I should be grateful it’s not lovestruck like most people when they spend more than three seconds with Star. But him showing nothing, looking at me like nothing, acting like nothing, somehow that makes everything worse.
My normally bottom-of-the-swamp self-esteem is even more sunk. It’s not just the muck of the earth, it’s inside the muck of the earth in the core of the earth, being punctured with little spears over and over again. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. You’d think my skin would be so thick, it would take a machete the size of a small continent to reach anything that bleeds. Alas, not quite.
When I get to my room, I try everything in my power to feel better. I order room service—a cheeseburger and onion rings. I eat like a barbarian, in bed while watching To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before. But carbs and fat and cute movies don’t help. A shower under scalding water with the fanciest hotel soap I’ve ever seen—I mean, it’s got little platinum flakes inside it!—doesn’t help either.
So when I get in bed, in a white, fluffy bathrobe, I grab my phone and decide to do something really foolish.
Using the camera as a mirror, I adjust my still-wet hair so it’s even on either side. I put on some shiny gloss so my lips still look shower-slick. And I loosen my robe, releasing a new world of cleavage. I position myself on the bed, lying on my side, hip jutting out like a mountain, boobs spilling out like a pair of melons. And I snap a photo angling my phone on the mirror wall in front of me, making sure to crop out my face. I take a few pictures, actually, but the first is the best. Funny how often that happens. My robe is riding up my thighs, the white of it making me look like the hazelnuts in Santiago’s homemade trail mix. A nice touch.
As fast as I can, before I lose my nerve, I open a new text box and attach the photo. Sending it to Samuel, the ever-requester of nudes. Even faster, I type and send, your turn.
I know, I know. Samuel is not my friend. But right now I’m desperate to feel better about myself. Any little scrap of attention. “Like a dog,” Mom says. Samuel is my most reliable thrower-of-bones right now.
It takes almost a whole minute for the dot-dot-dot of a message composing to appear, which surprises me. The dots disappear almost immediately, which surprises me even more. I watch the dots appear and reappear for the next few seconds before I groan and throw the phone on the bed. He better have a response after I’ve gotten my pajamas on.
… Okay. There. Pj’s on. But those dot-dot-dots are still appearing and disappearing like summer thunderstorms in the south, filling the sky all thick and dark one minute, completely gone the next. Maybe there’s something wrong with the service, or my phone. Samuel’s usually way more confident than this. He can’t ever send thirsty photos fast enough.
And that’s when I glance up at the screen and see my life flash before my eyes.
Because.
I sent.
A sexy selfie.
To Santiago.
Not Samuel.
Santiago.
My nemesis. My enemy. The biggest pain in my freaking neck, who’s probably flirting with my sister as we speak.
I want to bash my head in with one of his cast-iron skillets. Though there’s no one to even see it, my cheeks are aflame. There’s nothing to do but throw myself out the window now. I’ve reached the end of my life-span. I need to summon the Sims Grim Reaper, all dressed in a dark cloak and wielding a scythe, who will watch a romantic comedy on TV with my soul after I pass on. A girl can dream, right?
He still hasn’t responded, which is a plus. Before the dots can appear again, I type, WAIT.
And then I send a text to Andro. Hey. Which room is Santiago in? Realizing how this sounds at this hour in the night, I type, I need to give him his onion powder back, along with a bunch of nonsensical emoji. A hundred of them, actually.
Andro’s response is immediate: He’s in 309 right next to me in 310.
I have no idea why Andro included that information, but before I can think about it for another second, I run out the door faster than I ever imagined possible. I run up the stairs, because I already know the elevator will take too long.
I reach 309 at the speed of light’s idea of fast. I’m panting. I force myself to take one long breath after another, then knock on the d
oor. When he doesn’t answer, I bang it with my fist.
Finally the door opens. “What the…”
But he stops when he sees me, his eyes dropping down my shoulders, then to my waist and hips and legs and feet and back again. CRAP. I forgot that my Moon-is-in-her-hotel-room-alone pajamas consist of a lace-trim tank and short shorts, with a material so thin, I could probably use it to make cheese. I didn’t even bother to put a bra on. Or shoes. Jesus on a pancake.
But I can scarcely process this because of what he’s wearing. Which is no shirt. I mean, there’s gray flannel pajama bottoms. But no shirt. I’ve only ever glimpsed Santiago’s toplessness from his back as he planked in the mornings, which, I’ll admit under gunpoint, is unspeakably impressive. But his front. Jesus on a pancake.
His pecs remind me of the lake stones I’d skip on as a kid, back when Dad was around to take us camping. And his abs. More stones. More hard-as-stone stones. His arms and shoulders are so daunting, I want to take a measuring stick to them to see if my four-foot estimation of width is on the mark.
And there’s his skin, bronzy brass and gold. How does he look like so many metals fused together? And then his smell. Pine. Oranges. Something spicy like nutmeg. And then—
“Can I help you with something?” His voice is sharp and snaps me out of it.
But his eyes keep slipping down too, so I cross my arms and say, “Delete it,” as hard as I can.
He narrows his eyes, drawing them back up to my face.
“Delete it, Santiago.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but it appears he’s speechless. So I push him aside and slide in, trying as much as I can to keep my body from running against any part of him. “Where’s your phone?”
He holds it up. I think the camera app is on, which he clicks off. And then he pulls it away as I reach for it.
How Moon Fuentez Fell in Love with the Universe Page 13