“Who did you mean to send it to?” His voice is cutting.
“Does it matter? I’m asking you to delete it.”
“No. You’re telling me to. And not very nicely.”
After the last few days I’ve had, I can’t help it. I’m halfway to tears already. I bite my lips and glance at the ground. “Santiago. Please.” My voice cracks against my will.
He immediately turns on his phone screen, unlocking it. He pulls up the text convo, holds the photo, hits delete.
“You didn’t save it?”
“No.” He holds the phone out. “You can check it if you want.”
“I believe you.” I can’t look up at him. He’s so freaking distracting. Even with my eyes trained to the floor, I’m getting dizzy being this close to him. Lord, I need to go on a date or something. Like, yesterday.
“Is that it?” he asks. I’m being dismissed.
I nod and walk to the door. When I get there, I pause. “Look, I know you hate me, so it doesn’t matter what you think of me or what I say.” I swallow and let myself look at him. His face has that unemotional mask on again. When his eyes meet mine, though, they soften. Almost imperceptibly. “But I’m not a whore.” He blinks in surprise. “I was feeling really bad about myself. So I meant to send that picture to someone I knew would make me feel better.” I shrug. “I know it’s pathetic, but it’s the truth.” Pathetic. The truth is, I’m pathetic.
Santiago says a whole lot of nothing. So I start to open the door, and when I’m halfway out, he puts his hand on my arm. “What happened today? Why are you so sad?”
I almost laugh. Instead, I carefully remove his hand from me. It’s warm and wide. I don’t think I’ve ever touched him there before. “You can’t treat me like shit for days and expect me to be your best bud the second you figure out your actions have consequences.”
Did I admit I’m sad because he won’t talk to me anymore? I did. I totally did. Santiago blinks and I add, “Sorry for assaulting you with that photo, by the way. I know there were a lot of rolls.…” I gesture to my midsection area, but cover myself with my arm again when he drops his gaze down my body so slowly and smoothly, I about shiver. What the flip is that about? “Uh—where was I? Right. Sorry. Photo assault. I’d help you bleach your brain, but I’m going to be kind of busy screaming into a pillow in about a minute.”
And then I walk as fast as I can, without running, out the door. I don’t hear it close behind me. I don’t look back.
My phone is dinging when I get in and my heart does what feels like a backflip. But I huff out a sigh of disappointment when I realize it’s just Andro. That’s quite the knock for onion powder, he’s typed. I pause. I guess I did try to break the door down. And somehow, the best lie I could come up with was onion freaking powder. Great. No wonder Andro sees right through it.
But he’s added, Before I forget. Web address? For site?
I let the tips of my fingers dangle above the little phone keyboard. You know that moment in a movie where the heroine is making a huge decision, one that’s going to change the course of her life? That’s what this feels like right now.
Mom’s going to kill me, I tell myself.
But she’s going to find a reason to kill me no matter what, you know? She’ll never run out of material to hate the ugly twin, the one who just had to go and ruin her life with a milk jar and release the family curse back into the universe.
But if she finds out about this, there’s no way she could think of loving me again.
My fingertips pull away from the keyboard, only for a moment. Only to touch the top of the scar on my chest. And just like that, I make my decision.
Mom would say this whole thing—my art, my sharing it with Andro and the world—was a sign of disrespect. But she’s never respected me my entire life. So why should I hide who I am? It’s not worth it anymore. It really isn’t.
So I send a link to my Fotogram account.
To the founder of Fotogram.
Jesus Christ on a banana pancake.
And now, like the loser I am, I’ve been lying in bed for thirty minutes, my thoughts vacillating between Star and Santiago talking in the hotel lobby and then to the gold of Santiago’s skin, smelling so good, I wish I could catch him on a plate and have him for dinner. Ugh. Not having a boyfriend is making me cannibalistic.
And then a thought floats by, one so preposterous, it literally sends a shiver down my spine.
Santiago’s hotel room was all lit up. He was topless, holding his phone with the camera app on.
After I’d typed, your turn.
* * *
I decide to put everything behind me the next morning. Yes, I will never be my sister, but I’ve long known that. Yes, I’ve lost Santiago’s and my… whatever it was we had, but then again, I never really had him to begin with. And the fact that Andro never responded last night has me breaking out in a stress rash, but I’m pushing that shit to the farthest recesses of my brain. I push it past my brain, even, into my shoulders and back, until everything is tense and throbbing painfully.
No. Today I’m not going to give a single fuck about the train wreck that is my life. Because my email app has alerted me to the fact that the trial run of the Wild Moonflower tarot deck is here.
It feels like a big event. And, I mean, it is. So I treat it as such, putting on one of the two dresses I packed. It’s made of cotton, violet, and it’s covered in a pattern of white roses. I tie up sparkly black ballet slippers at my feet and make up my face nice and sweet. Shimmery pink on my eyelids and cheekbones. I add a deeper pink stain to my lips. And leave my hair down, since it’s almost always up.
“Moon,” Van says when I step out. “Fuck. You look…” He grins. “Got a brunch date or something?”
“I guess you could say that.” A date. With my tarot deck.
He puts a hand on my shoulder as I pass. “Lucky man or lady or enby!”
Since my tarot deck is not even a person, I give an awkward laugh and keep it moving, not stopping until I reach the front desk.
33. I Let the Nebula See My Art
I’M SITTING IN the hotel restaurant. The only thing I can afford is coffee, but I don’t care, because I’m staring at the box that contains the deck. You know, the project I’ve been working on for the last two years, minus twenty-nine cards that are still in my computer, awaiting very minor touch-ups.
I glance up, and because just what I need right now is a reminder of last night’s awkwardness, there is Santiago, sitting all by his lonesome, in front of enough bacon, eggs, and toast to feed a small herd of elephants.
When he spots me, he does a double take. The way his head flips is almost cartoonlike in its urgency. I bend my head really low, studying the texture of the cardboard of the package. It’s got the finest of fibers that catch the window light, looking like tarnished, spun gold.
I almost fall out of my chair when plates are set down with a clank. “Hey,” Santiago says, taking a seat.
“Hi.” My brain helpfully flashes to hips like mountains and boobs like melons, and of course that leads to pecs like river rocks and abs like tree roots, so I return to my new career as observer of cardboard.
“What’s that?”
Oh Lord. He’s talking to me. “It’s—uh—”
“Something to do with your art?”
I snap my mouth shut. And then open it again. “What?”
“Hold on. I wanted to say something else first. I’m sorry.” He’s staring at my face so intently. The amber of his eyes glows like a bottle passing a well-lit window.
My mouth is still open. Words do not want to come out. Luckily for me, he keeps going.
“I’m sorry for being an asshole. I was…” He waves his hand. “I was surprised to hear you’re an artist.” Now he’s the one observing cardboard with the precision of a PhD student. “I wish you’d told me.” He clears his throat. “Plus I was jealous.”
“Jealous?” My voice has returned at least.
“Of that guy. In line.”
Is he saying…?
“I was jealous a stranger knew more about you than I did.”
Oh. So not romantic jealousy, then. Ugh, why is my head always lying to me?
“Do you forgive me?”
His eyes are back on mine and they’re devastating, though I can’t figure out quite how. I think we’re having a moment. I think that’s how. Because then my eyes drop to his mouth, to his super-pouty peach lips. And when I force my eyes back up, he’s staring at my lips. God. God.
And then my stomach explodes into a growl so loud, probably half the patrons turn to see who let a rabid animal inside.
Santiago laughs, and now probably everyone’s looking at him because of how beautiful he is. He pushes his plate toward me.
“Sir, there’s a sharing fee.”
A server is on top of us, probably been watching us the whole time to make sure the only teens here don’t dine and dash or something.
Santiago doesn’t look at her. Instead, he looks at me and says, “You like waffles?”
I nod, already with a mouthful of bacon.
“She and I are going to share waffles, too, then.” He pauses, then adds, “With caramel. And extra whipped cream.” When I blink in surprise, he adds, “On the side.”
“There’s a sharing charge.”
“Heard you the first time.” This time he levels his classic glare right at her. She scowls right back as she turns and walks away.
“You don’t have to be rude to her,” I say.
“She was rude first.”
“You don’t know what kind of morning she’s having, okay?”
He sighs and just looks at me, which makes me all kinds of nervous, so I frantically clasp and unclasp my hands and say, “I thought you hated caramel.”
“I hate shitty caramel. Let’s see if theirs is any good.” He takes a sip of my coffee, then makes a face. “Too much cream.”
“Good thing it’s not yours, then, you coffee-thieving hobgoblin.”
And he smiles at me. “There you are.”
“I’m only forgiving you because of the waffles,” I snap.
He smiles even bigger, and I almost drop my coffee. “What’s in the box?” he asks.
“You guessed it. My art.”
“Tell me about it. I want to hear.” He’s got faint pink spots under his cheekbones. “I mean. If you want.”
“I want to.” I say it quickly and without thinking, and then the truth of it hits me in the chest, like a tree has fallen right through me.
I want Santiago to know about my art. I want him to know about my dad. I want him to know everything.
To distract myself from the log lodged in my breastbone, I rip the packing tape off the cardboard, pull out some Bubble Wrap, and there, in a little box, a bit larger than a stack of playing cards, is my deck. My hands tremble. This is nearly two whole years, all printed on and wrapped up in cardstock. Also, Santiago doesn’t hate me again. For some reason, both these facts fill me with equal amounts of trepidation.
“Moonflower,” he says, murmuring the words on the front of the box.
“It’s my aunt’s nickname for me.”
“Moonflower.” He gives me a shy smile and a nod at once, like he’s approving it. “So what is the Wild Moonflower tarot?”
I take the deck from him, trying not to pass out when our fingers touch. God. I think my blood sugar is low. Where in the heck are those waffles?
I take a breath and tell him about my Tía Esperanza and her herbs and altars, how she taught me to read things three summers ago. “She made me start with twigs at first.”
“Twigs?”
“Yes. Like, a walk in the woods? She made me read the forest floor.” He’s staring at me so seriously, I feel as though I’m on the verge of either melting or exploding. “And then I graduated to clouds.”
“So the cards are the finale of fortune-telling?”
“Actually, no. Mirror stones are the finale.”
“Mirror stones.”
I nod, and at that moment, the waffles appear. Santiago’s still looking at me like I’m revealing the world’s greatest mysteries. Then he snaps out of it, thanks the server, and grabs one of the empty plates. He sets a steaming waffle on top. “Butter?”
I nod again. Seems like all I can do, just bob like a tree branch in a rainstorm. He starts spreading the butter. “You don’t have to—” I begin.
But he shakes his head and finishes smearing the butter. And then I shake my head when he gestures to the syrup. He doesn’t even ask about the caramel and cream. He adds a dollop of the whipped cloud and then takes a fork and drizzles on the caramel.
Santiago is so graceful when he’s doing anything food related. He makes me look like a headless chicken by proximity, and all I’m doing is sitting here, thinking too hard about the caramel that’s fallen on two of his fingertips. He hands me the plate, and then! Like he could hear my dirty thoughts, he dips his fingers in the bowl of caramel and brings them to his mouth with a little sucking noise.
I haven’t even had a bite yet and I’m about to choke.
And he makes a big face. “That’s such shit. You like that?”
I take a bite, finally. And groan. It’s delicious.
“Fucking corn syrup,” he growls, reaching for the bottle of real maple syrup. His grumpiness is adorable, which means I must be drugged or something. But honestly, who gets upset over corn syrup like this? Santiago Philips, that’s who.
“For the people in my real life, my aunt and Belle Brix are the only ones who know about my project. And now you.”
He picks up the cards, putting them to the side one by one after careful examination.
“Crap,” I say, groaning. “I mean, you and my aunt and Belle and Andro all know.”
“Andro?” Santiago’s voice has an edge to it.
“He wanted my website, to credit the font. And I only have a Fotogram account. I sent him the link last night.”
“Your sister said you didn’t have an account, though.” He clears his throat. “Way back when. During our first event, at the opera house.”
“She did?” I mean, I thought I had that whole scene burned in my brain from the trauma of it. After all, that was also the precise moment she outed me as a dirty, deflowered slut. And I don’t remember any information about Fotogram and me coming up.
“I asked her if you had one,” Santiago says.
Well, that’s weird. But I just say, “Yeah, she doesn’t know about it. It could be bad if my mom found out. And Star would definitely tell her.”
Before Santiago can respond, Andro appears and plops a hand on my shoulder. “Are these them?” he asks, picking up the cards from Santiago’s hand. “Christ. These are amazing. I spent an hour reading your posts last night. I want to proposition you.”
I forgot about the detailed captions behind all my photographs. “Uh, okay,” I respond, and then stuff a half a waffle in my mouth, because I’m smooth like that.
“How do you feel about reading for the tour?”
I almost gag up that half waffle in one cough.
“You could sell your decks. Not at every event—some of them are booked to the limit. But Jonestown, and Austin, and St. Louis, I think, would be great. Especially because Austin has that great, relaxed boho aesthetic going on.”
“My deck, though—I haven’t uploaded all the cards to Occulette yet. I still need to retouch a handful before I can really sell them.”
“That’s fine. You can use those”—he points—“to sell preorders. And read people’s futures with whatever deck you like.”
Finally I swallow. “Can I think about it?”
Andro nods. “Let me know by the end of the week, okay?” He glances at my dress. “You look nice, Moon.”
Santiago gives a saber-toothed-tiger-sounding growl, and Andro jumps away. “Right,” he says. “Just let me know, Moon. Text, email, whatever. Rock and roll?” I can only nod. The wo
rds of the English language haven’t returned to me yet. Because what the flip just happened? Andro Philips propositioned me?
“If you do it, your sister is probably going to find everything out,” Santiago says as soon as Andro is gone.
“Yeah.”
He gives me a weird look. “What’s with your sister, by the way? Did you tell her I’m into her?”
“What? No! Of course not!”
He narrows his eyes. “You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Why would I tell her that?” And then I pause. “Everyone’s into her anyway. She doesn’t need the endorsement.”
“Not everyone.” Santiago doesn’t take his eyes off me as he says it.
And as though her ears were ringing, Star appears from deeper in the restaurant, flanked by Chamomila and Van. I grab my cards and shove them in the box, then throw the whole thing in my bag.
Star’s dressed in that bronze jumpsuit I love, with no makeup but gloss, her hair flowing in waves like white gold. Suddenly I feel like Oscar the Grouch, or some other creature who decided to try on a dress they’d found in the trash.
Star lights up when she sees Santiago, then pauses when she sees me, like I’m not allowed to dine with him or something.
“Hey,” she says, her smile stunning.
“Hey, Star,” I say.
Santiago nods once, then turns around to look at me again.
I know about you and Belle, I think to Star. And you need to make up your mind on who you really want.
Star clears her throat. For the first time ever, she doesn’t look exceedingly confident. “I didn’t know you guys would be down here today.”
“We shared waffles,” I say, as though that explains it. Santiago is back to his usual mode of impersonating a statue.
“Santiago,” Star says. “You got a minute?”
“Actually—” he says, but I stand up so quickly, I nearly knock the table over.
“Sorry,” I say, grabbing my coffee mug before it topples. “I need to go.”
Star shoots me a look of gratitude, but the fact is, I’m not doing it for her. There’s no way I’m going to sit here and stomach her and Santiago flirting with each other. I’m not going to let my day get ruined for this.
How Moon Fuentez Fell in Love with the Universe Page 14