How Moon Fuentez Fell in Love with the Universe

by Raquel Vasquez Gilliland

  “Well, you’re not.” He turns to grab the little towel to run over the wet pans. “Those guys, though. Are you still dating one of them?”

  “No,” I say. “I mean, I wasn’t even dating any of them.”

  “Huh,” he grunts. And then everyone returns from dinner, and I rush to change into my pajamas to get away from the noise.

  As I lie in bed, the streetlight glow flowing over me like little shots of copper, I can’t help but stare in wonder at my whole life. The idea that I’m not a slut. The very idea. It makes me want to scream and cry at the same time. The intensity inside me shakes the earth. I inhale the whole universe and a new one is breathed out again. Inhale, exhale. Creation, destruction, creation again.

  Mom loved it in the show Jane the Virgin when Jane’s abuela crumples up a white flower and says that’s what happens when a girl has sex. “She’s right,” Mom said. “A woman who does it turns brown and ugly like that flower. You can’t ever be beautiful again, not to any man’s eyes, not even Jesus’s.”

  Mom and Jane’s abuela forgot something about flowers, though. The blooms become seeds. And eventually a whole new plant, producing a whole new bouquet of fresh, white flowers.

  With each breath, I am new. I’m a seed, I’m a flower, and then I’m a seed again.

  And that’s exactly how God made it work.

  34. The Big Bridge Scares Me Straight into Outer Space (Right into a Warm, Twinkling Nebula)

  ALL THIS LIFTING boxes, setting up, packing, lifting boxes again all the time is getting to me. As in, I’m flipping starving. All the time.

  We had lunch an hour ago and here I am, about to pop some corn, when who should get in my way but the grumpiest, hulkiest boy I’ve ever met in my life.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, crossing his arms. I try to get around him to the microwave, but Santiago shifts his ginormous body and now everything is blocked.

  “Move it, will you? I’m hungry.”

  He responds by grabbing my popcorn and tossing it into the trash way across the room like a pro basketball player.

  “What the—”

  “Do you even know what hydrogenated oils are? And why you shouldn’t be eating them?”

  “Santiago, I am freaking hungry.”

  “Sit down, then. I’ll make you a snack.” He says it so grumpily, you’d think he was telling me in detail how he was going to kick my ass, not cook me up something probably wonderfully delicious. What a weirdo.

  I sit at the table, pretending to sulk a bit, when the bus door opens and Belle Brix appears. She’s wearing wide-leg jeans, a white tank, and checkerboard suspenders. If I wore that outfit, I’d look like a clown. Meanwhile, Belle Brix looks incredible.

  “Hey,” she says, plopping next to me. “How have you been?”

  “Not bad. How about you?”

  She shrugs. “Not bad myself.” She looks right at me. “Hey, do you mind if I see some photos you’ve taken of the tour lately?”

  I frown. “Sure. Just let me…” I pull up my computer and let her scroll through my most recent edited work.

  “Wow, you’re good,” she murmurs as she scrolls. “Is this one of your own artworks? That you told me about?” She points to a labyrinthine arrangement of ferns and seashells. The Star, with the leaves arranged in a seven-point star.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “You’re amazing. I mean, I knew you were good from Star’s feed, but… damn.”

  “Thanks.”

  Belle and I smile at each other for a moment and then she clears her throat. “Are there even more recent photos?” She looks away. “I’m thinking of one within the last few days. Near a forest of tall, skinny Christmas trees?”

  Busted. My cheeks feel like they’re the color of sun-ripened strawberries. “Uh—”

  Belle lowers her voice. “Look, I saw you walking away and you had your camera. If there’s a photo, I want to see. I just want to see.”

  I nod and pull up my supersecret folder of pictures that reveal deep, shocking secrets about my sister. There’s only one file inside. I double click and let Belle look.

  The photo is beautiful, almost unnaturally so. The light between the cypress trees angles in on them like thick strands of hair. Each of the hawk moths behind them is lit with its own little lick of that light. They look like they’re surrounded with floating candles.

  “The second or third time we kissed, Star noticed the bugs closing in. That’s when we had our big fight. She stopped talking to me for months, until right now, until the tour started.”

  My mouth drops open. “Star’s known for that long that she has La Raíz?”

  “I guess.”

  And she didn’t tell me. Jesus on a hockey stick. I mean, I can understand why Star wasn’t ready to reveal she’d been making out with Belle Brix, but all this time, I could’ve known I wasn’t the only cursed daughter. Doesn’t she know what a weight lifted that would’ve been to me? Seeing those moths around Star, light-years of universes were flung off my shoulders. Light-years.

  Belle sighs. “Don’t—don’t show this to her, okay?”

  I shake my head. “I won’t. I’m not going to say anything until she’s ready to tell me.”

  Belle nods. “Thanks.”

  I pause. “I’m sorry. I know this is an invasion of your privacy. I’ll delete it—”

  “No, don’t. Don’t, okay? I’m glad you took it. I’m glad there’s proof that this whole thing, that this whole love, isn’t just in my head.”

  I nod as Belle stands and makes her way to the front of the bus. “I need my reading, Moon!” she calls with a smile.

  “Soon!” I say back.

  Belle Brix is in love with my sister. Holy crap.

  And at that moment, Santiago plops my snack in front of me.

  “What’s that?”

  “Cheese and crackers.”

  “That’s cheese?” I point to the wheel that’s lopsided and steaming and covered in jam and nuts.

  “It’s baked brie, and you’re gonna love it.”

  He’s right. I love it. And though I’ll admit it only to myself right now, baked brie can kick microwave popcorn’s ass any day of the week.

  * * *

  Star and I’ve always gotten each other the most cheesy birthday gifts, all to do with our ridiculous names. One year she got me a moon lamp, another, a Moon in My Room. I’ve gotten her star candles and cookie cutters and coffee mugs. So when I spot the globe in the middle of the truck stop store, I grin immediately.

  It’s like a snow globe, but instead of a village, inside someone painted the night sky. All indigo, with a white church propped next to a tiny forest. I like that the forest is there. I want it to remind her of me, now, and maybe in the future, when one day she’s super-beyond-FG-famous and married and teaching her sixteen children the sign of the cross.

  I shake it, and star-shaped glitter flutters around, and the whole scene looks completely full of miracles. As they settle, I can feel it on my skin. Cool, smooth, like polished gemstones, each star hardened and captured as it fell to Earth.

  The price is kind of steep, though, for what is essentially a unique snow globe. She’s my only sister, I remind myself. The only one of the two people in my nuclear family who doesn’t actively hate me.

  “That’s pretty,” Santiago says behind me. I nearly drop the dang thing in a jolt.

  “Don’t scare me like that,” I say, pulling it to my chest. He’s got some green stuff in his hand. “What’s that?”

  “Mint. They have fresh herbs here. Can you believe that?”

  I curl my top lip as I say, “Oh.”

  He scowls. “What the hell is wrong with mint?”

  “I’ve never been the hugest fan of it.”

  “Ever had tabbouleh? Tavuk kebabi?”

  “Uh—what?”

  He sighs. “Ever had mint in something not sweet?”

  I make even more of a face, because savory mint? What the fresh hockey stick is that?


  “Stop making that face. I’m making tavuk kebabi tonight.” He waves the mint right at my nose, dispersing its cool scent. It travels down my spine like ice water. I want to shiver from it.

  “Great,” I respond dryly. Santiago’s never been wrong when it comes to food I’ll like, but there’s a first for everything, I guess.

  “Y’all ready for Huntsville tomorrow?” Andro pops up as he does, like a freaking jack-in-the-box, placing a hand on each of our shoulders. I almost drop the globe again. Lord. Stealth and scaring the shit out of people must be a genetic trait, I guess.

  But then I realize what he’s saying, and my face falls. Ugh. That means the Sterling Pyke Bridge is today.

  We’ve gone over thirty-two little bridges on the trip and about four medium-size ones. The little ones just sent a jump to my belly; the mediums have me going to bed to deep breathe without letting everyone realize I, seventeen-year-old Moon Fuentez, am more scared of bridges than I am of spiders, zombies, and luna moths combined.

  But today is the big one. Sterling flipping Pyke. It’s 468 feet tall and nearly a mile and a half long, lined with metallic tracks, so I will definitely feel when the bus meets it. I won’t be able to get in bed and put a pillow over my head and pretend it’s not happening, not like with the mediums. With how sensitive this bus is, I’ll probably feel the tires rumbling over each metal slab as though they were notches in my spine.

  It’s not even happening and I can already feel my stomach turning around and around, like it’s suddenly morphed into a windmill.

  Santiago’s talking to Andro, but he keeps glancing at me. “You up for reading tomorrow?” Andro asks me, all smiles.

  “Sure thing,” I grit out. If I were clutching the globe any tighter, it would shatter, sending shards deep in my palms. I’d be sent right to the hospital and I’d miss the Sterling Pyke, so. Maybe that would be preferable. No, no, I know it’s not, but crap, this sucks. This really sucks.

  Andro says his cheerful goodbyes, and Santiago is immediately in my face. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Moon, you’re fucking gray. You look like you’re going to hurl.”

  “I’m not.” But the little choke in my voice doesn’t seem to convince him.

  “Is it the mint? Do you really hate it that much? Because—”

  “No, no. It’s not the mint.”

  He stares at me, his eyebrows lifted and jaw clenched. His lashes are extra curly today, reminding me of neat little spiderwebs, and I count nine light freckles on his nose. His lips are peach as ever, and this close, I can see a tiny dip in his top one. I bet that would feel nice to kiss, if I were even thinking about being interested in that sort of thing.

  Santiago has the opposite problem of Andro. The more I get to know him, the more good-looking he gets. Like right now, for instance. He’s pissed I won’t open up to him. There’s curiosity mixed with that, and concern, too. He should have the weirdest look on his face. But of course not. He looks like a freaking god. Why didn’t his parents name him Zeus and get it over with? Because with that smoldering glare he’s giving me, with that water-smooth skin and those mountainous biceps, just “Santiago” isn’t cutting it anymore.

  “What?” I finally snap.

  “Nothing. You say it’s nothing. So it’s nothing.”

  I’m relieved he’s letting it go, so I turn away. And then he grabs my arm. He’s not forceful or anything. But his grip is firm. “Just… if you need to talk…”

  “Okay.” I don’t want him to finish the sentence. I don’t want him to discover how fucked up I am and why.

  I pay for the globe and a bagel and coffee. Decaf. Because I don’t think I’m going to need any extra jolts of energy today. “Hey, Star,” I say once we’re all back on the bus.

  “Hey,” she says. She and Chamomila are poring over an FG account on a tablet, of someone who is red-haired and gorgeous and apparently really into green smoothies.

  “Got a minute?” I ask.

  Star lets out a big sigh and exchanges a look with Chamomila. “We’re really busy, actually.”

  I clear my throat. “I was wondering if you know about Sterling Pyke? The bridge? We’re going over it today.”

  “And?” She’s so sharp, I lift my head back a little, like I’m stepping away from a hammer to the face.

  I close my eyes and inhale. “It’s… you know—”

  She smirks. “You mean you’re still not over that phobia of yours?” And she and Chamomila snicker. “Oh, come on, it’s a joke, Moon.”

  “You’re scared of bridges?” Oak asks. “That’s cool. I’m scared of beautiful girls. Or actually, they’re scared of me.” He grins, putting an arm around Chamomila, and everyone giggles.

  And with that, a joke so absurd I’m not even sure if it was a joke, I leave. Not without noticing the regret in Star’s eyes, but it’s too late for that now.

  The windmill in my belly is turning so fast, I can feel each woosh of air gliding along my whole body. It’s like there’s a tornado coming. And there’s nowhere I can go. The only person who would understand has thrown me under the bus for people who vastly misunderstand the concept of humor.

  It’s another hour before the bridge is in sight. I’ve been reading in bed. Or trying to. Really smutty stuff. Like, butt stuff and cane stuff and tree stuff. Stuff I can’t fathom being into, stuff I read to gross myself out, but not even that was enough to distract me. Ugh.

  There are daggers reaching out of the river. Brassy and shining so bright in the afternoon sun. There is an army awaiting, a Trojan horse of a bridge hiding people who are going to hurt me. I have to run away. I have to get away. But there’s nowhere to go.

  My ring rattles against the window. That’s how I realize I’m trembling.

  “Moon.” Santiago knocks at the top of his bunk. I feel the reverberations under my calves. “Quit that, will you?”

  I snatch my hand from the Plexiglas, but then the shivers ricochet from the ring into the rest of me. It’s convulsing now, my body, these wild, rocky shakes, and I feel like I’m watching from outside myself, wondering how on earth this came to be. I am a cabinet filled with the fancy Christmas plates, unhinged, and there’s an earthquake. Things are breaking.

  “Jesus, Moon. What the hell are you doing?”

  Well, add mortification to terror, because apparently my ample body is rocking the bunk as though it were a whale leaping into the shining seas.

  “Sorry.” I grit it out as I climb off the bed. I barely manage to get off the ladder, with plans to curl up into a ball right next to the merch boxes. But when I sort of thrust my way there, head down, I hit a boulder. A wall. A pile of rocks, hot and hard and dry. Also known as Santiago’s chest. For the love of God, does he Gorilla Glue pieces of concrete to himself regularly? I want to poke him, to see if there’s any give whatsoever. Then I glance up at his face, and he looks kind of pissed, but that’s being quickly surpassed by widening eyes. “What’s the matter, Moon? You’re shaking. You’re shaking.”

  I open my mouth to respond. I have no response, actually, but my body is going to provide one for me. Before either of us can figure out what that’s going to be, we reach the first metal grate of the bridge, and it’s a sound that shouldn’t exist, period. That tire-on-metal scrape, Lord. Lord. What ends up coming out of my mouth is a shriek. And then I open my arms and leap on Santiago.

  I don’t even get a moment to freak out that I might hurt him with the force of my bones and flesh and everything else. Which is fine, actually, because he doesn’t budge. His arms go right to the backs of my thighs, and he holds me like someone threw a quilt at him, not a girl who can, at times, squeeze into a size 14.

  “Hey,” he says, soft, right next to my ear. My face is buried in his neck, and it’s all I can do to keep from sobbing. He sits on the bed and now I’m in his lap, but all I can do is focus on the little jump the bus makes on every fucking metal scrape. We’re running over meta
llic bodies every second. Every fraction of a second. Body, body, body. My spine does this little spasm with each one.

  He leans back a little, pulling an arm off me somewhere, and I want to say how sorry I am, but I can’t; instead I dig my nails in his shoulders as we go over a thump-thump-thump particularly violently, and then he pulls me over him.

  And now we’re in his bed, with his arms around me tight, and his hand is rubbing circles on my lower back.

  “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he says, his grumbly, rumbly voice vibrating in my temple, neck, chest. “Breathe, Moon. Slow. Like this.” And as he demonstrates, his rib cage lifts mine. In, up, out, down. I feel like what’s-his-name when he leaned on the torso of a triceratops in Jurassic Park. In, up, out, down. Again and again.

  And the weird thing is, it calms me. His breath, the in and the out, the up and the down. By the time we go over the last metallic body scrape, I feel halfway normal. I sink into him and stretch my legs out. My head is on his chest, on what I think is the side of his triple-F pec. My left leg is on the bed, the other turned in so that it’s over his. My arms are still clutching him as though he were the rock cliff against a free fall into outer space. I cling until my arms get numb and tingly, and then I nudge him so I can move a little.

  He lifts his torso for a second, so I can put one arm bent between us, the other across his stomach. I watch it as it rises and falls with his breath. My arm, my thick brown arm, looks like a twig on the belly of an ancient dinosaur. If that dino had about twenty abdominal muscles stuffed in the space six would normally be.

  He keeps rubbing my back, and then he says, “You better now?”

  I nod. I’m not sure I can speak, seeing that my throat feels like it’s made of chopped soda cans.

  “You ready to talk about it?”

  I shake my head.

  “Okay,” he says, and he shifts me a little so that we can both face the window. There’re big, rolling clouds surrounding us, the color of spilled black-violet ink on white paper, all mixed together into a dusky purple, a color that makes my hair stand up.

  “My dad drove off a bridge six years ago,” I say. “On purpose.” It’s barely a whisper, but he hears me. I know it by the way his body tenses under mine. “It’s been six years and I don’t understand why he did it. Why did he choose to leave me like that? How could he?”