How Moon Fuentez Fell in Love with the Universe

by Raquel Vasquez Gilliland

  But I think of Tía’s words again. That somehow this will all be okay. Though it feels impossible, the message, the letters, they all settle into my hair, my cells, the marrow of my bones. One day I’ll be okay. Maybe now, maybe even now, I already am.

  * * *

  Tía’s at work, at the bank. She’s not around to get on my case for moping everywhere, so I try to distract myself every which way I possibly can. I turn on the television and watch reality TV for twenty whole minutes. I open my camera and take photos of Tía’s orchids. Every hour they’re a new color thanks to the kitchen light. They almost kill me with their beauty.

  I fry cheesy tortillas and stuff them with guacamole and lettuce and sour cream. And it makes me sad, because even the idea of this meal never would’ve come so naturally if it weren’t for this summer’s cooking show, starring me, Moon the Weed, and him, Santiago the Nebula. But then Santiago, the thought of him, it starts a little smoke at my fingertips. Because I’m not sad anymore. I’m freaking mad.

  When I sit in front of my aunt’s computer, I open a Word document and write “How dare he” about eighty times. How dare he. How dare he believe Star’s bullshit. How dare he think I was capable of using him to get to Andro. How dare he write “Forget it” in that flipping useless email. The one I still can’t bring myself to delete.

  How dare he give me a speck of hope only to take it away, ripping my whole heart in half in the process. I feel like a seed, you know? But not in the good way anymore. I’m dry, almost an empty shell. I was so close to water that I could smell it, and then bam! I rolled away, straight into a desert.

  When I tell Tía this, she wrinkles her nose. “Don’t let anyone feel like they’re the one who’s supposed to save you,” she says. She’s spooning sugar into our café Cubanos, served in little white cups on little white saucers, everything lined with hand-painted roses. The serving ware makes me feel solid, more so when I put the cup to my lips. Like the porcelain somehow connects me back to the earth from where it came.

  “You can only save yourself,” Tía continues. “This doesn’t mean others can’t help you. But if you’re looking for them to give you your worth, to give your life meaning? They will always fail you.”

  I groan. “Yeah, yeah. Girl power and all that.”

  “It doesn’t only apply to girls, Moon!”

  “Okay. That’s true. So how do I save myself?” I ask, half expecting her to respond with something wise and mystical sounding, like, Only you can know the answer to that.

  Instead, she says, “Get to work.”

  “What?” My little café is frozen in midair. “You want me to get a job?”

  “You have a job,” Tía says, pointing to my camera, which is currently stashed in the bookcase. “Get back to it.”

  “You mean posting on my Fotogram? The earth art?” I already know that’s exactly what she means.

  “Yes.” She leans back, daintily sipping the café, her pinkie finger extended like a princess.

  “But—”

  “But what?”

  “I lost so much, Tía. Months of work. It’s going to take me forever to complete my deck. And I’m not even sure that’s what I want to do anymore.”

  “So?”

  “And Star’s on there still. And they’re probably posting videos of our fights. Probably editing them to make me look like the villain. And there are Star trolls just waiting for me to—”

  “So go on another platform.”

  I sigh. “You make it sound so easy, Tía.”

  She sets her cup down and puts a hand on mine. “Look. I don’t want you to go online if you’re going to get bullied. If you need to wait until this blows over first, then wait. But you gotta get busy, Moon. All you did today was sit around and moon over that boy—”

  “I did not—”

  “Make art. And when you’re ready, share it again. The world needs your talent, Moon. This world needs you.” Tía stands and leans to kiss me on the forehead. “Get busy, Moon.”

  * * *

  Make art. Okay.

  Tía’s backyard is a jungle and we’re on this little hill in the neighborhood, so we get the best views of the sunsets and the moonrises, through big palm and live oak and sugar maple leaves. I set my tripod up and take a long-exposure photo of the dimming light on her garden. All dark shadows blotted with little spots of sunset light rays. Makes me think of topaz, scattered across the forest, each stone glowing like a lantern.

  I go inside and pour myself a glass of mint tea, and when I go back out, the moon is rising, its light so thick, streams are pouring between all the dimming topaz lanterns.

  The beauty startles me. It startles me like La Raíz did each time. Like this right here is La Raíz—an unexpected and unpredictable miracle. And I set the shutter for as long as it will go, and then the moths arrive, fluttering right toward Tía’s arbor, covered in moonflower vines. They dance like spirits, I think, almost forgetting what it was like on earth when they were alive, and just like that, an idea falls into my head, so strong that it feels like someone smashed an egg right into my hair. I can even feel the yolk sliding into my neck. But I ignore the slimy sensation. I go inside, I go to the computer, and I do exactly what Tía said to. I get to work.

  49. How to Meet a Cute Boy at the Library (Even If Your Heart Is Still Broken like a Cracked Seedpod)

  CINDY SHERMAN WAS one of the first artists to base her whole work on self-portraiture. It’s kind of hard for me to imagine in the age of such easy selfies, but her work was seriously revolutionary at the time. Up until then, humans had made art, lots and lots and lots of art, on the female body, but 99.9 percent of it was based on the male gaze. Which means the portrayal of women focused only on the parts that mattered most to men. Boobs and thighs and seductive looks. Subservience, Madonna/whore categorizations, sinners, and subjugation. There were a few lady artists who broke the mold, but Cindy Sherman was the first as far as selfies go. And she did it way, way, way before digital cameras and Photoshop and filters. I mean, she used film. She literally developed that shit in a darkroom. She didn’t get to see if a photo shoot was successful or a load of crap until after all that work. What a badass.

  Searching through Cindy Sherman’s portfolio online isn’t enough. It feels wrong, even. Her work was meant for paper, you know? So after procrastinating for almost two weeks, I borrow Tía’s library card and head out.

  I find the section of photography books pretty easily. They’re all mostly massive. I grab one on Cindy Sherman, then a few more that catch my eye. By the time I’m walking to sit at a table, the pile of books in my arms reaches my nose.

  “Hey, you need help?”

  I guess I must look like I’m going to topple over because there are hands grabbing the first five or ten thousand books.

  “Thanks.” I look over the guy as he places the books on the table.

  He nods and looks up at me, and his jaw sort of drops a little. It’s a look I’ve seen exactly one zillion times when it comes to guys first seeing Star. But I’ve basically never seen it directed at me. He must recognize me as Star Fuentez’s sister. Or maybe he knows my work like that one guy in Colorado.

  “So you’re a photographer?” the guy asks.

  Am I? For so long, I was just Star’s camera girl. That was switched up recently into merch girl. A slut and a whore and a bad, bad daughter according to my mother. And to too much of the world, I’m a dark and thick and exotic girl, glanced at and forgotten like a weed.

  So it takes me a second to respond. “Um, yeah. Well, yeah.”

  And he grins, and I realize how flipping cute he is, with his chestnut hair, freckles, and big green eyes. “Me too,” he says, reaching out his hand. “I’m Marco. No jokes about the pool game, please.”

  I laugh. “Well, I’m Moon. No jokes about whether or not I’ll moon you, please.”

  “For real?” he says, holding my hand a touch longer than necessary. “Seriously, your name is Moon? As in…” He poi
nts up.

  “Yup.”

  “I bet there’s a wild story behind that name.” He grins again.

  “Uh. Well, not wild, exactly.” Just my dad being poetic combined with my mom being stubborn.

  We’re shushed by some old lady, and we turn to each other and silently laugh a little.

  “Why don’t I take you out Friday and you can tell me all about it?” Marco whispers.

  The first thing I think of is Santiago, and my heart hurts a little. But I mentally shake it off. I’ve got to move on sometime, right? “Get busy,” Tía told me. So I nod and say, “I’d love that.”

  * * *

  The thing with Cindy Sherman is she embodies personas in her work. In one, she’s a naive-looking housewife, gazing up at the camera from her kitchen floor, where she’s picking up spilled groceries. In another, she’s positioned herself in front of a painted landscape, like she’s a painted portrait done in the 1800s, bonnet tied up on her hair and all. Sometimes her makeup is done clown-like; sometimes her face is completely distorted with it. Nothing is really beautiful, not in the traditional sense of the word. But the way she owns the space of the photo, the way she doesn’t care to smile. It’s powerful.

  And it leads to other artists. Painters like Frida Kahlo and Artemisia Gentileschi. All women who did the selfie before the term “selfie” was even a thing. And it seems kind of lame and sexist that once lots of women started taking pictures of themselves, it started to be called “selfies.” Something people like to mock, to dismiss as a symbol of vanity and narcissism. But what they used to be is self-portraits. That’s what they are still, in fact. It’s all kind of messed up.

  My absolute favorite artist I’ve discovered is Ana Mendieta. When I look at her earth art, or self-portraits, or anything she’s done, it makes my whole body want to shiver like I’m getting ocean waves of déjà vu over and over. In one photo, she wears nothing but white flowers in front of an ancient Mesoamerican tomb. In another, she stands in front of a huge tree trunk, arms up, covered in wet dirt. She looks like a mud goddess in it. These in particular are from a series called Siluetas, and I spend hours looking at each one, trying to figure out which is my favorite. I think it may be the one of a woman’s body carved in the sand, covered in red ochre. That one reminds me of ancient cave paintings. Or something even older than ancient cave paintings, maybe something even older than flowers or ochre or mud.

  On Monday night, I wait for the sunset to arrive, bringing its little drops of liquid topaz. And I set it all up in Tía’s backyard: my tripod, a white sheet to reflect light, a collection of magnolia blooms from the neighbor’s yard. And I take off my clothes and lie in the grass, the sticky evening dew kind of cold at first, making me gasp.

  Then I place the magnolia flower right over my crotch. It’s huge and covers everything important and then some. And then I scooch down so I’m under my camera, reach for the remote shutter release, and press the button.

  At one point, I push the camera farther away and add more magnolias over my chest. I swoop my hair to the side, fan it out. And then slide my finger over the button. Click, click, click.

  “What in the hell are you doing out there, Moon?” Tía’s voice is ringing through the backyard.

  “Don’t look!” I call back. “I’m only wearing flowers!”

  “It’s a little late for that,” she says. “Get dressed and come inside! I brought some pastelitos from la panadería!”

  Well, that gets me moving. I pull my clothes on, pack up, and sprint to the house.

  “What kind?” I ask.

  “Guava.”

  Oof. My favorite.

  “Want to tell me what you’re doing outside in your birthday suit?”

  “Self-portraits.” I pour cream into the coffee Tía sets in front of me. “But not porny,” I clarify. “Artsy.”

  “Can I see them?”

  “No.” I pause. “Sorry, it’s just… I’m not even ready to see them yet.”

  Tía smiles. “When you are, Moon, let me know, okay?”

  50. Making Art like Warm Southern Rain

  I SPEND THE next three days taking portraits. In one, I drive to the river and stand in front of a massive banyan tree. I braid a belly chain made of switchgrass, and I photograph my bare stomach. Enormous, ancient tree on one side; enormous, ancient river on the other. I would’ve gotten more work done if some old asshole hadn’t started catcalling me. “ Hey, sweetheart, lift your top a little higher, would you?” Why are men so gross?

  When I get home, I borrow some of Tía’s inks and paint my feet in the backyard, all warm in the sunlight. My feet are so dark, even in the thick afternoon, but I try to stop my brain when it goes on to bring up images of Star’s small, pale, dainty, and always pink petal–polished feet. No, instead I stare at my own even harder. And then I paint Cōātlīcue, goddess who gave birth to the moon and all the stars on my left foot, and on the right, I paint Xochipilli, god of flowers. Aztecs did not portray their gods pretty, or what we think of as pretty. Their gods are flat, wide-eyed, strong, and snarling. That’s exactly how I paint them. Fierce and wild. Just like me. Just like the animal that is my body.

  I get the hose going and I wet the side of Tía’s garden, where there is nothing but blue chicory plants, until the mud is thick. And then I slap my feet right on there. Some of it splatters onto my skin, making the ink on Cōātlīcue and Xochipilli smudge a little, but it looks cooler, in my opinion. I lift my camera from my neck and start snapping.

  And then I spend the rest of the day exactly like that. Barefoot, muddy, watering all the plants—the breadseed poppies, the sweet and sour marigolds, the roses, all blooming in pink and yellow and crimson. The enormous bromeliads that line the house, the way they hold water in their reservoirs like little teacups. The morning glories, the hummingbird vines, and, of course, the moonflowers.

  When I get inside, I tiptoe around, wipe my feet on a dirty towel, and slip my SD card in Tía’s computer, clicking yes when it prompts me to upload new photos. And I close my eyes.

  Everything is tight—my shoulders, my jaw, my calves, even. I can barely open my eyes. I don’t know why, but it feels like I’m about to dive off a plane into nothing but misty clouds for miles and miles.

  But then I look, and everything sort of goes into a state of pleasant shock. My photos. My body. My rolls and my dimples. My face, even. It all looks… okay.

  Better than okay. The effect I was going for, the idea of my body as its own land, its own borderlands, came out so much better than what I was even imagining. There, my hips in the emerald grass, looking like a bronze hill, with the magnolia right in the center. And there’s another, me in the aloe, looking like a woman made of stone. And then my soft belly, between the ancient tree and ancient sea, wearing a chain of long leaves. And it amazes me, because those leaves are also ancient, made by those groves of trees and their mothers and their mothers and on and on and on. Everything, everything is part of a lineage. Everything, everything is ancient. Just the thought of it is a wave of warm salt water along my head, my spine, my thighs. Goose bumps prick along my arms and belly and chest, and I minimize my photos and start googling.

  One hundred and seventy thousand years ago. That’s when the first anatomically modern humans roamed the earth. I knew that from Daddy.

  Three hundred and eighty-five million years ago is when the first banyan trees appeared.

  Nearly five hundred million years ago—like, holy crap, what kind of number is that, anyway?—is when plants first appeared. This is when I push my screen down and go back outside.

  The sky is thick with rainstorm clouds on one side—dark, slick, about to burst with water. How long have clouds roamed the earth? And rain? And wind? I take a moment and watch, you know, feel those old-as-dirt formations and migrations. We are all ancient. And it’s bananas to me, how the holiness of this earth was attempted to be contained in a church, forcing people to feel bad about the sacred and ancient and wild of our bo
dies, our senses, our glorious impulses to make mistakes, some of which turn out to be the best things ever.

  Like my mistake to go on the Summer Fotogram Tour. That all led me here, staying at Tía’s for as long as I need to, weeping under millions of years of rainstorm clouds because they’re all so fucking beautiful, you know? And even though I don’t want to, I wish to all the ancient lineages on earth that Santiago were here with me. He’d get this. He’d feel it too.

  But he’s not here. It’s just me, barefoot, my eyes closed as the rain begins. It’s just me and I’m finally beginning to feel that is enough. That I am enough.

  * * *

  “I spoke with your mother,” Tía tells me at dinner.

  I’m showered and in my softest gray sweatpants and a T-shirt. We’re in front of our latest favorite takeout, the pollo a la plancha combo from La Granja down the street. Arroz, frijoles, chicken cooked with a thousand onion slices until it’s sweet. Santiago would love it, I think.

  Now, though, my appetite dwindles a little. “Uh. Okay.” I wait to ask a lot of things. Why did you talk to her again? Don’t you know she’s a mess? Don’t you know what she’s capable of? But I keep my mouth frozen shut.

  “I thought she may want to hear that you were doing okay here. Just in case she—”

  “Gets a personality transplant? Decides to become a decent human being? Discovers that she actually is capable of loving her fat brown daughter?”

  Tía shrugs as she slices her maduros into perfect quarters. “Maybe I shouldn’t have. Pero… I don’t know. I guess I’m a sucker for giving family chances.”

  Now I’m cutting my maduros into intricate pieces. “Well. What did she say?”

  “I’m not sure you want to know.”