Marina stared at the receiver. Her mother had hung up.
Marina poked her head into the living room and saw that Mr. Garcia had fallen asleep on the couch, his snoring ruffling his mustache. There was no way she was going to disturb him. Marina thought about asking Rogelia for a ride, but then she remembered that Rogelia didn’t have a driver’s license—in fact, her mother drove Rogelia home every Friday afternoon.
How am I going to get back home in a half hour?
There was only one solution—run.
“I’ve gotta bounce,” Marina said to Xochitl and Fern, then bolted out the door before either of them could say goodbye.
Marina dashed to the bus stop, praying that she’d catch a bus before they stopped running for the night. The rain continued to fall, but it had become more of a drizzle. When she was half a block away from the bus stop, Marina saw the bus pull away in front of her.
“No!” Marina cried. She sprinted after the bus and caught it at the stop light. Marina pounded on the bus door, startling the driver. The driver shook his head. “Please!” Marina screamed as tears filled her eyes. If she missed this bus, she would miss her curfew. If she missed her curfew, her mother would ground her for a month.
The light turned green and the bus driver took off, leaving Marina coughing in a cloud of toxic fumes. A gang of tattooed skinheads turned around in their seats at the back of the bus and laughed at her.
Cold sweat beaded Marina’s forehead as she started to run again. It was all she could do. Although Marina played soccer, she was no track star. After sprinting for several blocks, she felt so sick to her stomach she thought she would vomit.
The distance between Xochitl’s house and her house was five impossible miles, but a stitch pierced Marina’s side once she reached mile one. Yet she had to keep running. Marina reached a section of road when the street lanterns became spaced further apart, making for long dark stretches. There was no sidewalk, but merely a thin bike lane to separate Marina from the cars that raced at fifty miles an hour beside her. On the other side was a cavernous black ditch.
Another ten minutes passed, and Marina had slowed to a walk, clutching her side and feeling like she was holding in bodily organs. She was sweating profusely but shivering from the cold and fear. This was it. She’d never make curfew now.
No, no, mi’jita, help is on the way, a voice echoed in Marina’s head. It was the older woman’s voice returning to encourage her.
“What are you talking about?” Marina asked out loud, irritated that the voice could be so calm when she was evidently in danger. “It’s cold, it’s dark, and I’m all alone.”
Nothing is going to happen to you while I’m here, said the voice.
“What am I doing?” Marina asked herself. “I must be crazy to be talking to myself.”
You’re talking to me, the voice said calmly.
“Who are you?” Marina asked.
At that moment, an olive-green Pontiac Grand Prix drove up behind Marina, then pulled to the side of the road in front of her. She stared fearfully at the brake lights. Could this be the help she was told about, or was it danger? The voice didn’t answer.
Marina had no one to rely on but herself. She decided to walk between the car and the ditch. When she reached the passenger window, Fern’s crush, Tristán, leaned over the seat to ask, “What are you doing out here so late?”
“I’m running home. I need to make my curfew, or…” Marina bit her lip to keep from finishing the sentence, in addition to preventing herself from crying. The desperate situation her mother had placed her in made Marina feel ashamed and exposed.
“Get in,” Tristán said. “I’ll drive you home.”
Marina slipped into his car. A rush of relief swept over her. But at the same time, she hoped Tristán wouldn’t ask any embarrassing questions. No matter how many times Fern tried to convince Marina that her mother was the one who needed therapy, Marina felt self-conscious each time her mother treated her so unkindly, especially in public.
“Which way?” Tristán asked.
“Down Peralta Hills Road till it ends, then turn right on Lincoln and left on Bixby,” Marina said.
“Got it,” Tristán said.
Marina looked out the window. She rubbed her hands together, grateful to be in a warm car. What should she say? She wanted to make sure they stayed far away from why she was out here in the dark running for her life.
“My family used to own this land,” Marina said, fishing for conversation.
“My family lived here before people owned land,” Tristán said simply, staring straight at the road ahead of him.
“Oh,” Marina said. “You’re Indian.”
“And you’re Spanish,” Tristán replied with a quick glance in her direction.
“Well, Mexican,” Marina corrected. “Mexican American, I guess.”
“It takes both Spanish and Indian people to make Mexicans,” Tristán said jokingly.
Marina felt like she had just been schooled, but with kindness, not spite. She had never considered the people who had lived here before her family arrived or what had become of them. And even though she was sick of hearing her mother’s ranting about their illustrious family history, she often found herself telling others that her Spanish ancestors were the Peraltas of Peralta Hills or the Yorbas of Yorba Linda and had been in Orange County for two hundred years. Until Rogelia and Xochitl had come along, she had never thought about those less fortunate than herself. Now it seemed like reminders of her privileged life were coming at her from all directions.
“How long have you and Fern been friends?” Tristán asked.
“Since preschool,” Marina said.
Tristán nodded thoughtfully, as if he was impressed by the long relationship. They drove in silence for a bit. Marina glanced sideways at Tristán. He seemed very comfortable in the quiet. And he wasn’t nosy. The strong, silent type, Marina laughed to herself. That ought to give Fern a run for her money.
“Has Fern always been a tree hugger?” Tristán asked.
“Always,” Marina answered. “She rarely wears shoes.”
“Nature separators,” Tristán declared.
Oh God, they even talk alike, Marina thought. “Turn right at the next block, we’re almost there,” Marina said.
“So, um, does she have a boyfriend?” Tristán asked quickly.
“Not this week,” Marina said flippantly.
Qué malo, the girl’s voice reprimanded in her head.
Marina wasn’t sure what the voice meant, but she could tell by the tone that it wasn’t exactly a compliment. And in truth, she was making Fern sound like she ran through guys like they meant nothing to her.
“Oh,” Tristán said, disappointed.
“It’s not like that,” Marina said quickly. “Fern rarely acts on her crushes.” Marina looked Tristán directly in the eyes. “At least so far.”
De la qué té salvaste, the girl’s voice said assuredly.
Marina sighed, still unsure of what the girl was saying. But somehow she felt confident that she had recovered Fern’s reputation. She absolutely needed to learn Spanish.
Tristán turned onto Bixby and cruised along slowly, waiting for Marina’s direction.
“My house is the third one on the left. The one with the lights shining on the palm trees,” Marina pointed.
Tristán whistled low as he pulled up to Marina’s house. “Nice crib.”
“Yeah. Hey, thanks for the ride,” Marina called as she jumped out of the car. “I gotta get inside.”
Marina ran to her house and burst through the door. The time on the microwave read 9:59 p.m. Monica flew out of her bedroom, her blond hair whipped up into a neat ponytail, her hazel eyes blazing with apprehension. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Marina and gave her a big hug.
“I’m all right,” Marina said, pulling away from her sister’s tight embrace.
Marina walked into the kitchen. Her mother stood at the sink with her back to
Marina. “Mom, I’m home.”
Marina’s mother’s shoulders fell, then quickly tightened up. She turned and Marina was surprised to see her nose was red and her eyes were watery.
“Mom?” Marina asked.
Her mother barely looked at her before disappearing up the stairs to her bedroom, where she remained for the rest of the night.
Twelve
While the skies continued to sprinkle, Xochitl held an umbrella over herself, Fern, and Rogelia. Huddled together, they staggered down Occidental Street, which was lit by old-fashioned, two-pronged street lanterns. Normally Fern would have skipped playfully through the rain, maybe even sung at the top of her lungs. But their disastrous attempt at spell crafting and her concern about Marina kept her subdued.
“Will Marina be okay?” Xochitl asked.
Fern was momentarily startled. How did Xochitl know what she had been thinking?
“She usually pulls through,” Fern answered, choosing her words carefully. She wasn’t sure how much she should divulge. Typically, Fern was not the best at keeping secrets, except the ones closest to her heart. And she knew Marina felt mortified when her mother lashed out at her. Fern silently wished Marina’s mom could feel that kind of humiliation.
“A cada puerco le llega su sábado,” Rogelia said wisely. “Everyone gets what’s coming to them in the end.”
Fern looked suspiciously at Rogelia. Was her mind a newspaper for everyone to read?
“I do work in the Peralta house,” Rogelia said crisply. “I see a lot.”
“Oh. Yeah,” Fern replied.
Obviously, Rogelia was going to be a powerful ally to have in their corner.
Fern rubbed her eye, grateful that she could see clearly and that it no longer hurt. They passed a small crowd standing under the flat yellow glow of the lamppost. Fern’s friends from the neighborhood, Analisa Esparza and Cara Limon, were talking to a couple of boys. Fern’s heart leapt to her throat. With a pang of jealousy, she thought one of them was Tristán, particularly since he had an ominous-looking gray cloud around him. However, when she got a closer look, she recognized the two guys as Ruben Gomez and Salvadore Ramirez. It was the first time she had seen color in an aura around someone other than Tristán. Her lessons with Rogelia were showing results.
Fern sighed in deep relief, but then she quickly felt uneasy. Ruben had a bad reputation as a player. He broke more hearts every week than she cared to count. He was a smooth sweet-talker with one thing on his mind. Could the gray aura mean that the person it covered like a cloak was not to be trusted and someone who didn’t really care about you?
“What is it?” Rogelia asked when she saw Fern’s dazed expression.
“Uh, nothing,” Fern said. “Here’s my house.” She pointed to a bright yellow house whose sunshine orange and cobalt blue trim shone cheerfully even at night.
Rogelia scanned the windows for a sign of life. “Are your parents asleep?” she asked with an edge to her voice.
Fern tried to remain indifferent about her parents’ frequent late nights with everyone but Pilar. But sometimes it was tough to hide that she didn’t like being in the house alone. If only her parents knew that she kept a bat under her bed because she was afraid of intruders.
“No,” Fern said, guarded. “They’re probably still out dancing.”
“I don’t like it,” Rogelia grunted.
“Now she’s never going to stop,” Xochitl chuckled.
“I’ll be fine. I’m often home alone,” Fern said. Oh. I shouldn’t have said that, Fern thought.
Rogelia clucked her displeasure. She pulled her blue knitted shawl tightly around her shoulders.
“It’s okay, really.” Fern smiled brightly at Rogelia. The healer shook her head disapprovingly. Nervously, Fern gave Xochitl a quick hug. She clasped her cold fingers around Rogelia’s warm hands and shook them. “Thank you, Doña Rogelia. I’m really looking forward to the limpia.”
Rogelia looked straight at Fern, as if with her unwavering stare she could see through Fern’s forced cheerfulness. Fern smiled uneasily and spun away. She thought compliments would get Rogelia off the scent of her discomfort with being alone. No such luck.
Fern ran up the empty driveway and the few short stairs onto the patio landing. As quickly as she could, she dug out the key from the clay planter holding a large calla lily plant. She waved goodbye to Xochitl and Rogelia as the key turned the lock.
“Hasta luego,” Xochitl called. “See you later.”
Fern stepped inside and flipped on the porch light for her parents.
All week Fern thought of Tristán, but she hadn’t the nerve to visit him at Four Crows. She could be outright ballsy in most situations, but when it came to these crushes of hers, she preferred the safe route. On Saturday morning, Fern awoke from a dream of Tristán and her on a date together. They were walking along the beach, barefoot, holding hands, and talking about their shared passions, like hugging trees. Then they got a huge vegetarian pizza from Native Foods and gobbled it down with glasses of iced hibiscus tea. Just before they were about to kiss, Fern had woken up.
Fern looked up at the chandelier she had bought from the Second, her favorite thrift store. The morning light flashed through the crystal points. She was disappointed to be in her bed and not in Native Foods with Tristán. She yawned and stretched, trying to recapture the happy haze of her dream. Maybe she would see Tristán today. Would he come to Bolsa Chica? She thought of his warm brown eyes and the way he cared about the same things she did.
Then she thought of his storm cloud of an aura and how it made her question whether Tristán was a player like Ruben. Ugh. Why couldn’t she just shake the image of his occasional gray aura and let herself like him wholeheartedly, without interruption?
Fern threw back the covers and got out of bed. She pulled on her Bolsa Chica Stewards tank top and a pair of Levi’s. She pushed aside the floral, crinkled voile curtain she’d gotten from Cost Plus to cover her mirrored closet doors. She twisted around and checked to make sure her backside looked good in these jeans. Marina wore designer brands, like True Religion or Seven. Fern preferred the look of classic jeans on which she could sew patches over the tears or in well-chosen locations. Her patches were of the varied places she had been to, such as the Grand Canyon or Oaxaca, Mexico, and were scattered all over her jeans like stickers on an old-time steamer trunk. Fern slid into her favorite Teva hiking sandals and shuffled down to the kitchen. She poured herself a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and sat down at the table to enjoy her breakfast.
Fern’s mother stumbled into the kitchen rubbing her eyes. She wrapped her baby blue chenille robe tighter around her waist as she beelined for the coffee machine.
“Mom, remember I need you to take me to Bolsa Chica this morning,” Fern said.
“I can’t,” Mrs. Fuego mumbled, sipping her coffee. “I was up until three in the morning. Why don’t you call your sister?”
Thirty minutes later, Pilar, Fern, and her two rowdy nephews, Danny and Miguel, drove down the 55 freeway to Huntington Beach. The boys’ black spiked hair glistened from the sun streaming in through the sunroof. They began bouncing in their seats when their mom turned onto Pacific Coast Highway. A few miles later, Pilar took a right into the Bolsa Chica wetlands parking lot. A flock of white terns flew low over the lagoon as Pilar parked the car.
“I’ll be a couple of hours, Pilar,” Fern said, getting out of the car. “We’ve got a lot of work to do today.”
“We’re going to the beach across the street,” Pilar said. “Just call me on my cell when you’re ready.”
“I’m going to ride my new bodyboard,” Danny announced.
“Bet I’ll catch more waves than you,” Miguel challenged.
“Will not.”
“Will too.”
“Bye, guys,” Fern said, and turned away from the car.
The scent of sweetgrass floated in from the fields. She felt jitterbugs doing their fancy dance in her stomach as she walked alo
ng the pickleweed growing beside the path leading to the front entrance. Is Tristán here? she wondered. Fern looked at the people milling about. Mostly, she saw the familiar faces she had seen over the last seven months, while she had been working with the Bolsa Chica Stewards and the plant restoration project. She glanced behind her and saw Tristán talking with a cute girl with a long black ponytail. Fern turned away quickly before he saw her spying on him. Who is that girl? In her search for Tristán, she didn’t see the rock protruding out of the sand in front of her and stubbed her toe, nearly losing her balance.
“Are you okay?” Tristán asked, hastening toward her.
Fern chuckled nervously. “I can be a bit of a klutz.” She put her foot gingerly back on the ground.
“I noticed,” Tristán said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and backing away with a bit of a grimace.
“Hey!” Fern said.
Tristán smiled. “Only kidding. I’m glad you’re not hurt.” He wrapped a strand of hair around his ear.
Fern felt her anger melt like an ice sculpture in hundred-degree weather, especially when she noticed a cobalt blue aura forming around his head. Sparkles of white light flashed like stars in the nighttime sky. That is so much better than gray, it’s not even funny. “So, you made it.”
“Yeah, Uncle Jimi came with me,” Tristán said, pointing to a man with a long silver braid that fell to the small of his back. He was facing the opposite direction, watching a brown pelican flying in the air.
“Uncle Jimi really wants to help stop the development here, too. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
Before Fern knew what was happening, Tristán took her hand and led her through the pickleweed to where his Uncle Jimi stood at the edge of the lagoon. He interlocked his fingers with Fern, and she felt her heart swoop. Tristán had the warmest touch, and their hands felt perfect together.
“Uncle Jimi,” Tristán said, dropping Fern’s hand.
Instantly, she felt the coldness in her palm where his skin had made contact with hers.
Uncle Jimi slowly broke his affectionate gaze at the pelican’s flight and turned his brown, moon-shaped face toward them.
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