by Castro, V.
She didn’t tell me to leave, giving me an opportunity as small as a crescent moon, but I held fast to it. Until I came up with a plan, I would help to care for my friend.
“I’m going in there.”
Mrs. Garcia and Yolanda continued to glare at me hard, wishing my existence away, but didn’t try to stop me. Maybe they were even a little scared of me from my outburst.
Part of me feared what I would see in that bedroom. Would she be using a cross like a dildo like in the Director’s Cut version of The Exorcist? Did she try to seduce the priest? As far as I knew, Fernanda was still a virgin.
I opened the door to her room, determined not to be afraid. “Rhythm Is Gonna Get You” by Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine crashed and flooded around me. Her room was nicely decorated, unlike mine, which I painted to have the color and texture of cold stone, like a crypt. It wasn’t my intention at the time, but I thought it would look nice with the red curtains that matched my favorite pillowcases and sheets. Fernanda’s room was covered in white lace, with dolls she kept from her childhood, family photos, little gifts given to her for communion and birthdays. Like a museum to her life, and nearly spotless except for the debris from her hair and mud smudged on her windowsill.
Fernanda sat at her armoire untangling her dirty hair and singing to herself. The black makeup looked greasy on her unwashed skin. She looked up at me with a grin as wide as that first night.
“Here, let me help,” I offered as I moved to her side. Her pupils quivered; was it Fernanda or the inhabitant from the séance? I smiled and danced in place while smoothing out hair I hoped she would agree to wash.
“What did you tell the priest? He ran out fast,” I said, jokingly.
Her giggle sounded closer to a growl.
“I asked him if he wanted to eat my sin.” She opened her legs so I could see in the mirror she wasn’t wearing any underwear. “That man has just as much sin inside of him as everyone else. She told me. Who is he to tell me I’m evil? Who anointed him?”
I couldn’t argue with her. “He looked terrible when he came out. What did you do?”
She continued to tug on the frayed balls of tangled hair. “I don’t know. I didn’t do anything. She did. I can’t remember. As soon as I touched him, it was like being pulled under by big waves. The kind that leave you afraid, but excited. Saltwater in your nose, stinging your eyes as you roll around underwater. It happens so fast you don’t realize what’s happening. And then you come up for air. Anyway, he made it out of here alive. What’s the problem? Maybe he will be less of a jackass now.”
The boldness of my friend shocked me. I was the ill-tempered, foul-mouthed one. Fernanda was the brainy girl with a shy smile. In the back of my mind, I always felt concerned that Fernanda ran the risk of being taken advantage of or intimidated once she left for school. I worried she would meet a guy not as smart as her but who would want to own her, make her feel she wasn’t as capable as everyone knew she was. Or she would have a boss who would convince her the only way was the horizontal way because that’s how business is done.
Her hair was still a rat’s nest of dirt after what seemed like an eternity picking through it. It would take some time to untangle. As I started again at the crown of her head, she stopped me with her hand on mine. “Did you like it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Sex? Did you like it?”
“It was good. I think. I want more practice. You want to cleanse me of my sin?” I chuckled and danced in place to the beat of the music.
She turned back to the mirror to let me continue with her hair.
“No, silly. She says you don’t have the kind of sin she eats. But I want to go to Planeta tonight.”
I stopped plucking at her hair, trying to make eye contact through the mirror. Fernanda never wanted to go to Planeta. Correction: she was never allowed. Planeta is a small club off the River Walk that played the hottest Latin, freestyle, and hip-hop. They also served minors. The few times I went, I blew off as much steam as I could because I knew it might mean I would have to sleep on the side porch. If I came home past curfew, the chains on the inside of all the doors would be fastened in place. No one would wake up in the middle of the night to let me in. Texas summer nights remained warm, so it wasn’t that bad lying on a metal bench falling asleep to the stars. If someone snatched me in the night, it would be as if someone came to collect the trash.
“Fernanda, we can go, but you need to tell me who she is.”
Her pupils quivered, although they were still her own. “I don’t know, Lourdes. Honest. I don’t know. She isn’t bad to me or unkind, I promise, and she would never hurt you or the girls. I know that. She tried to tell me her name, but I couldn’t understand it. When she speaks in my head, I can hear her the way we speak now. Other times I go blank; the other language is too much for me. It’s like her language is in a different frequency.”
I knew she was telling me the truth, or at least believed what she was saying.
“What about you, Fernanda? I don’t want her to hurt you.” I bent forward towards the mirror with both hands flat against the top and met her gaze.
A flicker of light from her pupils made me draw back. Was it possible the two personalities were existing simultaneously? I held my fear close to me, like the priest with his Bible. There was nothing I could do in this situation but observe and take mental notes. Something had stirred inside of her, and I didn’t want to anger the entity, despite Fernanda saying it would not harm either of us.
“Okay. We can go tonight but you need to wash yourself.”
“Maybe Ruben can take us?”
“Why?”
She blushed. I had seen that blossom of crimson on her cheeks before when it came to Ruben. “Because we want to drink. Someone has to drive.”
A good point. I’d text Pauline and the rest of the girls to let them know about the evening’s festivities. Before she left to shower, I asked a question.
“You got a thing for Ruben? It’s okay. He’s pretty cute.”
“Maybe. Go home and get ready.” She flashed me a flirtatious smile. My friend was changing—for good or bad, I didn’t know yet.
When Mrs. Garcia saw Fernanda acting as if nothing was wrong, the anger flared up again. “Bruja, if I find out you have bewitched her . . . ”
I matched her aggressive stance. The new voice would not be tamed for anyone or anything. It felt good. “Mrs. Garcia, I haven’t done anything. You really think if I had that power I would still be living at home or working at Sonic? Back off my ass.”
She had nothing to say. With a huff she walked past me, carrying a folded stack of Fernanda’s fresh clothes.
I left feeling excited about the night ahead. What could go wrong when girls want to have fun?
Father Moreno squeezed and rubbed the flaccid rosary in his hand, allowing the sharp edges of the metal crucifix to dig into his skin. It was a pain that he felt he deserved for allowing his faith to be tainted by desire. Though there was no confession at this time, he liked to sit in the small square booth that resembled a closet, a safe quiet place. His mind and body needed sequestering to make sense of what had occurred at the Garcia house.
He’d spoken with Fernanda’s friend Lourdes who he could tell was the promiscuous type, just looking for trouble in her dirty Keds, tight denim shorts, tank top that didn’t cover her bra straps, and purple lipstick too dark for one so young. It didn’t matter how hot the weather might be; the amount of skin on show was inappropriate. Her womanly curves were displayed in such a way that you didn’t have to imagine what she would look like in the nude.
Mrs. Garcia had already warned him she was an uncooperative girl coming from a broken home and not a high achiever in school. She seemed similar to so many young women who aimlessly lived their lives through low-paying jobs and convenient relationships that never lasted, like his cousin Martha on her third child with two different fathers. If only she had given her life to God. His face
still burned when he thought how he would have wanted her body and hand in marriage if they were not second cousins. There were never any other women for him. He’d hated her for ruining him like that, for coming to him to cry over men who used her or female friends that betrayed her. All he could do was listen in physical and mental frustration while offering her tissues to wipe off the mascara that blackened her face. How many times had he told her she didn’t need makeup? A smile and kind heart were all she needed to be beautiful in the eyes of God, and to him. Heat traveled to the lower parts of his body as shame scalded his cheeks.
When Mrs. Garcia first told him about the situation, he hadn’t believed these girls meant to conjure a demon, but their vulnerability made it easy; they were the perfect vessels of temptation, just like Martha had been. He had approached Fernanda’s bedroom door feeling confident he could handle the young woman, who might just be disturbed. Mental illnesses can go undetected just like demons. Maybe she needed a doctor and medication instead of a priest. That was until he entered the room.
The young woman sat before her armoire picking muck from her scalp. As he walked closer, she shifted her eyes to him in the reflection of the mirror. They were not eyes belonging to a human. She had the eyes of a prehistoric creature, those of a caiman. Glassy green and black marbled orbs with an inky vertical slit in the middle fixed upon his face. The black lipstick and heavy eyeliner only accentuated the grotesque thing that sat before him. It could barely be called female. This was beyond any doubt a spiritual matter.
“I would like us to pray together. Your mother is very worried.”
“Why is she worried? I have done nothing wrong. Maybe I should be worried about all of you making a scene.”
His brain tried to reconcile her appearance with the voice of the girl. This is what he trained for. To fight the evil we are all born with.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven,” he began.
Double eyelids blinked coquettishly at him as he spoke. “Stop, please. That isn’t going to get you anywhere. This isn’t a demonic possession. There is no devil in the biblical sense. But there is God. There are gods. We are not alone in the dark.”
Her blasphemy was as distasteful as the scent of sweat on her skin. With Godly authority and confidence, he stepped closer, “The father of lies and flies would say that. Kiss this cross.”
Animal eyes rolled. “Ugh. If it will make you feel better. We all have to make small sacrifices.”
Fernanda stood before him to take the cross from his hand. As their hands touched, she gripped the crucifix tighter, pulling him to her body and scent. Lips parted enough that he could see her wet tongue running along the edges of her teeth. Vertical pupils dilated and sparked before she hissed.
“Your sin is great. Have you confessed?”
Arousal, humiliation, and revulsion stirred beneath his clothing, which felt tight around his neck and between his legs.
With strength beyond a young woman her size, she seized the back of his neck. Unable to stop himself, he opened his mouth, feeling the pit of his stomach being folded and sucked out. The secret sores festering at the bottom of his heart popped, releasing into the vapor of his breath and drifted into the girl until she reached the last, deepest sore. He focused all his hate and fear on stopping what was happening, shoving Fernanda with enough force to catapult her backwards onto her bed. Her skirt lifted to show her bare sex, a dark vertical slit like her eyes that wanted to devour him.
He could not force himself to look away until she spoke. “You can eat my sin if you like. I see what’s in your heart.” Before her fingertips managed to reach between her legs, he ran.
Never had temptation presented itself in such a vulgar, alluring way. Only once had he defiled his mind with pornography, when he was much younger. He still had dreams about it, and now this bruja demon had tarnished his mind in the worst way. Her wickedness would stick to him. What if this was only the beginning and this demon decided to take more innocent lives? Something drastic had to be done.
We met at the end of Fernanda’s road at 10 p.m. Ruben was waiting in his black Chevy truck, Pauline at his side. We climbed into the back seat. It smelled like shoe shine and his cologne.
“Hey, Lourdes.”
“Hi, Ruben. Thanks for the ride so late. Hope you didn’t have plans tonight.”
“Well, Pauline said you were going out and no way was she going to wait for a ride with all the weird shit happening. It’s dangerous. And no plans.” He glanced at us in the rearview mirror.
“My big brother. The Mexican Knight Rider in his truck that I will get when he moves.” Pauline slapped her hands together and grinned, scanning the car.
“You doing okay, Fernanda? You look nice.”
Fernanda smiled and nodded to Pauline.
“You ladies call about half an hour before you want to go. I don’t want you waiting on any corners. Deal?”
Pauline and I mumbled, “Yeah.”
The inhabitant remained quiet the entire journey; however, Fernanda’s pupils vibrated, the color changing as we sat in the back of the truck. Ruben kept glancing back at Fernanda and me in the mirror, but I don’t think he noticed with the passing shadows of streetlights and underpasses, and the dark makeup ringing her eyes.
The club was packed as usual. Red and blue strobe lights made the dance floor look like hell’s waiting room. Bass beat against our chests, war drums to signal a good time ahead. I wore my good top, the velour one the color of ox blood with spaghetti straps, paired with jeans. Lipstick the same shade as my top, because the darker the better. It made me look badass. Fernanda’s hair fell to the center of her back in a French braid. She wore a cropped white halter top without a bra. Mrs. Garcia would never allow her to wear that out with the way it clung to her chest. Baggy jeans cinched at the waist like mine. Her lips were still lined and slathered in black, as were her eyes, except it was no longer messy.
The original bruja Craft crew met by a speaker. Perla sat on one of the speakers wiggling to Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam with drink in hand, her neck craning over the crowd in anticipation of our arrival. I’d texted them that there would be a reunion here tonight because I didn’t want to babysit alone, plus maybe this is what we all needed, to be together and unafraid. Our combined friendship could be powerful medicine for our friend.
“What are you sad bitches up to?”
Perla hopped off the speaker to give Fernanda a hug.
“We fucking missed you! I’m sorry we haven’t been around. We’ve been scared and your mom didn’t want anyone around. Lourdes said she had a handle on things.” Fernanda shrugged her shoulders and took the drink from Perla, chugging it down like it was Kool-Aid.
“¡Orale!” Ana shouted. Everyone was happy to have their homegirl back.
Everything seemed calm at the club, Fernanda’s eyes back to normal. In that moment, it felt okay to relax and get a drink from the bar as we were with our friends. If there was a night to take off scrimping and saving, it was tonight. Bars are always shitty waiting places with someone trying to cut in or spilling alcohol on your clothes or hair, and it always takes longer than you think. Whenever I glanced back, dancing bodies prevented me from seeing our group. This made me nervous but not nervous enough to leave the line. When I returned to the speaker the girls were talking among themselves, obviously tipsy, but Fernanda was gone.
I’d fucked up again. I’d be damned if she lost her virginity or got assaulted by some guy in a grimy bathroom stall.
“Where is Fernanda? Everyone needs to find Fernanda. I’ll check the bathrooms, you three spread out, find her, now!”
Ana looked around. “She was just here. Quiet, but here. How did she get away without us noticing?”
“Is she not okay?” Perla had that same look of fear as the first night. She could sense the panic in my voice. I had to cool it.
“She is getting better. Just want to be sure. Don’t worry or panic. It will make things worse.”
Perla o
beyed, leaving her drink on the speaker to make her way through the crowd. It was difficult to see with so little light. Multicolored lasers slashed erratically at the dark, making faces unrecognizable; bass and electronic beats came from all directions, disorienting me. The music made me feel dizzy. Move, I told myself. Bathrooms. I shoved through bodies, trying to appear drunk. I felt sorry for being rude, but I didn’t need beef from anyone. Everyone makes way for the petite inebriated chick who can’t hold her liquor and needs the bathroom before she pukes on their shoes. Every female and male looked identical grinding or jumping to the music. It was so easy to get lost or lose sight of someone. The sensory overload made me want to vomit.
There she was. The bitterness of the oversweetened cranberry juice mixed with cheap vodka stabbed within my stomach, sloshing violently as a guy led her into the men’s bathroom. My mouth tasted like nail polish remover. I tried to rush as quickly as possible through the crowd, my adrenaline spiking, afraid of what he would try and how she would handle it. Like Fernanda or the inhabitant with the priest?
I burst through the door. A single dude zipped up his fly. He looked at me, and then at the last stall with a quick flick of his head. The smell of piss and pot filled the air like burning incense, stinging my nostrils. I opened the stall ready to raise hell only to see that Fernanda wasn’t Fernanda. Her body was pressed against some guy, charcoal fingertips wrapped around his throat. Tendrils of black and red radiated from where his skin touched hers. Fernanda’s black lipstick was smeared on his face, which was turning from purple to blue. But it was her tongue that made me shiver in the claustrophobic, sweltering bathroom. It appeared bright crimson with raised bumps pumping and prodding his like one snake devouring another. Strands of saliva dribbled out of both of their mouths. Her throat bulged and contracted with unnatural elasticity like she was swallowing something. Pupils lit by candle flames swung in my direction. She let go of the paralyzed man. Chest heaving, a low, husky moan escaped her mouth with every slow breath.