The Lightning Queen

by Laura Resau

  Grandfather said, “Your fortunes appear true, Mistress. My son did something very stupid indeed. And as a result, my grandson has given me great joy.”

  “And school?” Esma asked, looking at me hopefully.

  Bolts of lightning were still flowing through my blood, making me brave … for the moment at least. I glanced at the Mistress of Destiny, chomping on her pipe, awaiting my response. Maybe this could be my way to save Esma. And maybe, if Grandfather was right, to save my future self.

  “Looks like I’m going,” I said. “Even if it’s not recommended.”

  In the half light of dawn, sneezing and rooting through dusty junk in our storeroom, I found a yellowed notebook with only a few warped and water-stained pages left. A search through more odds and ends revealed a pencil stub, shorter than my thumb, which I sharpened with a knife.

  The church bell rang six chimes. Time to leave for my first day of school. I rubbed my eyes, still groggy from staying up late after last night’s movie with Esma. We’d met again in the shadows of the cornfield, whispering stories from our year apart. My body felt exhausted, but the precious hours with Esma were worth it, especially since I couldn’t see her again till later this afternoon.

  Quickly, I tossed my supplies into a small satchel along with a few tortillas and a lime and goat cheese for lunch. Still sipping their morning atole, my aunts and uncles waved and wished me well, while my cousins skulked, annoyed they had to take over my chores. And my mother—she slept, shutting out the world.

  On the walk over the caked-brown hills, I tugged at my clothes, uncomfortably small. These were the pants and shirt I wore to weddings and baptisms, since they had only a few patched holes. I’d washed the shirt yesterday, and it hadn’t dried completely. I shivered in the cool morning air. My mother used to wash and patch my clothes, but she barely left her room now, either sleeping or rifling through valuables in her cardboard box.

  I’d tried to make Thunder and Spark and Flash stay home with Grandfather, but five minutes into the walk, they’d appeared at my side. Little did they know they had an hour’s trek ahead of them—narrow pathways through patches of prickly trees, across dried riverbeds, around spiky palm fans. Little did they know a heartless woman would be waiting at our destination.

  Even though they slowed me down—Spark with her blind meandering, Flash with his lopsided darting, and Thunder stopping to groom at every trickle of water—I was glad for the company. I needed their support. Not a single kid from my village had even stayed in school till Christmas. Now it was May, late in the school year. Would anyone even be there besides me and Maestra María? What if all her fury was focused on me alone?

  But as I approached the one-room adobe building perched on a hill, I spotted a cluster of students under a tree.

  “Buenos días,” they murmured in Spanish, friendly enough.

  “Yo’o naa yo,” I said, greeting them in Mixteco. “Nixi yo’o?” How are you?

  With a furtive glance at the schoolhouse, they mumbled answers in Spanish. “Más o menos.”

  So-so.

  A little boy whispered in Mixteco, so softly I could barely hear, “She doesn’t like us speaking our language.”

  I glanced at the others, who nodded gravely. Their weary faces made it clear: They were dreading another school day. There were twelve of us in total, all boys from other villages, mostly six or seven years old. I was the oldest, over a head taller than the rest.

  From a safe distance, I peeked inside the classroom. There, writing on the blackboard, was Maestra María. She looked just as I’d remembered, just as stunning as the Heartless Woman herself.

  Last night, the Rom had shown another María Félix film—La Devoradora. The Devourer. And now, I was on the verge of being devoured. My insides twisted.

  Yet the maestra was so pretty it took my breath away. Her waist was small, her skirt full and powder blue, reaching just past her knees. She wore shiny patent-leather shoes with little heels that made her ankles look as graceful as a deer’s. Her creamy sweater was trimmed with pearls and looked feathery soft, so unlike the coarse cotton and wool the women of my village wore. Silky brown curls fell around her shoulders.

  “Hey,” one of the older boys said to me. “Why are these animals with you?”

  I told them about rescuing Flash and Spark and Thunder, and they listened, curious, but when Maestra María rang the bell, they fell silent and marched inside like a funeral procession.

  I followed them, so nervous about the teacher that I didn’t notice my animals following me.

  Not until I saw Maestra María’s horrified expression. “Get those foul creatures out of my school,” she hissed.

  “Sorry, Maestra,” I stuttered. I was already rattled, and the school day hadn’t even started yet. Breathless, I settled my animals outside.

  “Please, please be good,” I begged them. “Thunder, keep an eye on Flash.” In response, she gave an irritated series of whistles.

  I kissed Flash’s nose. “Just sleep, all right?” I pleaded. He was nocturnal, at his craziest at night, and took catnaps throughout the day.

  I gave Spark’s ears a final rub, which instantly calmed me. I didn’t have to worry about her; she’d just lie there, docile, obeying Thunder’s orders.

  Pausing, I watched Flash wriggle in and out of Spark’s legs, entertained for the moment. It was my last chance to grab my creatures and run home. But Esma’s silver eyes and golden coins flashed before me, and I forced my legs to walk back into the classroom.

  Maestra María strode up to me, placing a manicured hand on her hip. Her eyebrow shot up. And her red-stained, heart-shaped lips twisted into a frown. “Aren’t you old enough to know not to bring filthy animals into school? In fact, aren’t you too old for school?”

  I felt suddenly self-conscious. She didn’t seem to remember me from six years earlier. Probably for the best—this way I didn’t have to explain why I’d quit.

  “I need to learn to read, Maestra,” I said, looking at the packed dirt floor.

  “Why now?”

  My mind was a blank, so I told her the truth, already kicking myself as I did. “A-a Gypsy said I was destined to come to school.” Silently, I added, Although it was not recommended.

  “A Gypsy?” the maestra spat, her elegant nose wrinkled in disgust. “They’re as ignorant as indios.”

  My face burned. I glanced around the room. Except for her, everyone here was indio. Mixteco, specifically.

  She frowned. “Sit down there.”

  And if I’d had any hope that she might have softened, after the morning was over it was clear that she was, if anything, more evil than ever. Minute by minute, I felt I was sinking further and further, and it grew harder and harder to breathe.

  She had us copy words and letters and make the sounds. None of the students were actually reading yet, since everyone else had dropped out before they’d gotten that far along. I tried to help the younger children, but the maestra shot me the evil eye when I spoke with them. One little boy, Benito, was hopelessly confused and too scared to ask her for help, so he asked his older brother Marcos, in Mixteco, about the instructions.

  Before he could answer, Maestra María had trained her evil eye on him like an arrow and arched her eyebrow like a bow. Benito couldn’t have been more than six or seven; he still had all his baby teeth.

  “I told you,” she said, “none of that uncivilized language in my classroom. Ten smacks. Benito, put out your hand.”

  His eyes filled with tears as he extended his hand on his desk. It was small and pudgy with lingering baby fat, and his knuckles were still just dimples.

  The maestra took a ruler from her desk and smacked the boy’s hand. Once. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he cried out. Twice. Now the boy was sobbing, trembling. Three times. Snot and tears covered his face, and his eyes were wide with fear.

  I watched. My blood burned while the air pressed on me like water, dark and dense and suffocating.

  Sh
e held up her hand for another smack.

  I couldn’t stand it, this burning and drowning. I leapt up, bursting through the surface of something. Taking the boy in my arms, I held his hand gently in mine.

  I breathed. My heart still galloped, but air filled my lungs and cooled my blood and cleared my head. My eyes met hers. “That’s enough, Maestra.”

  I turned to Benito and comforted him in Mixteco. “Taxiini, taxiini.”

  She took a menacing step toward me. “Who are you to come in here and tell me how to run my classroom?”

  “He’s just a little boy.” I wanted to say more but stopped myself. I could just walk out, never come back. But I couldn’t leave Benito here to fend for himself.

  And there was Esma. What would she say if I hadn’t made it through a single day?

  “He has seven more smacks,” Maestra María said coldly. “Go back to your seat.”

  I steeled myself, kept my arms firmly around Benito. “No.”

  “No?” Her eyebrow rose higher still, until it had nearly reached her hairline. “Shall I do your hand instead?”

  I swallowed hard, looked at the boy’s hand. Red welts were forming after only three strikes.

  “Yes,” I said. I pressed my cheek to his head, then led him to his seat. Then I sat down, laid my hand on the desk, squeezed my eyes shut, and breathed.

  There was a crack, a bolt of pain like fire that shot through my entire body. My hand wanted, more than anything, to pull away. I forced it to stay. I blinked back hot tears, braced myself for the next blow.

  And it came. I breathed. I blinked. I clenched my jaw.

  Then came another. And another. I bit my tongue to hold in the cries.

  I looked at Benito, still shaking, tears streaming down his plump cheeks. Better me than him.

  I thought of Esma, of the moment she’d been struck by lightning, how it must have burned and ached, and how, in the end, she came out stronger. She came through with powers. And like Esma, I held my head proud and tall and jutted out my chin.

  Once, on the sixth strike, I did cry out.

  Immediately, a commotion of wings rustled outside the open window. Thunder fluttered up, shrieking alarm whistles. Seeing that I was in danger, she flew into the room, landed on a desk in a fury of feathers.

  Her whistles were so loud and shrill that kids winced, pressing their palms against their ears in wild-eyed shock. Maestra María had been holding the ruler up, poised for the next blow. She froze. At the sight of an enraged duck hurtling toward her, her eyes widened and her jaw dropped.

  Thunder was in full attack mode. Like a raging storm, she half-flew, half-waddled toward the teacher. Her bright pink beak was wide open in a savage war cry. Her spindly legs were an orange blur, her wings a streak of white and black as she swooped forward.

  Maestra María was now pressed against the chalkboard, shielding her face with her arms.

  Just before Thunder reached that elegant, silk-covered ankle, I grabbed her.

  A few feathers floated in the air as Maestra María put her hand to her chest, speechless. Her eyebrows were too stunned to rouse themselves into an arch.

  I took that opportunity to deposit my duck outside. “Shh, calm down, Thunder, I’m all right. I can handle it.”

  I buried my face in her feathers, reached my uninjured hand out to stroke Spark’s ears, let Flash slither around my neck. For a moment, I stayed like that with my animals, my hand throbbing. Could I handle it? I could just grab my animals and run, right now.

  But Esma’s lightning had filled me, and it was here to stay. No, I couldn’t run away, because she wouldn’t run away.

  Slowly, I walked back into the building, as a prisoner would return to his jail cell. Only, like Esma, I held my head high. I imagined I was flying.

  Inside, the maestra was closing the window and latching it firmly. Just outside, Spark was baahing, confused, while Thunder was whistling and grumbling under her breath, and Flash was scratching at the pane, trying to find a way in.

  Over her shoulder, Maestra María said, “Bring that creature back here and you’ll have duck stew for dinner.”

  For the rest of the afternoon, my hand ached. It was red and swollen and would surely be bruised, but nothing was broken. It would heal. I didn’t think it could handle more beatings like this one, though. And this had only been six strikes, not the full ten. Thunder had saved me from the last four blows.

  After school, I found some aloe, sliced it open with my fingernail, and placed the sticky leaf gently over Benito’s swollen knuckles.

  “Thanks,” said his older brother Marcos, his arm around the little boy. “Wish I’d been brave enough to stand up to the maestra.”

  “No problem,” I said, blushing. I wasn’t brave, not really. Esma was the brave one. I’d just been lucky enough to have some of her lightning rub off on me.

  I pressed gooey aloe to my own aching hand as my animals and I walked home. On the way back, I stopped at every creek to dip my hand in the cool water, as my animals splashed and poked around for insects and grains to munch on.

  As I walked, I had plenty of time to imagine terrible things that could befall Maestra María. She could catch a mean case of lice and bedbugs and fleas all at once. She wouldn’t be able to stop itching, not even to sleep, and definitely not enough to come to school. She’d have to shave off her hair to get rid of the relentless lice and burn her mattress to get rid of the bedbugs. Still, the fleas wouldn’t leave her in peace. Moths and worms would eat holes in all her clothes, so she’d have to wear brown corn sacks. There she’d be, tossing and turning on the dirt, plagued by nightmares and itchiness, bald-headed and covered in welts, wearing a corn sack. And then a skunk—with intact stink glands—would spray her. Yes, she would end up wallowing in itchy, foul-smelling misery.

  Shame crept through me along with my vengeful thoughts, but they did make me feel better, for a little while at least.

  As I turned the bend to my house, I examined my welted hand. Hopefully no one at home would notice. If Grandfather knew, he might not let me return to school. He was as protective as Thunder, only less boisterous.

  With every jarring step, my hand throbbed with the Mistress of Destiny’s words: School is not recommended.

  Coming home, I spotted Da, Ga, and Ba chasing a turkey in our courtyard. And just past them, in the shade, stood Esma, laughing and sipping drinks with Grandfather. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest. Esma and her cousins, here?

  Somehow, she and Grandfather were chatting despite the language difference. They were surveying the half-finished mosaic for the commemoration of the second anniversary of my sister’s death—also known as the second annual Romani Business Appreciation Event.

  Unseen, I watched them for a moment, mesmerized by Esma’s wrist, how her bracelets clinked as she swirled her arm in conversation. I’d been planning to soak my hand in cool water, nurse it with herbs until the swelling went down. But Esma’s presence here was an unexpected gift, and I couldn’t waste a minute of it. I tossed the aloe into the bushes and wiped the goop from my flesh, wincing. The hand was still red and swollen, so I stuck it in my pocket as I walked toward her.

  My animals reached her first and nuzzled her leg. Within seconds, Flash had wrapped himself around her shoulders, poking his nose inside her headscarf.

  “Teo!” she called, loping toward me. “How was school?”

  I smiled and shrugged, not up for creative storytelling, but eager to spend time with her. “I have some things to teach you.”

  She clasped her hands together and, unable to contain her thrill, she twirled around, letting her skirt and hair flare out.

  Grandfather insisted I relax and chat with Esma while he hobbled to the kitchen to fetch milk for Spark and agua de papaya for me. Da, Ga, and Ba toddled over to Spark and pulled at her ears. They were steadier on their feet and stronger in their grasp this year. They shouted exclamations in Romani as Spark patiently tolerated their tugging and poking. Meanw
hile, Thunder waded into the irrigation ditch, fluffing her feathers, out of the toddlers’ range, but close enough to keep an eye on them.

  I squatted and smoothed the dusty ground with my good hand. Keeping my wounded hand in my pocket, I picked up a stick and wrote the letter A. Esma found her own stick and knelt beside me, copying A in the dirt.

  We went through the alphabet, letter by letter. She focused hard, biting her lip, memorizing the sounds. She barely noticed the children and skunk and goat pattering over the letters.

  “This is like magic!” she kept murmuring. “Now I get it! It’s a code for the sounds.”

  Although my hand throbbed, the rest of me buzzed with her contagious excitement. These moments together were bursts of electricity that would keep me lit up through our times apart.

  When I wrote her name in the dirt, she let out a yelp of joy. “It’s like when my people leave markers on the roadside for other caravans—twigs and branches and bones, all tied and notched in special ways. But this, the alphabet, these letters, they’re amazing! You can say anything!”

  As she worked on copying and practicing sounds, Grandfather put his hand on my shoulder and offered me a mug of agua de papaya.

  “Thank you,” I said, sipping the cool, sweet juice, feeling his kindness fill me. He’d sensed that something went wrong today, I was sure of it.

  That’s when Uncle Paco appeared, limping out from his room, holding shoe polish in one hand and a rag in the other. When he caught sight of Esma and the children, he glared.

  I held my breath, praying he wouldn’t cause another scene.

  Esma stopped writing, mid-letter, and eyed him, not in fear but as a challenge. Lightning danced over her skin, and her unspoken words were Just try me, just try and you’ll see who’s stronger.

  My mind scrambled for a way out of the situation, a way to avoid hurt feelings and anger. But Uncle said nothing and continued on his way to a pile of metal pipes on the hill.

  Sick of hearing his complaints about the lack of plumbing, my other uncles had brought him a bunch of pipes and told him to have at it. Uncle had made a half-hearted attempt to build a sewage system but had soon given up. Now he sat on a pipe and polished his shoes, watching us like a raptor.