I scowl. “We’re wasting time.” I rattle my packet. “Let’s get this over with.”
He holds out his hand. “Noah.” I take it, briefly. It basically swallows mine.
“Sia.”
“Not Artemisia?”
“Just Sia. And no comments on the musical artist of the same name. Please.”
He gives a half smile. “You don’t like Sia?”
“Not really.”
“Ah. That’s too bad.” He smiles again. “So, why’d your parents name you Artemisia?”
“Uh.” I don’t think that’s one of the questions, is it? “My mom picked it out, I guess.”
He scans the paper once more, and I take a few seconds to examine him. Rose was right. He’s a giant. His legs barely fit under the desk. Wide jaw. Freckles. But she got one thing wrong—his eyes. They’re not green.
I realize I’m just staring like a creep or something when he clears his throat. “So, Sia. Where are you from?”
“That’s not one of the questions.”
“This is what I’m thinking, though.” He straightens his back. “This is a getting-to-know-you exercise. But we’ve just met. So, why don’t we go over the basics first?”
I glance at the clock. “Fine. I’m from here. This tiny, old town. No siblings. I live with my dad. The end.”
The corners of his mouth quirk up a bit, which makes me scowl. Why is he so happy? “Well, I’m from Azules. And I also live with my dad.” His mouth takes a firm, straight line and I can tell he hates his father.
“Azules, that’s right next to the Sonoran, isn’t it?” I can’t help but ask it.
“Yeah, how’d you know? You ever been?”
“No reason,” I say quickly. “Let’s just start with the questions.”
Over the next thirty minutes, I discover the weirdest thing Noah DuPont has ever eaten is raw tofu, he’s been out of the country once, to Vancouver, and he could have grilled cheese for every meal forever.
“What’s your forever meal?” he asks after I finish penciling in his response.
“Whatever Rose’s mom is cooking.”
“Who’s Rose?”
I point her out. “The tall girl. Looks like a runway model. She’s my best friend.”
“What sort of cooking does her mom do?”
I shrug. “Haitian food.”
“Really. I’ve never had. So it’s good, huh?”
“Noah,” I say. “You’re doing it again.”
He puts his hands up. “Right, right. Small talk makes you want to light yourself on fire on your way out the window.”
“We have one last question and only five minutes of class left. So let’s make it snappy.” I glance down. “What plant are you descended from?”
He pauses. “Okay, so you know ‘your spot’ off the highway?” He makes quotations with his hands. “Well, there are two cactuses there. One looks like a man and one looks like a woman. It’s really creepy, actually, but that’s the first thing I thought of.”
God, this is weird. “So, the saguaro.” I keep my voice neutral.
“Yeah, I guess. What about you?”
“Corn,” I say quickly.
“Really? Why corn?”
The bells chime and I shake my head. “See you later,” I say.
“It was nice meeting you, Sia,” he calls, but his voice is drowned out by the class as I make my way to Rose. When I look back at him, he’s still watching me, a smile on his face, and I can feel my neck and cheeks heating up as I jerk my gaze away. God, why do I get so weird and hostile like this with boys? Well, actually, I know exactly why.
So I make a point to remind myself as I walk to my next class.
Noah isn’t Justin. Noah isn’t Justin.
20
MY GRANDMOTHER SAID THAT IN the beginning, there was nothing but the wide black nothing of space. She said this big nothing was a woman, and the woman longed to be touched. So this woman’s belly grew big with longing, and soon she pushed out a baby. And when the baby ate from her breast, the milk that flowed became the whole universe.
Abuela said when she birthed all her babies, as they first latched to her chest, she could feel the prickly magic of that beginning. She could feel her own experience of touch continue the viento of creation.
So the universe came from milk and touch. I’m not sure I buy that, but it makes more sense to me than an old white man in the sky.
21
“WELL?” ROSE ASKS OVER MILKSHAKES.
“He’s nice,” I say. “And way too energetic. It’s annoying.”
Rose smiles and raises an eyebrow. “I heard some of your tone, Sia. It’s a wonder he wasn’t the one running away from you as the bell rang.”
I groan and put my face in my hands. “Ugh. I know. I was rude to him. But I don’t know how to act around guys anymore, you know?”
“Sure you do. You act fine around Manuel and Carter and—”
“You know what I mean.”
“Uh, no, no I don’t.”
I shrug. “Flirts.”
“He was flirting?!” Rose squeals but stops when she sees my face. “You still get freaked out, huh? Since… you know…”
“Yes, since Justin.” I shrug. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”
“So that means you didn’t get Noah’s number, then, huh?”
I scoff. “No way. We just exchanged emails. For class.”
“I know, Sia. I’m kidding.” She smiles. “So, I have some news.”
“Oh?” I lick some of the whipped cream off my straw.
“I’m going to be spending the night at your place on Saturday.”
“Cool.”
She stares at me, waiting.
I give her a look. “What?”
“Aren’t you going to ask why?”
“I mean, you stay over, like, once a month, right? It’s not uncommon.”
“We’re going to Samara’s spring break party.”
“Uh, no, we’re not.”
“Sia! I’ve sewn a new wrap dress and everything!”
“I hate parties. And remember.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Jeremy McButtFace’ll be there.”
“And therein lies the kicker. I just talked with Samara, and McButtFace is going to be somewhere south this weekend. He’s testifying in court or something.”
“Why?” I ask. “Is he finally on trial for being a disgusting nematode?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. Because we are going to that party.”
I groan into my glass of mint chocolate foam. “Spring break isn’t here yet.”
“She’s doing it early this year because that’s when her mom will be out of town. So we are going and that is that, my friend.” Rose winks triumphantly.
“Well, Dad just informed me we have practice on Saturday, too. So you should come over in the morning so we can make something super protein-y for breakfast.”
Rose puts her hand on her head. “Oh, sweet Jesus. A new dress, a party, and close proximity to your dad. This literally just turned into the best weekend ever.”
“Ew,” I say, throwing a straw at her. “Stop that.”
She tosses her curls to the side and smiles some more.
“Stop!” I say.
“What?”
“I know you’re thinking something obscene about my dad.”
“Sia, you know that’s just about always true.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
“Sia, before I forget, I have to postpone trig tutoring this week. Samara and I have a ton to do on nebulas.”
I frown. “Really? I have a test coming up. And it’s on all those impossible little cosine and tangent and whatever graphs.”
“Ooh. Yeah. You really are helpless with those.”
“Hey.” I throw an extra straw her way.
“Stop!” she shrieks. “Okay, I’ll let Sam know. We’ll adjust the schedule, okay?”
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I owe y
ou.”
“You do. Don’t forget about First Communion, now, Sia.” Rose is pointing at me with a french fry.
“I won’t.” I put a hand on my heart. “Even if all I want to do is forget about anything church-related, forever.”
Rose pouts. “Hey. You’re talking to the church choir assistant, remember?”
“Except for you,” I amend.
We smile and I think how much worse everything would have been without Rose. But I shudder. I don’t ever want to consider what a world like that would look like.
22
FRIDAY’S MY DAY TO GET Rose for school. I put the car in park and send her a text. Usually, she comes running out after a minute, ready to model whatever groovy bit of fabulousness she’s got on that day, but today, five, seven minutes pass without a response. I’m about to turn the car off and walk up when she finally comes out, head low.
She gets in. We don’t say anything for a bit. Her eyes are red.
“What’s up?” I finally ask.
“My dad.” She flips the passenger’s mirror down and fusses at her makeup. “He almost murdered me this morning.”
Most of the time, Rose and her dad fight about her appearance. I glance at her outfit. She’s wearing a floral-patterned baby doll top with distressed bell bottoms covered in vintage patches. “Too much cleavage?” I guess.
“Nah. My hair.”
When we reach a stop sign, I look over. I hadn’t even noticed her gorgeous and symmetrical Afro puffs. “Really?”
Rose sighs. “He’s come to term with the curls, but he can’t handle any other style. Says he’s going to make an appointment for a perm as soon as possible. Like my mom would let him.” She bites her lip. “And, to top it off, he…” Tears river her face again. “He said the devil can hide in my hair now.” Then she’s laughing hysterically. I grab her hand. “I know it’s ridiculous. But it still hurts.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. We’re at the parking lot of the school, watching groups of kids talking.
“Everything he fears or hates is the working of the devil. Automatically.” Rose snaps her fingers.
“Well,” I say. “I think he should write a book. Since he’s such a devil expert.”
Rose snorts. “And call it what? How to Avoid the Devil by Cruz Damas. It would have one page, which would say, ‘Stay at home and pray the rosary always. Oh, and perm your hair once every three months.’ ”
“Or how about, The Devil is Hiding in Your Afro Puffs: How Perms Repel the Enemy of Jesus.”
Rose laughs again, me along with her. I put a hand on hers. “Rose, your hair looks beautiful. You always look beautiful.”
“I know,” she says, smiling. She turns her palm over and squeezes my hand. “Thanks, Sia.”
I glance at the clock. “We better get going.”
“Yeah.”
We stroll across the parking lot, her arm thrown over my shoulders. Before we walk into the homeroom building, Rose says, “We should light candles at the desert tonight. I haven’t gone with you in forever.”
“Sure. Wanna do dinner at Maude’s beforehand?”
“Mmm. Can’t push my dad like that. He’s been in a bad mood all week. But I’ll come over at dusk, okay?”
I smile. “Perfect.”
23
“SO, EXPLAIN TO ME THESE saints again?” Rose lifts one of my candles.
“That’s Saint Kateri. She was Mohawk. And something else, I think.” Kateri’s one of my favorites, because when I see paintings of her with her long hair and brown skin, she reminds me of my mother.
“Oh, right. She converted after smallpox killed her whole family, right?”
“Yeah. That’s her.”
Rose and I sit between the two humanesque saguaros, the wild sky open all around us. It’s my favorite kind of night, with the weather so clear, it feels like you can see every star that was created. All draped and dazzling like silver and gold crystals on a cosmic Christmas tree.
“She must’ve had Stockholm syndrome,” Rose says, placing the candle back between Saint Theresa and La Guadalupe. “I can’t imagine willingly converting to a religion like that.”
“Am I hearing this right?” I say. “Miss Church Choir Assistant Director thinks you need Stockholm syndrome to convert to Catholicism?”
Rose gives me a look. “Okay, Sia. You know I love Jesus. It’s”—she makes a face—“all the other stuff. You know?”
I nod. “Right. The you’re-not-and-will-never-be-worthy attitudes—”
“The confessions—”
“The million sacraments.”
Rose snorts. “And the extra-credit bible studies—”
“Oh, you mean like that one we had to go to when Father John invited that medical examiner to go into vivid detail on the crucifixion injuries—”
“So we’d all know how hard Jesus suffered for us heathens. Yes.” Rose takes a breath. “Plus, you know. All the ‘hate the sin, love the sinner’ talk.”
I place a hand on her palm and she squeezes me and smiles before letting me go. It’s a sad smile, tight on her eyes.
“She might still be out there, you know.” Rose’s voice is all soft.
I exhale slowly. She knows how I feel. That I can’t believe that anymore. But Rose, like Abuela, has always refused to say that Mom is for real gone. And I don’t know why, but knowing that Rose has that hope? It makes me think sometimes, only sometimes, like in the middle of the night, when all I can hear are the creaks of wood and crickets, when everything feels blue and fuzzy, like a dream. Then I think Rose might be right.
I don’t say this, though. I just stare at the sky, trying to trace constellations, and Rose, her eyes closed, I think as she prays. I know coming out here is holy for her, too.
After a while, I glance at the candles. It’s now so dark that all I can see are the flames, dancing like orange spirits, and the faint outline of Rose’s legs.
“Maybe Kateri didn’t have a choice,” I say. Like us back then, and like you now, I don’t say, but Rose nods like she hears anyway.
Out of the corner of my eye, there’s a blue flame. At first I think a candle has thrown up a spark, but when I turn—
“Holy. Hell.” I jump to my feet as three blue lights swerve in the sky, a zillion stars twinkling behind them like spilt quartz.
Rose jumps up next to me. “I’ve never seen a plane with lights like that.”
“Me, either.” We watch as the blue orbs do a little spiral. And then right before our eyes, they disappear. Like someone just decided to turn the lights out before bed or something.
I turn to see Rose crossing herself. “Lord have mercy,” she says.
I cross myself, too, even though I haven’t done the likes of it in years. Just to be safe. “Let’s get outta here. Whatever that was, it gave me the creeps.”
“Agreed.”
24
AFTER I GET IN BED, I pull my red quilt to my chin and angle my face toward the moon. It’s waning, pulling the full of its belly in and in and in until everything gets its much-needed break from the light, just like Mom’s story said.
When we first moved to this house, like, ten years ago, I’d insisted this room should be mine. It’s the one with the biggest windows, facing the succulent garden filled with plants you’d think should exist on another planet. Thick, waxy leaves that spiral out in mint and pink and violet, with names like “echeveria” and “houseleek” and “living stone.”
Mom sewed the curtains that hug the glass on either side. I was really upset about leaving Abuela’s house, and so I had requested some dark colors for the curtains. Navy, burnt umber, black. “The night will be dark enough,” Mom said. “Let’s go with something brighter.”
We settled on the color of the ocean, but lighter, like it was mixed with milk. “Teal,” Mom called it, but it’s more magical than that to me. Like it should share a name with an otherworldly succulent. String of sea pearls, maybe. The exact shade of turquoise in my grandmother’s
rings, minus the cracks of brown and black. Mom chose thin linen, so when it’s afternoon, I can close them and my whole room looks like the inside of a raw aquamarine.
Now the night is dark as Mom promised, thick like paint. Our outside lamp lines the succulents with an edge of copper. The stars shimmer like glitter. It all reminds me of the woman in the sky who created the universe, of the gown she’s wearing, inky with tiny silver sequins sewn in, shivering when she dances.
It’s so unfair that the world ceased to be beautiful once Mom was gone.
As one star twinkles real bright for a moment, I think of the blue lights Rose and I saw. What in the world were they? I bet Mom would know. She always knew everything.
The last thing I remember before falling asleep is my mom’s favorite Shakespeare line. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
25
I GIVE A BEWILDERED LOOK when I see the thing Rose brings me to wear.
She crosses her arms. “I’m not going to be the only one all dolled up, Sia. And this isn’t one of mine, so don’t you start talking to me about your wide hips. It used to be my mom’s. Like, it’s legitimately from the seventies.”
“But it’s so, so…” I pause. “Bright.”
“Emerald. A jewel tone. I keep telling you that you’re a winter.”
“And I keep telling you that I don’t know what the hell that means.”
“Look, you and Mom both have hips and tits. It’s going to fit perfectly.”
I sigh. “Fine,” I say, tearing the dress from her hands and pulling it over my head.
I like that its sleeves are long and flare out, and that the skirt reaches my feet. A low-cut v-neck frames a modest amount of cleavage. “When the hell did your mom ever wear something so… so…”
“Sinful?” Rose suggests. “You know when. Before she met Dad.”
I look in the mirror. Maura Damas has probably got a real good story about this dress, but I bet she’d never tell me about it.
Rose sits me down and pins up my hair. She rubs rouge on my cheekbones, brushes on red lipstick. “There,” she says. “Now you look like Eva Mendes.”
Sia Martinez and the Moonlit Beginning of Everything Page 3