Sia Martinez and the Moonlit Beginning of Everything

by Raquel Vasquez Gilliland

I bite my lip so hard, it stings. I hate it when he talks about her. But I just nod.

  “She loved it so much, I told her I’d string the kernels and make her a necklace, a bracelet, some earrings. And I thought she’d get mad at me for making fun of her, but she loved that idea. She said maybe for our anniversary.” He starts to speak again, but trails off, staring at the stalks rustling their leaves.

  See, that’s why I hate this. No matter how happy the memory, we can’t escape the fact that she’s gone now.

  “You know, they have gemstone corn,” I say finally. “It looks like jewels, the maíz, you know? Every color, even azul.”

  “Imagine that.” He sounds cheerful but the lines around his eyes look very deep.

  41

  I DON’T REALLY REMEMBER WHEN I first noticed what Abuela called the kitchen spirits. Once, alone while making tea, I turned on Fleetwood Mac’s Greatest Hits and totally lost myself in a book. When I finally jumped up and ran to the stove, I found the burner had been turned off with a millimeter of water in the saucepan.

  Okay, though. Maybe I turned it off without thinking about it. Not like that hasn’t happened before.

  But then there were the papitas I fried one morning for breakfast. The oil sizzled so hot and the potatoes cooked too fast, their skins turning brown-black. I shoved the cast-iron skillet across the stovetop to get it away from the flames, and a bunch of grease sloshed on my hand.

  I ran to the sink and rinsed and rinsed, convinced my skin was going to bubble up and peel off. Pero nada. My hand didn’t even turn pink.

  Last year, I decided to make me and Dad baked potatoes with dinner. I turned on the oven to preheat and within minutes I smelled something weird. I opened the oven door and found two foil-wrapped potatoes, already cooked. Like, I hadn’t even pulled the papas from the pantry yet, and there they were, too hot to touch.

  We covered them in butter-fried peppers and queso fresco. They were delicious.

  About a year ago, though, I told the spirits to stay the fuck away.

  Spirits didn’t save Mami. Spirits didn’t warn her when ICE stalked her down the streets like a coyote con una liebre. And they’re not gonna bring her back.

  When I told my grandmother about it, she just shook her head. “Los espíritus did save her, Sia.”

  “Yeah?” I said. “Where the hell is she, then?”

  Abuela just smiled and did what all grandmothers do. She fed me, pushed tea into my hands. She grabbed her rosary to pray over my head, my heart, from my shoulder to my other shoulder. “Spirits,” she finally said. “They work on their own time.”

  Whatever. I still don’t want them in my kitchen. Even if it wasn’t their foolish decision to walk the whole wide Sonoran alone like a star speck, with no one around for light years, no one to hear you cry or stumble or curse or slowly become nothing but bones.

  42

  MY TRIG TEACHER IS ONE of those super cool, efficient sorts who grades quizzes right there in front of you, so you can feel the judgment emanating from his eyes like lasers. And then I get the confirmation of those hateful eye-lasers when he slides the paper onto my desk and it’s got D+ written on it so large and so red, I think the whole class is glowing in its reflective color. I stare at it for so long, it seems to start pulsating.

  I know. I should’ve rescheduled the study session with Rose. But. I really wanted to see if she’d remember. In case it wasn’t obvious, she didn’t. At all.

  When she drives me home, I barely say anything to her. And she doesn’t ask what’s the matter. Doesn’t even think to ask, it seems.

  Instead she says, “Did you read the fic yet?” She sounds excited; her cheeks are pink, and she looks beautiful in her fuchsia rose-embroidered white linen dress.

  “Sorry, I’ve been so busy,” I respond. My voice is flat. And then Rose says nothing. Actually, both of us say nothing the rest of the way home. Nothing, nothing, nothing at all.

  43

  ONE OF ROSE’S BEST QUALITIES is that she sees miracles in everything. Which used to make no sense to me. If everything is a miracle, then nothing is actually as special as a miracle’s supposed to be, right?

  When I first planted corn, and those little sprouts and roots started pushing out of the seeds, listening to whatever magic was in the water and dirt and warmth that told them, now is the time to be born, Rose came over and gasped. “Sia! It’s a miracle.”

  She said the same thing when we both saw our first shooting star while hanging out in her parents’ backyard. I wasn’t even sure what I was seeing, but Rose knew. A miracle.

  When Rose went to see her baby niece and nephew for the first time, back before her brother and his family moved to Haiti, she made me go with her. “I’m scared,” she said. “I don’t know how to hold a baby.”

  And I laughed and said, “Like I do?” But on the way, I looked it up on my phone. “Support the head,” I announced. “You always support the head.”

  But when Abel brought us the twins, I stopped worrying about the right way to hold them, because all I could do was marvel at how much they looked like dolls, so tiny and smooth and perfect.

  I held Mary and Rose held David. I put my finger in Mary’s grasp. Her nails were so small, as tiny as we must’ve seemed to that shooting star, I’ll bet.

  “Aren’t they both miracles, Sia?” Rose whispered. That’s how we talked around the babies, like even their ears were too holy for normal-toned voices.

  And I had to admit, yes. Yes, they were. And Rose was the one who made me see it, you know, that everything being a miracle doesn’t negate the power of miracles. It means that everything is extraordinary, just as it is. The cracking of seeds to roots, the burning of a star in the sky, the two most perfect angelic babies in our arms. All of them. Extraordinary.

  I keep thinking about this, even when I’m frustrated with Rose. She taught me to see miracles everywhere. And even though whatever it is we’re going through is so annoying, I won’t lose her. I can’t. I refuse. I’m just going to keep looking at all the miracles around me instead. The wind rustling the fingers of the Joshua trees. The ancient stones lining the garden path, ones my father found stacked in the desert. And all of us, little humans falling in and out of love, breaking and repairing hearts, on this spinning, watery, salty planet. Miracles. All of them.

  44

  HEY, I TEXT ROSE. WHAT are you doing today?

  Shopping with Samara. She’s looking for a dress for her cousin’s quince.

  Ugh. Rose knows the only kind of shopping I like is the thrift store sort, where we laugh at the absolute weirdest finds, and sometimes score amazing vintage pieces. Still, I wait for an invite. After, like, eight minutes of nothing, I write back, Isn’t this the third day in a row of y’all hanging out?

  Yeah. Why?

  Weird. Does she mean for that to come off as defensive? God. I can’t figure it out. So I write, No reason. But we’re still on for Maude’s, right?

  Rose and I go to Maude’s every single week. Same day, same time, if we can. Because when we were littler, it was a ritual my mother invented with us. Girl time, she’d call it. Sometimes Rose’s mom would come, too. And we’d eat greasy food and milkshakes and giggle about boys and stress out about grades and anything else going on in our lives. It was the best day of the week for me. It still is, because Rose and I kept the tradition. There are a few unsaid rules. It’s always just us, always at the same booth, our booth, ordering the same milkshakes. Mint chocolate for me, coconut caramel marshmallow for Rose.

  She writes, Of course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. & we’re still on for First Communion, right?

  Ughhh. First freaking Communion. Is it already here? Crap. But I just write back, Wouldn’t miss it for the world. With a dozen upside-down happy face emojis.

  I feel kind of like a fool for actually going there in my mind, but I kind of think Rose might be lying. Like, I think she would skip our Maude’s ritual not only for the world, but specifically, especially, fo
r Samara Kingsley. I keep thinking I’m being too sensitive, but the feeling prickles in my belly, like an annoying little bug. So when Noah emails me and asks if I want to meet up to do more work on our project, I don’t put up that much of a fight.

  He knocks on the door softly and looks relieved when I open it. “Is your dad home?” he asks.

  “No, he’s working.”

  “Ah.” He’s smiling now. “No offense, of course, but—”

  “I know. He’s intimidating.”

  “He’s just… so ripped, you know? Like I know he could tear my head off with his bare hands.”

  I guide him to the kitchen table, where we set up our laptops. “You’re taller than him, though.”

  “Yeah, but, but, his freaking biceps…”

  I laugh, because honestly, he’s starting to sound like Rose. “My dad’s really into capoeira and martial arts. So, yeah, he can kick just about anyone’s ass.”

  Noah nods. “I believe it.”

  I wait for my computer to warm up.

  Noah clears his throat. “So, do you know capoeira, too?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “My dad’s been training Rose and me for almost a year now. But he combines it with a lot of basic and advanced, I guess, regular old self-defense moves.”

  “Really? So you can do, like, flips and high kicks and stuff?”

  “Uh.” I type in my password. “Yeah. I’m not as good on the flips as Rose, though.”

  “Do you think you could teach me sometime?” He gives me one of his wide, dimpled grins and winks.

  Is he flirting with me? The idea makes warm butterflies flutter around in my belly and chest and throat. I cough. “I’m not any good at teaching, Noah. If you want to learn properly, you’ll have to ask my dad.”

  He shudders. “I think I’ll pass.”

  The end goal of our project is to convince the whole class that the moon is better than any other celestial system. I’m thinking Mr. Woods is trying to make us care about this way more than normal, because we’re going to vote on it and everything, and the winners get movie tickets.

  Noah says that we need to find really unusual facts on the moon, stuff that might even freak people out during the presentation. “Shock value,” he calls it. I have no idea how anything about the moon can be exciting to anyone except for, like, astronomers and astrologers, but we’re going to try, I guess.

  “Oh, here’s one,” he says. “The moon has earthquakes! Only they’re called…” He drums his fingers for suspense. “Moonquakes.”

  “Moonquakes,” I repeat. “That sounds like a box of cereal.”

  “So it’s not shocking then?”

  I shake my head without blinking. We return to searching.

  “Moon dust smells like gunpowder,” he announces ten minutes later.

  “That’s not shocking. That’s not even sexy.”

  He raises his eyebrows and begins reading again. “Whoa, look at this,” he says. I come around the table. “This site has photos of all these weird structures folks have spotted on the moon. Like, this tower and this, I don’t know, building thing.”

  “It looks like a big nothing, though,” I say. “Blurry spots anyone could call anything. I’m sure Woods would disapprove of alien conspiracy theory.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Noah says. “But it’s the most shocking thing I’ve spotted so far.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Well, maybe we can do a portion of our presentation on conspiracy theory. Just letting Woods know that we know it’s pseudoscience.”

  “Sure.” Noah nods. “Yeah, that works. We can make the moon very mysterious. And sexy.” He wags his eyebrows and I smack his shoulder.

  He grabs my hand for a second before I pull it back, and I pretend I don’t feel any tingles where his fingers touched mine. “For real, though.” He turns his body toward me. “You don’t believe in aliens or anything like that?”

  I pause, glancing out the window at my corn, then finally give him a shrug. “If there were any out there, we’d know by now, wouldn’t we?”

  Noah tilts his head. “Some people might know that they’re out there. Depends on who you ask.”

  I can tell that Noah wants me to jump up and say, Yes, aliens are freaking real! But not even my grandmother, who knew the beginnings of everything, could give me a straight answer on aliens. “Ay, Sia,” she’d say. “All I know is there are spirits. Spirits and men.”

  And then I remember the blue lights Rose and I saw in the desert, between the cacti with arms and fingers reaching toward one another. What if…

  “It’s fine,” Noah says finally. “There’s just a lot of interesting information out there. I could fill you in sometime, yeah?”

  “Sure. Maybe later.” I return to my computer. I pause. Gosh, I hope I don’t regret bringing this up. “So, if someone were to have a UFO sighting? Let’s say, in the remote desert.”

  “Go on,” Noah says.

  “That’s something you’d like to hear about, right?”

  Noah’s eyes are wide. “Uh, yeah!”

  I smile and bite my lip. “Okay. Rose and I saw some weird lights a couple weeks ago.”

  “Really? Like, how weird? What shape was it? Were they blinking?”

  I can’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm. “Oh my gosh.”

  “What?”

  “You’re so nerdy.”

  Noah’s face kind of falls, so I put my hand on his forearm. “It’s not a bad thing.”

  “It’s not?”

  I shake my head and he grins again, his eyes crinkling, his hand going in his hair, mussing it all up. My knees feel weak even though I’m sitting.

  “That’s so awesome that you saw a UFO,” he’s saying. I am very distracted by a freckle on the line of his bottom lip. God. I need to stop staring.

  Looking down, I clear my throat. “So, Rose is going to some outlet mall with Samara. And my dad’s working late.”

  Noah gives me a weird look. “That sucks,” he says.

  I hope I don’t regret this, either. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

  “What? Me? Really?” He jumps up and snaps his fingers so fast, his hands are blurs.

  “Dude, have a seat. You’re acting like I just performed a miracle.”

  “Well, someone did,” Noah mumbles as he sits back down.

  I hide my smile. I mean, he’s so strange and dorky and lanky but he’s sweet and shy, you know? Sweet and shy guys are so rare. I don’t know what Rose’s real problem with Noah is. All I know is I’m suddenly really looking forward to dinner.

  45

  WE’RE SITTING ON THE BACK porch, finishing off Japanese takeout.

  “What’s with the corn?” Noah says.

  I shrug. “It’s something the women in my family do. Grow corn.”

  “Is it, like, that GMO stuff?”

  “God, no. No way. These are heirlooms.”

  “Oh, like heirloom tomatoes?”

  “Yeah. It’s actually really cool if you think about it. These plants were considered so precious that their seeds were passed on and on for decades. Or even thousands of years in some cases.” I take a sip of my tulsi tea.

  He’s smiling so goofily at me, I want to slap it off his face. “Yeah, that is cool. Or groovy.” He nods at my bell bottoms. “So, what’s up with that, anyway?”

  “What’s up with what?”

  He shrugs. “You know. All those old-sounding bands you guys play all the time. I mean, they’re good!” He holds up his hands when I glare. “But they’re… old, you know?”

  I stare. “How do you know anything about our playlist?”

  “You guys play your music, like, really loud.” He winks. “I can hear it all the way across the senior parking lot.”

  I sigh. “The seventies, alright? The most awesome decade.”

  “It’s just so random, though. Lots of decades were cool. Take the 1870s. Everyone wore hats. Oh! And what about the 1470s, when dudes wore corsets and two-feet long shoes, and, like,
your standard market bread could make you high?”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh my God, fine.” I take a long sip of tea. “My mom had these older cousins that were big hippies. She thought they were so cool when she was little. Their dresses and, like…” I make a swirling motion with my hand.

  “All the love, peace, and harmony?”

  “Yeah. That. And they all worshipped Stevie Nicks.” I shrug. “Anyway, it totally influenced Mom’s style. Even though she grew up in the eighties.”

  Noah nods, turning his gaze back on the maíz. I’m glad he doesn’t ask for any more details.

  My phone buzzes. It’s Rose. Hey, Sam and I finished up early. Buffy marathon? My place?

  I write back, Can’t. Studying with Noah. I turn my phone on silent and put it away. When I turn to Noah, he’s looking at me intently.

  “What?”

  He blinks and shakes his head a little. “Sorry. It’s nothing.”

  “Really? You looked really serious for a minute.”

  He shrugs. “Yeah, I was just thinking about the sheriff.… You know, that guy, McGhee?”

  My hands want to clench, but I try to keep them still. “Yeah, what about him?”

  “I, uh, heard about what he did. To your mom.” Noah turns to me. “And I’m really sorry.”

  “Oh, it’s okay.” I start to wave it off, but then stop. “Actually, no, it’s not okay. But we can’t do anything about it, I guess.” Not without a time machine, at least.

  “He just, he seems like a such an asshole.”

  I nod. “Oh my God, he is. And do you know Jeremy McGhee?” Noah’s not looking at me, but he furrows his brow. “Well, that’s his son. They’re both such—” I groan. “You know, once the sheriff started suspecting Mom’s status, he started following her. Like, he’d slowly drive by our house at dinnertime, or he’d show up at the corner store as she was leaving and stare her down. And the worst part was, she couldn’t do anything about it. He was trying to get her to retaliate, I think, so he could arrest her and send her off.”

  Noah grimaces. “That’s so shitty.”