Sia Martinez and the Moonlit Beginning of Everything

by Raquel Vasquez Gilliland

  “And Jeremy, my God. He just taunted me at school. He followed me, too, come to think of it. Saying things like, your mom’s days are numbered. And when I’d walk by his friends, he’d start talking super loud, things like, we need to round them up, all those lazy ass illegals, and put them behind a big, beautiful wall. It was disgusting. Or, he was disgusting. They both—” I stop talking when I see Noah’s face. He looks almost like he’s in pain, staring off in the distance. “Hey, is everything okay?”

  “What? Yeah. Yeah, sure, I mean, I just hate to hear this crap, you know? What they’ve done to your family.”

  I nod. “I get it. I hate to talk about it.” I straighten my back. “So let’s change the subject.”

  He relaxes back into his chair and takes a deep breath. “Sure. To what?”

  “What are you into, Noah?”

  He blinks, looking back at me. “What do you mean?”

  “Like Rose. She’s obsessed with Harry Potter and fashion and comics and physics. And I like my garden… and that’s about it. So what do you like? I mean, besides the 1470s.”

  He laughs. “I like writing.”

  “What, like stories?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes I write poetry.”

  I groan. “I freaking hate poetry.”

  “Okay, seriously,” he says. “What poets have you read?”

  “Uh—” I pause while he smirks. “Whatever, man. I’ve read stuff for school. Just because I can’t remember the names doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “Well, how many, then?”

  I shrug. “Ten.”

  “See? That’s just ten. That’s the tip of the iceberg. No, that’s a scratch on the surface on the tip of the iceberg.”

  “Is that one of your poems?” I ask.

  “I’m gonna find a poem that you’re gonna love.” He’s pointing with one hand, his tea mug in the other.

  I snort. “Good freaking luck.”

  He smiles and we watch my corn for a bit. When I look back at him, his lips are pursed as if he’s thinking, probably of some poem to convert me to his special brand of weird.

  But I keep looking at them. His lips. The top is a little fuller than the bottom. He’s got a wide mouth, which makes sense. It’s why all his smiles are so wicked.

  I freeze when I realize what I’m doing. I mean, what am I thinking? I’m just leering at his lips, for heaven’s sake. And what for? There’s no reason to leer at anyone’s lips ever. Unless…

  “You should go.” I stand. “My dad’s going to be home soon.”

  46

  IT KIND OF FREAKS ME out that I might want to kiss Noah.

  47

  “HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN?” Rose asks, breathing hard.

  I look at my phone. “Fifteen minutes.”

  She puts her hands on her head. “Jesus help me.”

  “You want to stop?” I’m all for it, honestly. Running is the worst of our drills.

  “No way.”

  I make a face.

  “Hey,” she says. “You’re the one always wondering how I outperform you in almost all our moves. This is how. You never push yourself.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.” I pop in my ear buds and we take off.

  “You doing anything tonight?” she asks when the thirty is up. I’m doubled over, trying to catch my breath. “I’m thinking of trying this new argan oil masque my auntie sent,” she continues.

  “Can’t. Working on moon project.” I’m still choking down air.

  She frowns. “I thought you guys already did your old-school measuring technique?”

  “We’re working on the presentation right now. The moon sucks, apparently. We have to find an edge.”

  She takes a long drink of water. Her jaw is clenched a little tight. “Sia. Remember what I told you.”

  I turn my head and roll my eyes. “Rose, please.”

  “Please what?”

  “Stop treating me like I’m a child when it comes to Noah.”

  “Whoa.” She holds her hands up. “I didn’t think that’s what I was doing. I just want you—”

  “To be careful. Believe me, I remember.”

  She sighs. “Okay, Sia. I’ll stop. I’m sorry. I know you can handle it.”

  I nod. “Thanks. And I’m sorry I just blew up at you. I just… with Noah. I think he’s cool.”

  “You think he’s cool?”

  “Yeah.”

  The tension is back. But she’s not saying what she’s thinking, at least. So I try to change the subject. “But I really want to hang out, Rose. I miss you. It feels like we haven’t done something fun in forever. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “Can’t. Got plans with Samara.” Her answer comes out really fast.

  “I thought you were video-calling Abel.” She chats with them twice a week, at least, since he and the family moved to Haiti.

  “After that.”

  I wait for her to tell me when she’s free, but she says nothing. “We have practice on Saturday. Will you make it, or are you going to the mall with Sam again?” There’s definite contempt in my tone at that last bit.

  “We’ll see.” Her voice is cool.

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes again.

  “Are you ready?” she asks, standing.

  “No. I need to run some more.” I take off before she can respond. I push my legs to keep up well after they feel like they’re on fire. I slow to a walk when I can’t take it anymore and look back. Rose is watching, but she squints. Like she can’t even see me.

  48

  WHEN I GET HOME, I want to punch something. I go into the garage and put on Dad’s old kickboxing gloves. And then I hit at his punching bag until the backs of my hands feel numb.

  In my room, the first thing I see is that giant D+ glowing on my quiz paper. And I don’t even hesitate. I grab my phone and text Rose. Can’t make the First Communion thing on Sunday. Dad’s going to help me with trig. And Rose will know it’s kind of a bullshit excuse, since the only sort of math Dad can help with is the kind with concrete calculations. He’s always transforming my assigned problems into field research so he can get it better. Which takes forever.

  But then again, if Rose isn’t going to help, I kind of have to rely on him now.

  After absolute ages, Rose texts, okay. Great. Another fucking okay.

  49

  IN THE BEGINNING, I USED to cry a lot. Out of nowhere, the tears would poke at my eyes and like the arrival of a rainstorm, I’d have to run for cover. It was the worst at school. Restrooms were my go-to for spells of tears, but one day I walked in and saw Charlotte Gawland, the first person to call my mom a wetback to my face.

  So I ran to the nearest supply closet and wept over tubes of paint and pads of newsprint. I could hardly breathe. But then the door flew open and I froze, staring right in the face of Jeremy McGhee.

  For a long moment, after the shock? I swear to all the gods, Jeremy looked like he actually felt bad. That must sound so astonishing, I mean, it’s Jeremy fucking McGhee, after all. But then his face hardened into its usual mode of vile-shaped stone and he snarled.

  “You shouldn’t be in here,” he said, snatching a roll of paper. “And your mother shouldn’t have walked that fucking desert.”

  He waited for me to say something, but when I just sniffed, he slammed the door, leaving me in the dark.

  I never told anyone this, not even Rose. But the reason why I didn’t say anything is because for the first and only time, I agreed with Jeremy about something.

  50

  AS ANNOYED AS I’VE BEEN lately, I hate that I haven’t heard from Rose today. The fact that I care about this at all is doubly annoying, in fact. She’s always the one to text first in the mornings, usually with a What’s up, buttercup?

  I make it through practice with my dad, checking my messages every ten minutes, even though he yells at me that I could’ve died eleven times, facing a perpetrator with my face in my phone like that. Finally, after Dad gives
up on me, I sit in the kitchen with my water bottle and write, We haven’t been to Maude’s at all this week. You said you wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  Let’s meet there at one.

  What? Why? I wrinkle my nose and stare at her words for another minute. Rose and I haven’t met up anywhere in… well, ever. We always catch rides together. Even when it makes no sense.

  Sam and I are on the other side of town.

  Of course. I debate responding. Instead, I grab garden shears and head outside.

  51

  ROSE IS INSIDE OF MAUDE’S. In our spot. With Samara. In our spot.

  I watch like a complete creep though a clear spot in the dusty windows. They’re laughing. Sam’s hair is in twists and pinned up, and she’s wearing a black dress with soft fringe on the edges, her long arms covered in spirally turquoise jewelry. Rose has on a baby doll dress that reaches her knees, the lavender fabric covered in a pattern of pink peonies. Probably something she made herself.

  I glance down at my ripped jeans, black Chucks, and brown tank top, everything faded and covered in garden dirt. I sigh and make my way inside.

  52

  SAMARA IS REALLY SWEET, AS usual. She compliments my hair, how it turns bronze in the sun, and then I have to tell her how in love with her jewelry I am, and we all start gossiping about classmates and laughing. I begin to forget what I was even worried about when Sam gasps and says, “Sia, can you believe that Gustavo asked Rose’s dad’s permission to take her to the spring dance?”

  I almost choke on a chocolate chip. “Gustavo did what?” I stare at Rose hard, but she just glares right back at me. “When?”

  “He just came over,” Rose says, “with bouquets of lilies for Mom and me.” She rolls her eyes. “I think that made it worse, to be honest.”

  I snort. “So your dad killed him, then, right? Like, there’s a body we need to hide now, huh?”

  Sam laughs, but Rose sort of half-smiles and half-grimaces. I guess she’s really, really pissed at me for flaking on the First Communion prep. But all I have to do is remember my D+ and voilà, my guilt vanishes. Magic.

  There’s a silence that goes on for too long, until Samara finally says to Rose, “Did you finish your chapter yet?”

  “Not yet. Maybe tonight.” The smiles she gives Samara are real-looking.

  “For the fic?” I ask. “The new one?”

  “Oh God, it’s amazing, isn’t it, Sia?” Samara says.

  “Everything Rose writes is amazing.”

  Rose tilts her head. “But you didn’t really answer her question.”

  “What?”

  “Did you think the new one is amazing? Or have you still not read it yet?”

  I guess my face says it all because Rose lifts her eyebrows and just sighs. There’s another awkward conversation break. Samara tries to save us once again.

  “So, Sia, what’s going on with you and the new guy?” She and Rose glance at each other and it pisses me off that they’ve talked about this, about me and Noah, something I can’t even bring up to Rose without her losing her mind.

  But I just wink and say, “Oh, you know, the usual. I’m pregnant with his triplets, we’re engaged to be married, moving to Paris in the summer.”

  Sam laughs again, but Rose, of course, doesn’t, and I, once again, feel out of place. So I smile a real sweet smile and put my chin on my hand. “Samara, did you know that Rose and I used to come here with my mom every weekend? Right here, this table. It was ours. But then the thing with my mom happened, and to cheer me up, Rose said we should keep doing it. Our tradition.” I glance right at Rose before turning back to Sam. “And then, for the longest time, it belonged to just me and Rose. It was sacred, you know?”

  “Wow. I didn’t know that,” Samara says. She looks confused and helpless and Rose looks like she wants to stick her straw in my eye socket.

  “Anyway, I’m going now,” I say, standing. I grab money from my pocket and toss it on the table. The bills are all wadded up, so someone will have to smooth them out by hand. It’s a dick move, but I feel like being a dick right now. “Thanks for inviting me to our spot.”

  Samara says a cheery goodbye, but I don’t even look at Rose. Instead, outside, I resume my spot in front of the window and peek in.

  And Sam and Rose, under the table, are holding hands. It’s probably nothing, but then Samara runs her finger up Rose’s arm, and Rose gives her a shy smile, her eyes twinkling as though she and I aren’t having the biggest fight in our entire history of knowing each other. And that’s it. I’m done. I just stomp into my car and drive away, the tires squealing like chickens.

  53

  “I THINK I HAVE THE poem almost ready for you,” Noah announces. “It’s not official yet, but”—he snaps his fingers—“I’m close.”

  “Cool story, bro,” I say.

  “You watch. You’re going to love it.” He pushes open another one of the pile of moon books he brought.

  We’re sitting in the bed of his ugly truck, wrapped in the lilac-smelling blankets he laid out. Noah suggested that being in moonlight in the desert might inspire us to find what we’re looking for. I was pretty skeptical of the idea, but my dad? He definitely didn’t believe it. I reminded him that he was acting like Cruz Damas. And Dad let me go with a slightly stricter curfew than normal.

  “Okay, so the moon is in what’s called a synchronous rotation with the Earth. That means we always see its same side. And we never see its far side.”

  “The Dark Side of the Moon is Pink Floyd’s best selling album,” I say.

  “Is that a fact? Are you finally offering a fact?” He looks giddy.

  “No.” I scowl. “It’s just a conversation.”

  “Good. ’Cause that one kinda sucked.” He grins as I smack his forearm.

  We read for a while.

  “McKenna asked me to the movies Friday night,” he blurts suddenly.

  I blink a couple times. “Okay.”

  “What do you think? Should I go?”

  He’s watching me very carefully.

  “I guess,” I say. “She’s nice.”

  I want to tell him McKenna’s an awful, vindictive bitch and he should stay away. Or something like that. But I can’t. I don’t know her. She probably is nice. I decide to change the subject instead.

  “This is weird.” I point at the book in my lap. “The moon is drifting away from the Earth. Almost four centimeters every year.”

  “Whoa. Does that mean it’ll eventually spiral off?”

  “No, they think it’ll stop in”—I slide my finger down the sentence—“fifty billion years.” I frown. “By then, it’ll take forty-seven days for it to orbit the Earth. I don’t like that.”

  “How come?”

  I take a breath, gazing at the Adam and Eve cacti a few yards ahead. The lines of their skin in the moonlight look like muscle and bone. “Look,” I say to him, gesturing at the humanoids. “Doesn’t it seem like they’re reaching for each other?”

  He turns and cocks his head ever so slightly. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

  “That’s why.”

  “I—I’m sorry. I don’t get it.”

  “I’ve always seen the moon as belonging to the Earth. You know? Like it’s Earth’s great love. I don’t like that it’s edging away.”

  “I always thought the ancient myths paired the moon and sun.”

  I stick out my tongue. “Blah. That’s old news. So predictable.”

  “You ever think, Sia, that maybe the moon belongs to itself?” He’s quirking up his lips and I want to touch them, so I shift all the way to the other side of the bed, pretending I need to stretch my legs.

  “Mayb—” I break off as a blue light shoots off in the distance. “Hey, that’s—”

  “Shit,” Noah says. We both follow the lights with our eyes. They zoom back and forth in a long figure eight. There’s three of them.

  I gasp. “Those are the same creepy lights Rose and I saw the other day. You think it�
��s some kind of drone?”

  “It’s way too big to be a drone.”

  It passes in front of some clouds lit gray by the moon and I gasp. It’s shaped like a triangle, and God, it’s huge.

  “My hair is standing up,” Noah says, holding his arm out. Mine is, too.

  “Look.” Noah points. “You see, there, on its right side? Looks like it’s on fire.”

  The spot of starlike glow near its tail does look like a flame. I shiver a little, thinking of all the saint and Guadalupe candles I’ve lit out here, guiding Mami home. Is that bit of fire there, on that freaking UFO, is that what my candles would look like to her? If she were still alive, I mean, walking all the way up from the other side of this desert? No, no, I’m just being ridiculous right now.

  The craft releases a little puff of smoke. “Shit,” I say as it dives down like a water bird grabbing some fish. And just like that, it’s gone. Nothing but a spiral of gray fog where it’d been.

  “Did you see where it went?” Noah asks, looking around.

  “No. God. It just disappeared.”

  “What the hell was that?” he asks.

  I feel strange. Like way more alive than normal. I look at Noah, whose eyes are still wide on the landscape and I just keep thinking, I don’t want to be so fucked up about what I want anymore. So I crawl over to him. He realizes how close I am and there’s a sharp intake of air when I put my hands on his face.

  “Do you want to kiss?” I say.

  He pushes his lips onto mine instantly, before I can even finish the question. His arms wrap around my waist and he tugs me forward, until I’m on top of him, legs on either side of his. At first everything is slow and soft, but when I put my tongue in his mouth, a wild volt of electricity blasts open between us, and it’s like we can’t kiss fast or deep enough. My hands, somehow, make their way under his shirt, along his stomach. And he freezes, groaning in his throat before running his hands on my belly, back, hips, thighs. I pull back and we both breathe hard.