Sia Martinez and the Moonlit Beginning of Everything

by Raquel Vasquez Gilliland

  But that’s probably not all that bad, right? It’s okay to trust when you like someone this much. It’s okay to begin to trust again.

  72

  BEFORE HE LEAVES, NOAH HANDS me a folded-up paper. “It’s the poem,” he tells me. “But promise me something. Wait until you feel like you need to read it before you actually, you know. Read it.”

  “I never feel like I need to read a poem, Noah.”

  “Good,” he says. “It’ll be a significant moment in your life, then.”

  I roll my eyes, but when he kisses me, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him in deep.

  73

  I HAVE ALWAYS BELIEVED THERE’S a spirit in everything. It’s the one thing that set me apart from the cosmologies of my mother and grandmother. Mom was convinced mosquitoes were soulless; with Abuela, it was mice. Like some things are too small and annoying to house a spirit.

  But there are these creatures, right? Microscopic. They’re called tardigrades, but I like the common name best. Water bears. And they’ve been here for hundreds of millions of years. They’ve watched whole ages come and go. They’ve seen, with their plump bodies and black-hole mouths, actual saber-tooth tigers, armadillos the size of cars, the asteroids that scraped the Earth. They watched the very beginnings of us, even. They know the moment when we became human. We don’t even know that.

  It’s easy to believe, I think, that elephants have souls. They cry over their dead loved ones, cover their bodies in palm leaves as though they had their own personal rituals to say goodbye. And dolphins actually give one another names. And bees decorate their homes with dried flower petals, until their little houses look like brand-new red and blue and violet blooms.

  But at the ends of all the worlds, water bears will be the ones that survive. And I’ve always thought the old, lasting things, no matter how small, are the most deserving of spirits.

  74

  “HE’S LATE,” I SAY, NODDING as the server brings our order.

  “Two minutes.” Noah shrugs. “That’s not, like, full-on late, you know?”

  “One second past our designated meeting time is legitimately late.” I swirl my straw in my shake, rolling my eyes.

  “Excuse me?”

  Noah and I both glance over at a woman who’s examining us like we’re long lost brethren or something. She doesn’t look all that much older than us, but she’s dressed super grown-up, in dark-washed jeans with a red blazer over a thin white tee. Her hair is incredible, mahogany and in a full twist-out. I want to text Rose about it, since she’s been dying to try the style once her father gives her permission, but my hand freezes over my phone. As if Rose would even read a message from me. Much less respond.

  “Are you two here to meet Omar?” the woman asks.

  “Who?” Noah’s eyebrows are all scrunched up.

  “Average height? Black Pakistani American? Glasses. Kinda goofy-looking. Like you.” She gestures to Noah. I bite my lips so I don’t smile. I like this person already.

  When we don’t respond, she sighs. “Christ. He didn’t tell me you hadn’t met him yet. Acting like you all were his pals or something.” She slides into the booth across from us. “I’ll take an espresso,” she tells the server as he walks by. “So you only know him as Sabertooth, huh?”

  I snort. The way she says it, it seems like she and I both feel the same about the code name.

  “Yeah,” Noah says. “I mean, yeah. I found his blog. The Truth About—”

  She waves him off. “He couldn’t have chosen a more corny name, could he?” She chuckles.

  “So, who are you?” I ask.

  She holds out her hand. “Imani Clarke. I’m a student at Arizona State, but I also intern at the Sentinel. And Omar assures me that you two have a story I need to hear.”

  “Wow, for real?” Noah’s eyebrows are, like, basically at his hairline as he shakes her hand. “So you, I mean, you actually believe him? All this conspiracy stuff?”

  She scowls. “Look, my job is to humor the boy. He wants to be a journalist, or so he says. And I want to convince him aliens and armies made of robotic lizards aren’t ever going to help him on that career path. Or any career path.” She adds a packet of brown sugar to her espresso. “No offense.”

  “Don’t include me in all that,” I say. “I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “That makes two of us, then.” Imani raises her head, glancing behind us. “Well, speaking of our sabertooth.”

  Noah and I both turn. I almost laugh, because Omar’s a freakin’ parody of a cliché conspiracy theorist. Dressed in all black and gray, he looks back and forth before pushing open the glass door—and looks both ways again once inside. Despite the black Ray-Bans he refuses to take off, he spots us immediately and makes his way over.

  “And who do you think you are with that?” Imani waves her hand over his face when he approaches. “You should’ve called yourself the Terminator.”

  “Very funny.” Omar looks at Noah and me. “Imani, these are, uh, Noah and, damn it, I swear I didn’t forget—”

  “Sia,” I say. “And it’s fine, we’ve already introduced ourselves.”

  “Right. Well, I”—he slides his glasses off, and, tossing his head to the side just a touch, finishes with—“am Sabertooth.” He drops the shades on the table as though they are a microphone.

  75

  “I’VE ALREADY TOLD THEM YOUR name.” I can tell Imani’s trying really hard not to laugh. “The real one.”

  “What?” Omar says, his voice jumping up a few octaves. “Imani, we don’t know if we can trust them yet.”

  She huffs and pulls out her phone. “I’m not playing, Omar. Just tell me what I’m doing here.”

  He rolls his eyes. “These,” Omar says, pointing to Noah and me, “are your primary witnesses for the faulty UFO spotted in the desert two days ago.”

  “Faulty,” Noah says, sounding just a touch devastated. “I thought you said it’s legit?”

  “The craft, though, man,” Omar says. “Lit up? With smoke? Like it was broken or some shit, right?”

  “Wait a minute,” I say to Imani. “You’re actually doing a story on it? But I thought you didn’t believe this stuff.”

  Imani shakes her head. “Look, I’m just the ‘Outlandish Oddities’ blogger. My editor’s interested in these sightings, but he also regularly cuts my pieces for Internet kitten fashion shows. There’s no telling if this will see the light of day.” She shrugs. “Omar said I just had to hear your story. And, well, he’s family.” She says the last bit with a hint of regret.

  “Imani’s an unbeliever,” Omar says darkly. His voice is all husky, and he slides his sunglasses back on, leaning on the torn pleather of the booth back. “Doesn’t even accept the obvious source of last month’s dust storm.”

  “Omar, for the last time, the governor did not cause that storm.” She knocks his glasses right off as she says it.

  Omar scowls. “The government has been manipulating the weather since 1968. Everyone knows it!”

  “Uh,” I say. “Sorry, but that’s news to me.”

  “You never heard of chemtrails?” Noah asks.

  I just stare. “Are you serious right now?”

  Omar is still grinning. “Seriously, Sia, wake up and smell the burrito bowls.”

  Now I’m scowling. “Seriously, no self-respecting Mexican even eats burrito bowls, Omar.”

  Imani closes her eyes for a couple of seconds, placing a hand on her head. “I’m just gonna ignore that whole exchange.”

  “Sounds good to me.” I cross my arms.

  She clicks her phone on and turns to Noah and me. “So, ah, why don’t you just tell me what you saw.”

  76

  “SO THE CRAFT WAS ON fire.” Imani’s voice is flat.

  “That’s what I told you,” Omar cuts in before I can take a breath. “And you know what I did as soon as Noah emailed me?”

  Imani lifts a hand. “You called the Lone Gunmen.”

 
“Ha!” Noah says, grinning. “We know that reference, right, Sia?” He winks at me.

  I mean, anyone who’s seen The X-Files would know, but it’s kind of cute how Noah wants this to be our inside joke or something. I just smile and roll my eyes, landing them on Omar. “What did you do, Sabertooth?” My voice is even flatter than Imani’s at this point.

  Omar totally puffs up his chest at his code name, which is so not what I’d intended. “I went out there.” His face is so smug, I have to fight hard at the urge to smack him.

  “You what? How?” Noah asks.

  “I borrowed my dad’s car and found that desert spot you mentioned, between those weird cacti with the heads and hips and shit? And I drove straight out at latitude 33.2899 degrees.”

  “And how did you measure that?” Imani asks.

  “I just put it in my GPS!”

  “And how hard did your daddy beat your behind when he found out you took his Lexus off road?” Imani asks.

  Omar’s cheeks are the color of La Guadalupe’s collection of roses at her feet. “Imani.” It’s a half whine, half whisper. Her eyebrow remains raised.

  “Okay,” I say. “You drove out there. So what?”

  A smirk crawls across Omar’s face again as he pulls open his book bag and slams something on the table. It’s a piece of metal, the color of stained steel, and it clanks like a broken bell.

  “That’s what.”

  77

  “SO LET ME GET THIS straight,” Imani says. “You found that piece of crap in the desert and decided it must belong to a ship from outer space. That was your first conclusion.” She turns off her phone and slips it into her purse. “What am I talking about? Of course it was your first conclusion.”

  “It was right where the sighting was!” Omar points to some scratches etched in the surface. “Those marks? They change, you guys. They didn’t look like that this morning.”

  And now I’ve lost it. I bury my face in Noah’s shoulder as I laugh. When I come up for air, Imani is slow-blinking at Omar.

  “What am I going to do with you?” It’s hardly a question, the way she says it as she zips up her purse. “I really shouldn’t have to say this, but there’s no way I’m reporting on this shit.”

  Just like that, his smirk is wiped away. “Imani, no! This is real.” He lifts the piece of metal and drops it again, pointing right at her face. “This is seriously real, I’m telling you. Don’t let it all go to hell just because you’re an unbeliever.”

  Imani shakes her head. “You know what’s turned to hell, is this so-called mentorship. I know I told your dad I’d help you out, but come on. Real journalists don’t insist this garbage”—she points at the metal—“is seriously real.”

  Omar’s mouth is tight. “Oh, so now you’re a real journalist? Reporting on the real important stuff, like cupcake shops and shit?”

  Imani sighs, edging him off the bench so she can stand. “I know my internship is bullshit, Omar. But writing about this? That’s not going to get me where I want to go.” She snorts. “Like they would even print it to begin with.” She ruffles Omar’s hair, but he pushes her hand away. “I’m off.” She hands Omar a twenty, which he stuffs into his pocket, scowling the whole while.

  “So, Ms. Clarke,” Noah says as she dusts off her jeans. “What would it take? For you to believe in, like, aliens? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  She doesn’t even hesitate. “Land an extraterrestrial craft in front of the Sentinel headquarters.” Her heels thump on the linoleum as she walks away. “Then we’ll talk!”

  78

  “SIA, DID YOU SEE THAT?” Noah points at the metal piece, which still sits on the table.

  “No.” I scoff.

  But Omar looks elated. “It happened again, didn’t it?” he says. “The shapes changed!”

  “I don’t think that circle was there before.” Noah’s examining the piece. It looks like folded-up tinfoil in his monster hands.

  “Don’t tell me you actually think—” I pause, catching the eye of a woman at the counter. Silver hair, dark skin. She’s wearing a white suit, which stands out a lot in a town where tucking in your T-shirt is practically considered formalwear. The weirdest part about her, though, is the half smile on her face as she sips coffee. It’s creepy as shit because she won’t stop staring at us.

  I force my attention back to Noah and Omar, who are now theorizing what the metal’s shapes mean. “Maybe it’s a whole new language, you know? Like, this is a communications device. Like—”

  “Their way of texting,” Omar finishes.

  “Exactly.” Noah snaps his fingers, like, a hundred times in two seconds.

  I shake my head. “I can’t believe I’m a part of a conversation about alien texting.”

  Omar glances around. “Keep it down, Sia, will you? You never know.”

  I snort. “Anyone ever tell you you’re paranoid?”

  Noah gives me a grin. “Just because you’re paranoid—”

  “Doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you! Fox Mulder! My dude!” Omar’s reached his hand out to Noah and now they’re sharing what I assume to be some extra-dorky X-Files fanatic handshake.

  Omar calls me an unbeliever or something, but I’m not listening again because I let my eyes wander back to Creeper Lady. And yeah. She’s still watching us.

  “Do either of you guys know that woman—” But then something explodes outside. Like, whatever it is straight up shakes the table and the booths. I gasp and jump, Noah and Omar along with me.

  We all look out the windows, where there’s a car smoking in the parking lot. “Ted,” someone yells. “Looks like your truck just popped!”

  “God almighty.” The man, Ted, presumably, runs out the door, cursing all the while. “What the hell. Trucks don’t just pop!”

  “God, that scared me,” I say. Noah’s hand finds mine under the table. I intertwine our fingers.

  “Wait!” Omar yelps. “Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?” Noah says, squeezing my fingers.

  “The, the UFO part! It was just here!” He glares up. “Which one of you took it?”

  Noah and I look at each other, eyes wide. “I know you’re not accusing us of stealing your foil paper,” I finally say.

  Omar bites his lips, then nods slowly. “It was them. They set up that, that car explosion. So we wouldn’t be looking—”

  “Oh my God,” I say. “We were sitting here the whole time, Omar.”

  “But we were all just looking out the window,” Noah points out.

  “That’s right! That was on purpose! It was a distraction!” Omar’s jumped up now, pulling on his book bag. “I gotta go. I need to tell my, uh, associates about this immediately.”

  “Is that code for writing a blog entry?” I call, but Omar’s already out the door.

  I jerk my head back, looking for Ms. Creeper Lady again. Weird. It’s been what, two minutes? But she’s totally gone now.

  As Noah walks me to my car, I scan for her, the silver-haired woman in white. But there’s no one around, nothing moving except for the smoke still rising from Ted’s charred car.

  79

  TONIGHT, IN BED, AS I watch the silver silt of clouds outside my bedroom, I can’t help but think of what Omar said, about the governor controlling the weather. And about my grandmother’s knife.

  One day after we’d sowed corn seeds, half the sky turned black, clouds thick and sinewy, like they were riding in on wild horses. We’d been eating baked yam empanadas on her porch, which was comprised of pine planks and a turquoise tarp.

  “That storm will wash the seeds away,” Abuela said. And she stood and stomped into the house, her brown leather sandals click-clicking on the ground like wooden spoons.

  When she returned, she had a cuchillo in her hand, big and glittering like, well. Like that piece of metal Omar dropped on the table today.

  “What’s that for?” I said, but by then, she’d already taken her knife to the sky.

  �
��By the power of el padre,” she said, swooping it this way. “By the power of la madre, el hermano, la hermana.” Swoop that way. “By the power in me, given by La Guadalupe en un dream en 1976. ¡Vete!”

  And you know what? By the time she was done, the clouds were gone. Those big, black horse-drawn monsters, thicker than cream, fat with rain and lightning, were just gone. It was as if they’d never been there.

  So this is what makes me think maybe, just maybe, Omar is onto something. I’m not saying that lizards run the world or anything like that. I’m just saying that I’ve seen a woman change the weather. And if she could, maybe others can, too.

  80

  NOAH EMAILS ME THE NEXT day. We’d planned on going to the desert tonight, but he can’t make it because his truck’s broken and he’s got loads of homework. That’s fine. I kind of need to go by myself, anyway.

  Weird, he adds. I got an email from “62499@903.com.” They said to stop talking to reporters about UFO sightings… if I knew what was good for me. (The last bit implied.)

  I sigh and begin typing. Probably just our totally awesome friend Sabertooth trying to convince us his alien/government conspiracy theory is totally not fake. Fail.

  As I send the email, I try not to think about the woman in white. In and out of Maude’s like some kind of bruja.

  81

  IT’S A LITTLE LATER THAN I normally get into the desert. I grab a new Saint Kateri candle and walk a bit, past Adam and Eve, past the boulders that reminded me of bears when I was little.

  When the sky’s all clear like this, with the moon wide and bright, I like to stretch out in the dirt and stare up. Eventually, I feel like I’m not even real. Like I’m just a little part of that big forever out there.

  “Mami,” I whisper eventually. “You there?”

  I never feel her around like I feel Abuela. I know Abuela would say it’s ’cause Mom’s alive, but I don’t know. Maybe it’s because she never got a proper burial or something.