Sia Martinez and the Moonlit Beginning of Everything

by Raquel Vasquez Gilliland

  “I met a boy,” I tell her. “I like him. I think you would, too. And Rose hates me right now. But I miss her and I miss you, too.”

  The candle next to me flickers real low. I feel my grandmother approach and settle next to me. We say nothing for a long while. Then I feel her fingers on my arm. “Mira,” she whispers.

  I push up and look. There, a single blue light. Before I can take a breath, it’s gone. And now I’m not sure if it was ever there.

  82

  IT FEELS ALL EMPTY DRIVING to school without Rose.

  I sit for a few minutes in the parking lot, blaring “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac.

  Jeremy McGhee pulls up in the distance. I groan. Of all the days I don’t need to see his face first thing.

  But then Noah gets out of the passenger side.

  All of a sudden, things feel a lot worse than empty.

  83

  I’M HERE EARLY BECAUSE NOAH wanted to hang before school. But I can’t get out. I stay in my car, frozen like beads of dew on some cold desert morning, counting my breaths until the first bell rings. I can’t get out until the late bell.

  School drones on. I feel numb. I ignore Noah all day.

  When my last class is dismissed, I walk real slow to my locker and drop off my books. I can feel Noah’s eyes on me as he approaches.

  “Hey, Sia,” he says. “Are you okay? You weren’t at the steps this morning, and…”

  He stops when I slam my locker shut. “Why’d you get a ride from him today?”

  His eyes are wide. “Shit. This is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “I can’t believe it.” I huff. “Rose was right. Rose was right and you lied to my face about it. Twice. I defended you and lost my best friend because I didn’t want to believe that you were lying to me.” Noah tries to cut in, but I won’t let him. “I can’t believe you, Noah. You know what he is. What he’s done. What his father—”

  “We’re brothers.” His voice breaks like he’s twelve or something, and he swallows hard.

  I just stare. My jaw seems to be locked open.

  “Well, half brothers, really. I’m one year older, but I was held back when my mom left… and we moved around a lot. Jeremy’s mom, when she left, she didn’t take him. So he was raised by our… father.” His voice breaks again on that word.

  My hands shake. “What? Are you fucking telling me that that bad hombre is your fucking dad? The man who—who—” The rest of the sentence breaks in my mouth, so I reach for another. “No, that can’t be true. Why doesn’t anyone know?”

  Noah takes a shaky breath. “They don’t like me much. Jeremy didn’t want anyone to know for as long as possible. And I was happy to comply because I don’t like him, either.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He can’t look at my face. “You know why, Sia.”

  “Let’s go,” Jeremy shouts from down the hall. I jump when I hear his voice. Jeremy’s now looking at us funny. “Wait a minute,” he says, taking long strides toward us. He points to me. “Is this a joke?” he asks Noah.

  “Don’t,” Noah warns, but Jeremy McGhee, I’ve long known by now, never obeys the laws of decency.

  “Oh, Dad’s gonna love this. You’ve been gone all spring break because you’ve been with her?” Noah’s jaw is clenched as Jeremy laughs. “Dad’s gonna love this. You know he hates spic bitches, bro. And he really hates that spic b—”

  The loud slap of Noah’s fist on Jeremy’s face interrupts the sentence. It echoes down the hallway and catches the attention of a handful of students still around. Jeremy touches the red on his cheekbone as he lifts his torso back up. “You’re gonna fucking regret that.” And he charges.

  They wrestle back and forth for a minute while some people run over to tear them apart. “You can’t fucking beat me!” Jeremy screams. “You’re fucking weak and pathetic, just like your cunt mother!” Noah breaks away from the arms holding him and lays Jeremy another on the chin. Jeremy snatches his arms forward and jumps on Noah like a cat. Then he pounds at his face, not even stopping to take a breath.

  I’m frozen. “Shit,” Samara says, touching my arm. I didn’t realize she’d run up next to me. “I’m gonna get a teacher.” Then she’s off.

  That snaps me out of it. I stomp over to them and kick Jeremy off of Noah. He flies back a few feet, then glances up to see me. “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He stands and sees me glowering. “Get outta my way, spic.”

  I crack my knuckles. “You seriously don’t have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

  He makes to shove me away, but I kick him in the stomach. While he’s doubled over, I get my momentum with a couple turns, then knock him right the fuck down with my boot. He pushes himself up, snarling like a wild beast.

  He’s gonna kill me.

  Not if I kill him first, though.

  But by then, a half-dozen teachers surround us. They escort us to Savoy’s office like we’re criminals.

  84

  WE’RE ALL SUSPENDED. NOAH AND I get a week. Jeremy gets two for provoking the violence. The teachers corroborated Samara’s witness account, even though I don’t remember them being around from the beginning.

  I want to write them all thank-you cards. Thank you for being on the side of the righteous.

  85

  BEFORE DAD ARRIVES, MR. SAVOY TAKES me aside. “If I hear of any disruptions from you, and I mean anything—cheating, tardiness, loitering—anything, Ms. Martinez, and you’re done.”

  I smile and grab my phone. “Mr. Savoy, could you repeat that for the record? I’m sure my dad’s lawyer would appreciate it.”

  He leaves without a word.

  86

  DAD IS SO HAPPY I’VE kicked Jeremy’s ass, he takes me to a fancy fondue restaurant dinner to celebrate. Even though the food is delicious, I can’t really focus.

  “Just so we’re clear,” Dad says. “We’re here because I’m proud you defended yourself.”

  “Okay.”

  “This doesn’t mean violence is the answer, you know?”

  “Dad.”

  “Just humor me, Artemisia. Tell me you understand that ninety-nine percent of the time, violence is not the answer.”

  It’s so hard to not roll my eyes. So hard. But somehow I say it with a straight face. “I get it, Dad. Violence isn’t the answer most of the time.”

  He seems satisfied with this, but then he starts fidgeting a little. Breaking up a piece of bread into two hundred pieces; organizing his silverware. I have no idea what’s coming, but before I can demand it out of him, he starts talking.

  “Sia. You know my grant is almost up.”

  “Yup,” I say, dipping a sausage bite into a pond of cheese.

  “I was thinking after that. About making a big change. And I wasn’t sure before, but after your abuelita joined the Lord, and after today, I just…” He shakes his head. “There’s nothing good for us here. I thought we might make it until you graduate, pero…”

  “You want to move?” I’m holding the sausage in midair. A drop of cheese hits the table.

  “Yeah. Anywhere we want. Anywhere I can get a job.”

  “Anywhere,” I repeat.

  “Phoenix, Portland, Seattle, Los Angeles.” He rattles off a few more cities while counting with his fingers.

  The food finally makes it into my mouth. I swallow. “What about Rose?”

  “Rose tiene su familia. And she can visit whenever. She’d like that. She’s an adventurous girl.”

  “I don’t know if her dad will let her.”

  “Cruz can’t do nothing once that girl is eighteen. Which is when, a year and a half?”

  “¿Y Noah?”

  My dad scoffs. “There’ll be a thousand skinny white boys for you to choose from in Portland or Seattle or wherever we end up.”

  He doesn’t know about Noah’s parentage. He arrived a little too late to see him leave with the McGhees.

  I shrug. “I don’t know, Dad
. I mean, today was especially sucky. That’s true. But I don’t think I’m ready to leave yet.” Not ready to leave our home with Mom, my spot in the desert. Not ready to leave Rose.

  Dad puts a hand on mine. “We don’t have to make a decision now, Sia. It’s just something to think about. That’s all.”

  87

  MR. WOODS WRITES ME AN EMAIL on tuesday. I’m sure you’ve heard that Mr. Savoy is taking extra precautions this suspension with your grades.

  I had heard, actually. Ms. Gerber had told me, when she came to see me last night (a ploy to flirt with my dad as much as to check on me), that she can’t let me make up anything for this week because Savoy insists on checking the grade book to make sure I fail all the assignments.

  She just assigned extra credit. She says that’s what they’ll all do.

  But I want to extend a helping hand. This Friday, there will be a partial lunar eclipse fairly early in the evening. If you and Noah could document it, write a little something about your experience, then that will more than make up the quizzes and readings you miss this week.

  I want to tell Mr. Woods that there’s no way I’m working with Noah anymore, that he’s lied to me for as long as he’s known me, and that I’d rather snort a serrano pepper whole than listen to him lie some more, but my fingers stop on the keyboard when I remember Mr. Savoy’s threat. I wonder if switching partners in the middle of the biggest project of the semester counts as a disruption.

  It sure sounds like one to me.

  After a minute, I write back. Sounds good. Thank you.

  I grab my phone and write one more message. I finally kicked the crap out of Jeremy McShitFace. God, it felt so good. When do you get back? I have so much to tell you.

  But Rose doesn’t text back. At all.

  88

  NOAH AND I MAKE ARRANGEMENTS for friday. I’m going to pick him up at Maude’s since I refuse to go near Sheriff McGhee or Jeremy if I can help it.

  I know we could do it separately. The assignment. But I want to confront him. I want to hit him. I want to make him see how much I hate him before the week’s through. Because, you know what, Mom never got to do that with the jerk sheriff. And right now I have the chance to say how I really freaking feel, and I’m not going to let it pass me by.

  I’m in a foul mood after that email interaction, and so I make my way to the corn patch. And here is where I encounter my abuela.

  Rose asked me recently how I know my grandmother’s around. It’s hard to explain. Usually, I can just feel it. Her. The blue-and-red-flowered handkerchiefs she ties in her hair. The embroidered skirts, sometimes so long they drag in the sand. Sometimes it’s the smell of her perfume: desert flowers and oak.

  I told Rose the women in our family have always been able speak to the dead. It’s very simple. God made many pathways into heaven. He pierced holes where the light leaks back down to Earth. We see these and call them stars.

  Taking walks in the starlight makes our senses raw. And we can hear and see and feel our ancestors. They’re always among us, traveling back and forth by starlight. It’s a kind of magic, my madre told me.

  Star magic is the oldest sort. It’s how humans became something a little different from animals. But that’s another whole story.

  Most people don’t talk to the dead anymore. They can’t. They don’t get out enough in the stars.

  Before I can ask her what she’s doing here, Abuela is gone. Sometimes she does that. I think she just wants me to remember she’s near.

  89

  ROSE ALWAYS GOES FOR THE love stories with her Harry Potter fanfiction. She’s written, like, a dozen Drarry short stories in the last year alone. Drarry means a Draco and Harry pairing, which at first makes no sense because they spent the bulk of the series being enemies, you know? But then there are cracks open in Draco, in which we see he isn’t all bad, and then cracks in Harry, in which we see there’s some bad in him. Flaws, which everyone has. Some more than others. “They match each other,” Rose told me when I expressed my skepticism at first.

  But Rose convinced me with her words. Harry and Draco fighting, but, like, going out of their way to argue with each other. And then one of them slipping, you know, and with affection—Harry’s hand on Draco’s shoulder. Draco sliding a lock of Harry’s hair behind his ear. And how slowly, so slowly, they realize something’s there. A spark. And when I was begging her to let them kiss, she’d drag it out just a little longer. Enough to drive all her readers wild with impatience. So when they finally did kiss, it was so satisfying. I swear, the first fic of hers I read, I spent a whole week with hearts in my eyes.

  And this story is no different. Well, a little different, because it’s Faith and Buffy, totally different characters, a totally different universe. But she dives into the narrative perfectly. They run into each other, they become friends, they fight vampires, they fight each other, they make up. But Rose hasn’t finished it. Buffy has just realized she’d rather spend her time arguing with Faith than hanging out with anyone else. I can tell, this is where it starts to get really good, but then it just ends, unfinished.

  And I look at the time and haven’t even realized two hours have gone by, and all I want to do is read more. Rose’s writing is like that. Makes you greedy.

  I’m weeping again. And I get out my phone and just wring out my heart over its little keyboard.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You were right, Rose. About Noah. And I just keep thinking about how shitty I had to be to not see it, to not believe you. And I’m sorry I hurt you. And I wish you felt like you could tell me about Sam. She’s nice and sweet and perfect for you, if she’s who you want, she’s just perfect. And I miss you. I keep thinking about what it’s like, being your best friend. How you write the most perfect stories (yes, I read the story, amazing as always, but please I need more ASAP!!!!) and how when we met Mary and David for the first time, you said, I can’t believe my brother’s a dad, and then we held them and you said, Look, Sia, they are miracles. And how amazing that you always see miracles in everything, like when you kept telling me my mom was alive because Abuela said so. And I hope it doesn’t take a miracle for you to forgive me, but even if you don’t, I’m sorry.

  After a minute, just one, short, miraculous minute, she writes, I’m sorry, too, Sia. I’m sorry I missed tutoring and I’m sorry for going to Sam even when I knew you were feeling left out. Can’t write too much rn. At the hospital. But we’ll be back Friday. Let’s catch up Sunday. I miss you. I love you. And after a second, And I’m sorry about what I said about your mom. It wasn’t what I really feel. Believe me, Sia. I think she still could be out there. Just like your grandmother said.

  I cry so hard. So, so hard. Because I haven’t lost everything, you know? And what a feeling that is. When I can breathe normally again, I write back, Yes. Sunday. Love you too.

  90

  NOAH AND I ARE ON our way to the beginning of the world.

  He wants to speak but I told him not yet. I need to talk first. But the words are spinning all around me like brittle leaves and I can’t catch them. It doesn’t help that Noah won’t stop freaking drumming on every surface in my car.

  I pull into the space between Adam and Eve and turn the car off. The sunset to one side pulling all the clouds into it like a lover. Everything tinged in romantic peach and pink. Todavía no hay luna.

  I turn to Noah. He’s not looking at me, but his spine tenses.

  “I can’t believe you touched me,” I say. He winces, eyes cast downward. “Your dad is the reason why my life is shit. Why, every day, my heart breaks open over and over and over again. And you knew this and you touched me.”

  I wait for him. He’s still looking down, jaw flexed.

  “Do you have anything to say to that?”

  “I’m sorry.” His voice is raw. “I didn’t know at first. But when I found out it was you, that you were the girl with the mom. I didn’t tell you because I liked you so much.” He looks up at me. The bruises on his face are
green on the edges. “I hate my dad. I like you. I’m sorry. That’s all I can say.”

  I let out a slow, shaky breath and rest my head on the steering wheel. Out my window, the clouds are getting thicker. Darker.

  “Well, I can say more, actually,” Noah continues. I don’t move. “I still want to be friends with you.”

  I turn my head. “Sorry,” I say. “That’s not going to happen.” And I laugh just a little, because, the audacity, you know? “Rose and I had the biggest fight because of you. I almost lost a good friend, my best friend, because of you, but you still want to be friends?”

  His face falls, but he nods. And then he swallows. “It was so shitty of me to let you and Rose fight like that. I was scared to lose you, Sia. You’re, uh. Jesus.” He is facing the window, but I think he’s wiping his eyes. “You’re an amazing girl. And I hope you don’t hate me forever.” His voice is crackling, but I think he’s trying to cover it up by going deeper, louder.

  I groan. He’s the jerk, here. Why do I feel guilty about this?

  Porque él no es su padre.

  I groan again after the air gets thick with oak and prickly pear. Why can’t that old lady ever mind her own business?

  Noah sniffs. “Did you just spray perfume or something?”

  “No,” I say, rolling my eyes. “That’s my grandma.”

  “She puts air freshener in your car?”

  “Something like that.”

  Abuela continues to speak. God, that woman! Finally, I shake my head and yell, “Shut up, anciana!” Which is literally the worst thing you can say to a Mexican elder. Abuela’s presence becomes thunderous, thick around us like steel, and then it’s gone. Fast as a flame pinch. Christ.

  I glance at Noah, who’s looking at me as though I’ve pulled my brain out of my head and just presented it to him on a platter. I start to explain myself, but stop. Why do I care what he thinks? He’s just another son of a racist prick.