“So on our second date, your mom and I went to the Cortaro Museum of Art. And they had an exhibit for this artist’s work. Her paintings are vivid. Women who are strong, plotting to murder a wicked man. Women slicing off the heads of men. And your mother, she looked at her self-portrait and said, I’m going to name my daughter after her.”
I burst out laughing. I can’t help it. “And that didn’t scare you?”
And Dad cracks a smile, too. His first since… everything. “To be honest, yeah, I was a little scared. But then I forgot all about it until we found out you were a girl. She said, and I’ll never forget this, she said she wanted to bless you with that power in your name. The power of a woman who survived and made her own way.” He smiles again. “And now I can’t imagine you as anything but Artemisia.”
I don’t know why, but I hug my father then. We just hold each other in the afternoon light coming in like drips of gold across us.
If I could name this moment, it would be Hope. Cheesy, okay, but true. Because despite everything that happened, we talked about Mom and didn’t lose it. We laughed. And I know that’s what Mom wants for us. And I also know Dad and I, we’re going to do okay. Even when we do have to cry because of our broken open hearts. We will always have these memories of Mom. And we will also have each other.
217
“HEY,” NOAH SAYS WHEN I walk up to his car.
“Hey,” I say, smiling.
He peers at my house. “Is your dad watching through the window?”
“Probably.” I climb in.
“Ah,” he says, dropping his hands. “I’ll have to kiss you later, then, yeah?”
I nod and buckle my seat belt. “How’s your mom?” I say.
“Well, awesome now. She said she’s getting us a bigger place.” He glances at me. “I told her to please consider Tucson.”
I can’t even think of something smart-ass to say. I just smile like a clown and finally smack him on the arm. “You did?”
He nods. “No guarantees, but she was open to the idea.”
“Well, shit,” I say. “That would be really nice.”
He grins, flashing that dimple. “It would.”
218
“SIA,” MRS. DAMAS SAYS, PULLING ME into a hug. I about drop in shock when she does the same with Noah.
Rose’s house is much lighter. It’s like Mrs. Damas is keeping the curtains open a little wider. And also there isn’t so much bible crap crowding everyone’s vibe.
Of course, it might also be because Omar was invited to dinner.
“Noah! My dude.” He gives Noah a handshake and pats me awkwardly on the shoulder. “Sia.” He sits back on the sofa. “So.” He folds his hands. “Seen any Reptilians lately?”
“No alien talk!” Rose calls. “Not for dinner.” Mrs. Damas pushes us into the kitchen, where we join Rose at the table.
“Smells good,” Noah says.
“It smells incredible,” Omar corrects. “I’ve never tried Haitian food before and Rose says my life hasn’t been worth it as a result.”
“It’s true,” I say.
“Let’s say grace.” Mrs. Damas clasps her hands together, beckoning us to do the same.
“Mommy,” Rose mutters.
Mrs. Damas ignores her and bows her head. “Thank you, God, for the earth, for food, and friends.” She looks up and reaches for the platanos. “Sia?” She hands me the platter.
“Wow,” Rose remarks. “That was really casual.”
“I like it,” I say.
“Me too.” Rose nods.
Mrs. Damas beams at us. “Eat!” she commands.
And we do.
219
NOAH PRESSES HIS LIPS TO mine all gentle when he drops me off.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, his voice husky in my ear, a hand at my hip. “To help load up the truck.”
I nod and wrap my arms around him, jumping over the console to kiss him deeper.
220
I DON’T GO INSIDE THE house when Noah leaves. Instead, I get in my car and head to the highway.
221
I CAN’T HELP BUT THINK about all the alternative realities spread out before me, the ones Mr. Woods once said may very well exist alongside all of us.
In one universe, the United States welcomes the hungry and the poor. Even the brown hungry and poor.
In another, Tim McGhee is a decent person, or at least decent enough that he doesn’t care that Mom is around. And he doesn’t call ICE on her. Ever.
And in another universe, Mom stays in Mexico after deportation. Even broke, even hungry, even brokenhearted. Maybe one of those mythic “another ways” would’ve been opened up by some miracle de Guadalupe. Maybe she’d have gotten a place, even a shack with holes for windows and dirt for floors. Maybe Dad and I could’ve moved in and I could’ve gone to the Universidad Autónoma de Chihuahua, and majored in something that would make this fucked-up world better somehow.
Maybe right now, I’d wake up to her in the kitchen, cooking migas with leftover corn tortillas, made from our gemstone maíz. Maybe Dad would’ve made her that corn kernel jewelry with it, too, plump beads of rose and sun and water at her neck. He’d pour the coffee and we’d all sit down and pray. Not to an old white dude in the sky, but to the great, unnamable mystery that makes seedlings crack open and reach toward the light. That makes the cacti dance when you’re not looking.
Jesus Cristo. I need to stop thinking about this shit.
222
I SPOT HIM WHERE THE world begins before I can even see him. I know that sounds unbelievable, but it’s the truth. Maybe it’s ’cause we share the same blood now, I don’t know, but when River appears in my headlights, I don’t even blink.
He’s wearing a button-down the color of rust, and, coupled with his ochre pants, he looks like he’s a ghost of the desert. Like something risen from the sand itself.
I step out of the car and walk up to him. He’s perched near Eve, like he’s been examining her.
“This is my spot,” I say. “Mine and my mom’s and my grandmother’s.”
He nods. “I know.”
I cross my arms. “What are you doing here?”
He glances at the sky, where the sun hovers over the line of distant hills and boulders. “Paying my respects.”
I scowl. “She didn’t love you, dude. She loved my dad.”
He nods again. “I know that, too.”
We both stare at the peach horizon line for a while, until the temperature noticeably dips several degrees. I shiver.
He puts his hands in his pockets and approaches me. “If you want, Sia, I can teach you. How to control your abilities.”
I scoff. “Why would I want that?”
He shakes his head. “Those officials—they’re not going to leave you alone for long. When they come again—and they will—it’s best if you know everything.”
I nearly shiver again. The way he says everything. But then I narrow my eyes. “You lied, though. About visiting Earth to just check on us. And God knows what else. Why the hell should I trust you to tell me anything, much less everything?”
“It wasn’t a lie, Sia.”
“Oh? What was it, then? An alternative fact?”
He lifts his mouth in a half smile, his eyes on the few stars visible against the inky indigo. “We came to see you on Earth for the first time. So yes, that part was a lie.” He sighs. “We weren’t even certain you humans were here. But Gods, you were, you are.” He looks at me for a moment and sets his eyes at the sky again. “This universe is so much bigger than I could’ve fathomed.”
“Why’d you come?” I’m not interested in his philosophical epiphanies.
“For a myth. A fairy tale.” He closes his eyes, like he’s in pain. “We were desperate.” It’s hardly above a whisper. I’m not even sure I heard that part right.
I shake my head and scoff. “Fairy tales? More lies, you mean.”
“All those stories have the truth in them somewhere.�
�� He looks at me from the corner of his eyes. “Like a seed in the black earth.”
I frown and tear my gaze away. Asshole. “What if I don’t want you to teach me shit? Because I don’t like you? What then?”
He shrugs. “It’s up to you.” He reaches behind his back and pulls a folded paper from his pocket. “Thought you might be interested in the information on page four.” He turns to a white pickup truck.
“Hey,” I call. “How do I contact you? If I decide to let a liar tell me more ‘truths,’ I mean?”
“I’ll keep in touch.” He gets in the car, revs up the engine. I don’t watch him drive away. Instead, I trace a wayward gray cloud with the tip of my finger. Like I can touch it.
223
IN THE JEEP, I LIGHT La Guadalupe. The candle’s so low, I burn my fingers a couple of times while trying to reach into the glass. Finally, it gets going. I lean back and open the paper.
“Details of Human Experiments,” reads the headline. I turn to page four, where there are bullet points summarizing all the nasty little secrets of the mission. Apparently someone’s taken the time to comb through the thousands of files that were in that drive Katia gave me.
One of the points is marked with a blue-ink star.
I stare at it and blink. And then I blink again.
Under the header of “Successful Experiments” is human cloning.
224
DESERT ROSE AND OAK FILL the car. I inhale deeply, letting the scent settle all around and inside me.
Ves, my grandmother whispers. Ella vive.
She lives.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Sia Martinez and the Moonlit Beginning of Everything arrived in my life one evening in Tallahassee, Florida. I was taking a walk among the magnolias, the hibiscus, the wisteria. Everything smelling soft, sweet, sticky like honey. The sky was sealike in color. And there, as I took a step on the sidewalk, the idea came: a UFO crash in the desert. I knew the only occupant was Mexican, I knew she was an undocumented immigrant, and I knew she was looking for her daughter. The second image of the book arrived soon after: that daughter, in class, reading a letter to a boy who’d been hateful to her. These were the two scenes that began this whole adventure.
At the time, I was working on my MFA thesis in poetry, I had a baby, and I was preparing to publish my first book of poetry. So I had to wait several months before I could put the pieces together, the connecting words between a girl reading in class to a mother crashing a spacecraft in the desert.
When I finally had the time, I was living in a tiny side-of-the-house apartment in Albany. It was summer, everything was blooming once again, but this time, they were northernly plants I never learned the names of. I just remember colors: white blossoming trees filled with bumblebees, purple gobletlike flowers that emerald-sparkling hummingbirds would visit. I took my baby, then fifteen months old, to the park every day. And when we got back, I would nurse him to a nap, and I’d write.
Between those moments and now feels like the most gorgeous dream, with the kindness and support of so many people along the way. My gratitude can’t be conveyed enough, but I’m going to try anyway.
To my son, Ansel, who was my constant writing companion. I hope one day you’ll read this book and feel proud of your mama. I hope that you’ll see exactly what happens when you stick up and make time for your dreams. To my husband, Jordan, who has read all my crappy first drafts and did nothing but encourage me, especially through the times I needed it the most. To my agent, Elizabeth Bewley, for believing in Sia, and me, from day one. Your support, encouragement, ideas, input, and friendship are invaluable to me. And to everyone at Sterling Lord for making me feel at home from the beginning.
To my editor, Jen Ung, for your enthusiasm, cute dog GIFs, and ingenuity in helping to shape Sia to be the best it could be. Polishing this manuscript with you has been a joy. To everyone at Simon Pulse for your wondrous kindness and support.
To my very first readers, my sister, Jessica Selby, and friend, Larissa Anne Simpson. Knowing how busy the both of you are and how you still made time to read my draft will always be a gift to me. I’m grateful for all of your feedback, advice, and love.
To my family, for always believing in me: Mom, Dad, Joey, Nana, J. R., and Polo (rest in peace, Welito). To Tod and Tina for everything you’ve given me and my family, especially the gift of writing time!
To everyone who helped to make Sia Martinez its absolute best, including production editor Rebecca Vitkus and copyeditor Carla Benton. I’m so grateful for your marvelous work. And to Laura Eckes and Jeff Östberg, who made the most gorgeous cover I’ve ever seen. Your art was beyond everything I hoped the cover would be, so much so that I cried upon seeing it for the first (and second, and maybe third) time! I will always treasure it.
To Anne Caston. The seeds of your mentorship are in this manuscript. I will always be grateful for your tender guidance and encouragement.
To my ancestors, whose descendants came to the U.S. as refugees. So much has been lost, but I hope, somehow, my work makes you proud.
To my spiritual guides. You know who you are and I offer you all the pink roses and crepe myrtle blooms in gratitude. I am well because of you.
To all the writers who came before me, who paved the way. I wish I could name you all here, but I’m afraid my list would be endless. Just, thank you for your courage.
And to the writers who are arriving now. Sia Martinez started with an idea in a cramped Airbnb, baby in my lap, spiral notebook in my hands. Imagine the worlds you can create at this moment, right where you are. And go make them.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Author photograph by Jordan Gilliland
Raquel Vasquez Gilliland is a Mexican American poet, novelist, and painter. She received her MFA in poetry from the University of Alaska Anchorage in 2017. She’s most inspired by fog and seeds and the lineages of all things. When she’s not writing, Raquel tells stories to her plants and they tell her stories back. She lives in Tennessee with her beloved family and mountains. Raquel has published two books of poetry. Sia Martinez and the Moonlit Beginning of Everything is her first novel.
Visit us at simonandschuster.com/teen
www.SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Raquel-Vasquez-Gilliland
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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First Simon Pulse hardcover edition August 2020
Text copyright © 2020 by Raquel Vasquez Gilliland
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Vasquez Gilliland, Raquel, author.
Title: Sia Martinez and the moonlit beginning of everything / by Raquel Vasquez Gilliland.
Description: First Simon Pulse hardcover edition. | New York : Simon Pulse,
an imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division 2020. | Audience: Ages 12 and Up. | Audience: Grades 10–12. | Summary: Artemisia (Sia) Martinez’s mother was deported to Mexico by ICE, and disappeared in the Sonoran Desert trying to make it back to her American family; Sia believes that she was as good as murdered by ICE and the sheriff in their small Arizona town on the edge of the national park, and wants revenge against him and his son, Jeremy—but her search for the truth will uncover many more secrets than she counted on.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019028330 (print) | LCCN 2019028331 (eBook) | ISBN 9781534448636 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781534448650 (eBook)
Subjects: LCSH: Mexican Americans—Juvenile fiction. | Post-traumatic stress disorder—Juvenile fiction. | Racism—Juvenile fiction. | Secrecy—Juvenile fiction. | Missing persons—Juvenile fiction. | Mothers—Juvenile fiction. | Fathers and daughters—Juvenile fiction. | Alien abduction—Juvenile fiction. | Science fiction. | CYAC: Science fiction. | Mexican Americans—Fiction. | Post-traumatic stress disorder—Fiction. | Racism—Fiction. | Secrets—Fiction. | Missing persons—Fiction. | Mothers—Fiction. | Fathers and daughters—Fiction. | Alien abduction—Fiction. | LCGFT: Science fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.V4 Si 2020 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.V4 (eBook) | DDC 813.6 [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019028330
LC eBook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019028331
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