It was an accident. I repeat it still.
Miluna attacked me. I raised my hands in defense, and the magic coiled in my heart was unleashed. I saw ribbons of red and flesh. Then, I remember darkness and, for the first time in a long time, relief. I woke to my father shouting my name. “Alejandra, Alejandra, are you okay?” He picked me up and carried me to the couch. My body shook with recoil. My veins buzzed with freed magic.
I cried and screamed and my father held me tighter. He brushed my hair back and kissed away the tears on my cheeks. He cleaned the blood on my hands and face.
“Everything will be okay,” he said, but I could see the fear darkening his gray eyes. I will always remember the way he looked at me, as if he didn’t know who I was. “Miluna was possessed. She didn’t know it was you. There are bad things in this world, Alejandra. They hurt people like us. I’ll take care of it. I promise. It’ll be our secret, but you can’t tell a soul. Do you swear it?”
“I swear it,” I cried. I clung to him, but he pulled away. Wouldn’t look into my eyes.
“Sh, my darling. Everything will be okay.”
He ran outside. From my window, I could see him digging a small grave. I told myself my dad would make things right.
When I woke up again, he was gone, and I knew it was because of me. My own father was afraid of me. I pulled my magic deep inside and kept it there. Our secret.
Now, in our kitchen, Lula gasps. My whole body tenses with magic.
“Alejandra,” my mom says.
I hadn’t even heard her come in. The door is wide-open, letting in the cold.
My mom presses her hands against her mouth. “Oh, my sweet girl.”
When I look up, I see what I’ve done. Everything—the dishes and the beads of water and soap on them, the flower pots, the jars of pickled chicken feet and frog eyes. The vials of cooking spices, the chairs, the frames on the walls, the fruits, and the collection of good luck roosters on the kitchen sill. Even the ends of Lula’s hair.
All of it. All of it is floating around me.
In a heartbeat, my mom drops her shopping bags. The air is thick, like a steam room. Then she puts her hands on my face. “Mi’jita,” she says. My little daughter. “Don’t worry. Everything will be okay.”
I’ve heard that before, and I know it isn’t true. Then, like the fall of our tears, everything I’ve done comes crashing to the ground.
6
Father, my father, my light through the dark,
my soul and my hope and my path to embark.
—Rezo de El Papa, Book of Cantos
SOMETHING IS WRONG AND YOU’D BETTER TEXT ME.
NO CALL ME.
SILENCE WILL GET YOU NOWHERE.
IF YOU DON’T CALL ME, I’M COMING OVER AND YOU BETTER LET ME IN.
…ARE YOU OKAY? I HAVE ALL THE WORRIES.
All texts from Rishi over the last two days.
For the first time in six years, I skip school. My mom is so busy planning my Deathday ceremony that she lets me. Rishi stopped by this morning and Lula took my homework from her but said I was sick and sleeping. Sometimes I want to tell Rishi the truth. I wonder if she’d be surprised or scared or even believe me. Rishi likes her days with a side of weird. Lula reminds me we’re discouraged from revealing ourselves. Otherwise, she’d tell Maks in a heartbeat. Our uncle Harry married a human who died when she tried using his Book of Cantos to make herself younger.
I’m in the car with my family, I start to type. We’re getting supplies for my magical birthday ceremony. BTW, I’m a witch.
Then I delete it and retype. I’ll explain. I promise.
Lula turns around in the front seat. She tries to grab my phone, but I yank it away. “Is that Rishi?”
“Why?”
“Just kidding. Who else would it be?”
“Lula,” my mom warns. “Be nice.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Better than the whole swim team having my number,” I hiss so just Lula can hear me. If looks could kill, I’d be dead for three lifetimes.
“Too bad you can’t invite her,” Lula says, “so at least you’d have one friend there.”
I sink in the backseat and watch the Brooklyn brownstones pass by. A few blocks later, we get to a row of shops that look so old a really good East River gust could cave them in. At a red light, my mom dabs her lipstick on, then rubs her lips together to smooth it out. The plum color brings out the beautiful gold undertones in her brown skin, the freckles around her cheeks that look like constellations. She closes the visor, caps the lipstick, and hands it to Lula. She copies Ma’s exact lipstick application. Lula’s wild curls are extra scrunched and smell like rose oil. Her skin shines from her homemade coconut milk and brown sugar scrub. I think I still have eye crud in my eyes from this morning.
“Oh, relax,” Lula tells me. “I’m just playing.”
She keeps the visor down, so I can see her resting witch face. She’s mad that I levitated the whole kitchen because she’s always wanted a physical power. She wouldn’t even help me clean up after. Rose nudges my arm and gives me one of her calming, close-lipped smiles. Fine, I’ll play along for Rose.
Mom parallel parks in front of Miss Trix, a rundown shop located on the only undeveloped street of Park Slope. A wind chime made of mismatched shells greets us in the funky-smelling botanica. Normally, buildings have vines crawling on the outside brick. Here, the vines have made their way into the shop, as if they’re eating the store from the inside out.
Mountains of books balance in precarious stacks, because Deos forbid you need the book all the way at the bottom. The windows are caked with dust, and spiders have erected a web metropolis on every available corner. There’s a giant caiman bolted to the ceiling, like it’s swimming in the middle of a swamp. It’s yellow eyes look so alive, even though Lady swears it’s as dead as her first husband.
I turn around and come face-to-face with the pickle wall. Rose picks up a jar of human eyes, each one with a different color iris. A blue one moves around of its own volition.
“I don’t like him,” she whispers, setting the jar back on the shelf.
“What’s not to like?” I ask.
Lady, the storeowner, Alta Bruja of the Greater New York area, and my aunt by marriage, greets us with a smile.
Her dark laugh makes me think of cigarettes being crushed into an ashtray. “Don’t mind the eyes, Rosie. They can’t hurt anyone from in there.”
The fringe on her clothes bounces when she waves. Her black lipstick makes her mouth look like a bruised plum. She stands behind the register, a rickety, black metal thing with large, white buttons for the numbers. It probably survived the Coney Island fire of 1911.