Maritza shot him a glare as she tried to wiggle her butt free. “¡Cállate!” she hissed before finally stumbling through. “We’re gonna need another way to get in here soon.” She wiped at the dirt smeared across her jeans. “We’re getting too big.”
“Your butt’s getting too big,” Yadriel teased. “Maybe you should lay off the pastelitos.” He grinned.
“And lose these curves?” she asked, smoothing her hands down her waist and hips. Maritza gave him a sarcastic smile. “Thanks, but I’d rather die.” She punched his arm before sauntering toward the church.
Yadriel jogged to catch up.
Rows of marigolds—the flores de muerto—lined the stone path. The tall orange and yellow flowers leaned against one another like drunken friends. They had exploded into bloom over the months leading up to Día de Muertos. Fallen petals dusted the ground like confetti.
The church was painted white and had a terra-cotta roof. Starburst windows flanked either side of the large oak doors. Above, a small alcove was set into a semicircular wall, housing another cross. On either side, two cutouts held iron bells.
“Are you ready?” There was no look of trepidation on Maritza’s face as she watched him. She beamed, practically dancing on the tips of her toes.
Yadriel’s heart pulsed in his veins. Nerves roiled in his stomach.
He and Maritza had been sneaking around the cemetery at night since they were kids. The churchyard was a good place to hide and play when they were little. It was close enough to the house to hear Lita when she called them for dinner. But they’d never actually snuck into the church before. If he did this, they’d be breaking about a dozen brujx rules and traditions.
If he did this, there was no turning back.
Yadriel nodded stiffly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Let’s do it.”
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled at the same time Maritza shivered next to him.
“Do what?”
The bark-like demand made both of them jump. Maritza sprang back, and Yadriel had to catch her arms to keep her from bowling him over.
Just to their left, a man stood next to a small peach-colored tomb.
“Holy crap, Tito.” Yadriel exhaled, a hand still clutching the front of his hoodie. “You scared the hell out of us!”
Maritza sniffed indignantly.
Sometimes, even to Yadriel and Maritza, a ghost could go unnoticed.
Tito was a squat man wearing a burgundy Venezuela soccer kit and shorts. A large, worn straw hat sat on his head. He squinted at Yadriel and Maritza from under the brim as he bent over the marigolds. Tito was the longtime gardener of the cemetery.
Or well, he was. Tito had been dead for four years.
When he was alive, Tito had been an incredibly talented gardener. He used to supply all the flowers for the brujx celebrations, as well as weddings, holidays, and funerals for the non-magic folks in East LA. What had started as selling flowers from buckets at the local flea market had grown into his own brick-and-mortar shop.
After dying in his sleep and having his body laid to rest, Tito reappeared in the cemetery, determined to take care of the flowers he’d painstakingly tended to for most of his life. He told Yadriel’s father he still had a job to do and didn’t trust anyone else to take it over.
Enrique said Tito could remain as long as he was Tito. Yadriel wondered if sheer stubbornness would keep his father from being able to release Tito’s spirit, even if he tried.
“Do what?” Tito repeated. Under the orange lights of the church, he seemed solid enough, though he was the faintest bit transparent compared to the very corporeal garden shears in his hand. Spirits had blurry edges and were a little less vibrant than the world around them. They looked like a photograph taken out of focus and with the saturation turned down. If Yadriel turned his head a bit, Tito’s form smudged and faded into the background.
Yadriel mentally kicked himself. His nerves were getting the better of him, distracting him from sensing Tito sooner.
“Why aren’t you two back at the house with everyone else?” Tito pressed.
“Uh, we were just going to go into the church,” Yadriel said, voice breaking midsentence. He cleared his throat.
The rise of an unruly eyebrow meant Tito wasn’t falling for it.
“Just to check on some supplies, you know.” Yadriel shrugged. “Make sure things are … set up.”
With a sch, Tito’s shears sliced off a wilted marigold from its stem.
Maritza elbowed Yadriel in the side and tipped her head pointedly.
“Oh!” Yadriel wrestled off his backpack and dug around inside, pulling out a bundled white dishcloth. “I grabbed you something!”
Felipe was too busy with his girlfriend to care about what Yadriel and Maritza got up to, and it was pretty easy to sneak past Nina and Rosa, but Tito was a bit of a wild card. Tito had been good friends with Yadriel’s dad, and Tito had very little patience for nonsense.
But offerings of food seemed to make him look the other way.
“Lita just made them—it’s still warm!” Yadriel pulled back the layers to reveal a concha. The delicious sweet bread had a crumbly topping and looked like a seashell. “I got you a green one, your favorite!” If Tito wasn’t convinced by his terrible lying, maybe pan dulce could sway him.
Tito waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t care what you two buscapleitos are up to,” he grumbled.
Maritza gasped and pressed her hand to her chest dramatically. “Us? We would never—!”
Yadriel shoved Maritza to get her to shut up. He didn’t think they were troublemakers, especially compared to some of the other younger brujx, but he also knew laying on the innocent act too thick would not work on Tito.
Luckily, Tito seemed to want to get rid of them. “Pa’ fuera,” he said dismissively. “But don’t touch my cempasúchitl.”
Yadriel didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed Maritza’s arm and made for the church.
“Leave the concha,” Tito added.
Yadriel left it on top of the peach-colored tomb while Tito went back to trimming his marigolds.
He ran up the steps to the church, Maritza right on his heels. With a hard shove, the heavy doors swung open with a groan.
Yadriel and Maritza crept down the aisle. The inside was simple. Unlike a standard church, there weren’t many rows of pews and there were no seats at the back. When the brujx gathered for ceremonies and rituals, everyone stood in large circles together in the open space. Three tall windows made up the apse of the church. During the day, the California sunlight streamed through the colorful, intricate stained glass. Dozens of unlit candles crowded the main altar.
On a ledge halfway up the wall stood a statue of their sacred goddess, the diosa who had bestowed the brujx with their powers thousands of years ago, when gods and monsters roamed the lands of Latin America and the Caribbean: the Lady of the Dead.
The skeleton was carved out of white stone. Black paint accented the lines of her bony fingers, toothy smile, and empty eyes. Lady Death wore a traditional white lace-trimmed huipil and layered skirt. A mantle was draped over the crown of her head, flowing to rest on her shoulders. The neck of her dress and hem of the mantle were embroidered with delicate flowers of golden thread. A bouquet of Tito’s freshly cut marigolds lay in her skeletal hands.