raspberry jam and half a can of sweetened milk. When she’s done
whipping it into fluffy peaks, she moves onto the next item of the
canto. She takes a white taper candle and a peacock feather. With the
hard tip of the feather, she carves our intention into the wax. “Wake
Alejandra Mortiz’s power.”
This is Lula’s fourth attempt to “wake” my power. Ambrosia is the
food of the Deos, and Lula seems to think it’ll be a nice incentive to
get them to give us answers. I doubt the gods are interested in bribes
made of sugar, but she’ll try anything. Lula believes in ways that I
don’t.
“There,” Lula says. “Now when we get home from school, we have to
light the candle at sunset and do the chanting half of the canto.”
“I’m not sure about this, Lula,” I say. “Maybe we should save the
spells for a day I’m not so busy.”
Lula reaches over and slaps the back of my head. “Spells are for
witches . Brujas do cantos.”
“Semantics,” I say. “All brujas are witches but not all witches
are brujas.”
“You’re impossible,” Lula mutters, returning the Book to the
family altar.
The kitchen fills with the sweet, rose-scented smoke. I turn off
the burner and drain the rosewater into a mason jar. While Lula isn’t
looking, Rose sticks her finger in the ambrosia. I bite my lips to
keep from laughing.
“You always claim to be so busy,” Lula says, tracing her
shimmering nail across the page. “It’s just school, Alex. This is your
life.”
“You’re starting to sound too much like Mom.”
“And you don’t sound like her at all.”
“You never want to listen to me. I have a really long day. First
period gym, then student council, then class, then the paper. I have
to use my lunch period to finish the reading on Romeo and Juliet . I
have indoor track practice and lab and-”
“Oh my goddess, please stop. No wonder your magic is blocked.
You’ve got a broomstick up your butt.”
“My magic isn’t blocked .” I bite my tongue.
Lula shrugs and taps the metal whisk against the bowl to get rid
of the excess ambrosia. Then she separates it into two clean mason
jars. “I don’t know why you’re more worried about school than your
powers. You’re going to overthink yourself to death.”
You don’t understand , I want to say but don’t. Lula isn’t the one
who got left back a year because she was too afraid to leave her room
and missed too much school. Lula isn’t the one who’s seen or done the
things I have.
“I know it seems scary,” Lula says, reaching over and tucking my
hair behind my ear. “But this is important. Waking your magic could
really bring us together. We all know that ever since what happened to
Dad, Ma hasn’t been the same. All we need is a little push and you’ll
see. You can’t have your Deathday until your powers show. You’re going
to be sixteen in less than two weeks. It’s the perfect time. I know
the other cantos didn’t work, but that’s why we’re going to try
again.”
Deathday: a bruja’s coming-of-age ceremony. While some girls are
having their bat mitzvahs, sweet sixteens, or quinceañeras, brujas get
their Deathday. There’s no cut-off age, but puberty is when our magic
develops. Sometimes, like with Rose, when you’re born with powers, the
family chooses to wait a little while for them to mature. Over the
years, modern brujas like to have Deathdays line up with birthdays to
have even bigger celebrations. Nothing says “happy birthday” like
summoning the spirits of your dead relatives.
Lula ignores my worry and keeps trying to convince me she’s right.
“Remember my Deathday? Papa Philomeno himself appeared. And he’s been
dead for like a hundred years. I went from healing paper cuts to
mending your ankle that time you fell from the tree. Magic is in our
blood. We come from a long line of powerful brujas.”
“A long line of dead brujas, you mean,” I say. Why do I bother?
Lula doesn’t want to hear the bad parts. She just wants to concentrate
on the power instead of the consequences.
“You say that now. Magic transforms you. You’ll see.”
I breathe deep, like there isn’t enough air in the whole world. I
brush my messy hair out of my face. It’s easy for Lula to talk about
power. She sees magic as something to be revered. All I can think of
is the blood and rot and smoke and whispers of my dreams. All I can
think about is the terrible thing I did. The secrets I keep from my
family every day.
Lula’s phone chimes three times. Maks must be outside.
“Trust me on this,” Lula says. “And hurry up and get dressed. Maks
is here.”
I start to head back up the stairs when I hear Lula shout, “Rose!
That’s an offering!”
Rose is licking the excess ambrosia from the whisk, a guilty smile
spreading to her round cheeks. “What? The ambrosia’s a metaphor for
our divine offering. It’s not like the Deos are going to eat all of
it.”
Lula looks up at the ceiling and asks, “What did I do in my last
life to deserve you two?”
“You were a pirate queen who stole a treasure from Cortés and then
ended up deserting your crew to man-hungry sharks,” Rose tells her.
“We’re your punishment for every lifetime to come.”
Lula rolls her eyes. “Seems excessive.”
I leave them and run upstairs to get dressed.
I can’t believe I let Lula talk me into doing another canto. I
still haven’t learned how to say no to her. I’d like to meet someone
who can. I know if I’m not careful, I’m going to get caught. The
cantos she picks are harmless really, unless you account for
attracting ants because of the ambrosia. Maybe I can stay late after
school and come home after sunset. She’ll be mad, but she’s always mad
at me for something.
I get a tight feeling in my chest and brace myself against the
wall. Something feels different today. Even Rose felt it.
I can hear Lula shout and Maks press down on his horn. A cold
breeze blows through the window and knocks a photo off my altar. It’s
a picture of Aunt Rosaria. In it, Aunt Ro is alive and smiling. Her
dress is as blue as the summer sky and in her arms is a crying baby.
It was a few days after I was born, and my parents chose her as the
godmother for my Birth Rites. It’s how I want to think of her. Not
dead. Not rotting. I put the picture back in place beside my turquoise
prex-a bruja’s rosary-and a candle that’s been burned to a tiny stub
and not replaced for months.
Something inside of me aches. “I miss you. Mom’s getting crazier
every day without you.”
I put on jeans and a plain gray T-shirt and fasten my watch. I
gather my hair in a long ponytail. I stare at myself in the mirror.
Sometimes I’m afraid I’m going to wake up and my magic is going to
show. It shows on Lula. It makes her radiant, breathtaking. She walks
with her head tilted to the sky, and a knowing smirk on her face
because she can feel heads turning.
I’m not jealous or anything. Lula’s the beauty in the family, and
I’m okay with that. Rose is the special one, and I’m okay with that
too. I’m not sure what I am yet, but I’m certain I wasn’t born to be a
bruja.
I grab my backpack and double-check that everything I need is in
there. Another breeze knocks Aunt Ro’s photo from my altar again,
kicking up the dust. I’ll have to clean it when I get home. Rose’s
altar has a picture of our father and a statue of La Estrella, Lady of