sleeping grandfather’s withered face, his gaping toothless mouth and flaring nostrils bathed in the warm glow of the reading lamp.
“Why?” she said, watching the emaciated chest rise and fall beneath his sheets. “Why’d you never tell me about all this stuff?” She sniffled and let a single tear slip down her cheek. “And you still won’t tell me what’s going on, viejo.”
Lázaro stirred slightly but didn’t wake. Sierra stared down at him, her heart pounding.
“I almost died tonight, Abuelo. And why? What boys’ club did I nearly get killed for? Did you think you were …” Her voice faltered, but she refused to cry in front of him. “Did you think you were protecting me by keeping me in the dark all this time?”
She walked out, slamming the door behind her.
In her room, Sierra unraveled her braids and stared at herself in the mirror. Her newly freed fro still bore the traces of Bennie’s handiwork, but Sierra didn’t feel like combing it out. Good hair, bad hair. Such nonsense. She blew herself a kiss, flipped off an invisible Tía Rosa, and stomped downstairs.
Juan looked up from his sticker-covered acoustic guitar. He sat at the kitchen table with an open bag of chips and a liter bottle of soda in front of him. “You done pouting?” he asked. “Because we need to have a serious conversation about what happened tonight.”
“You’re damn right we do,” Sierra said. She swung a chair around and sat backward in it, glaring at her brother.
“And you can start by thanking me for saving your ass.”
Sierra shrugged and looked away. “Thanks,” she said quietly. “How’d you know to come find me anyway?”
“You hungry?”
“Juan, it’s like midnight!”
“I know.” He jumped up and started rummaging around the cabinets. “Perfect time for midnight breakfast!”
“Alright, but don’t think this’ll get you out of telling me how you showed up in Flatbush tonight.”
Juan cracked some eggs into a bowl. “So, we were couch-crashing at this dude’s spot upstate.”
“Upstate New York? People there listen to Culebra?”
“What? People all over this nation listen to us.”
“But … are there Puerto Ricans in upstate New York?”
“I dunno, Sierra, probably. But I’m talking about white people!”
“Shut up.”
“I swear to God! White kids come out and eat our music up. They crazy about us. Sing along to our lyrics and everything.”
“Half your songs are in Spanish.”
“I know. Go figure. Can I finish what I was saying now?”
Sierra busied herself clearing the table of María’s loose paperwork and some ad catalogs. “By all means.”
Juan opened the refrigerator. “Mom made yucca! Sweet!” He retrieved a ceramic bowl with plastic wrap over it and tossed several white cassava chunks onto the frying pan. “Anyway, we were at this dude’s spot, partying, whatever, hanging out earlier today, and I felt something. I mean, I got the shadowshaping skills — Abuelo initiated me, but I don’t really use them a lot, so it’s all still kind of wild to me, to be honest. But this was like a fluttering in my chest, and then I could just feel the room get crowded. Suddenly there were, like, six spirits in the place.”
“Whoa. Did you have to squinch up your eyes and whatnot to see ’em?”
“Oh, so you do know a thing or two about all this, huh?”
Sierra looked away again. “No thanks to you.”
Juan poked the simmering egg and yucca mix with a spatula. “Anyway, nah, after a while you learn to just see ’em without the squinty thing. They were murmuring, humming to themselves in that way they do.”
“They can talk?”
“Kinda. It’s like you hear it in your head. But it’s not your thoughts. It only makes sense once you’ve felt it.”
Sierra remembered the creature’s awful voice echoing through her and shuddered. “I think I know what you mean.”
“Anyway, the spirits said you were in trouble. Like bad trouble.”
She sat down at
“Why?” she said, watching the emaciated chest rise and fall beneath his sheets. “Why’d you never tell me about all this stuff?” She sniffled and let a single tear slip down her cheek. “And you still won’t tell me what’s going on, viejo.”
Lázaro stirred slightly but didn’t wake. Sierra stared down at him, her heart pounding.
“I almost died tonight, Abuelo. And why? What boys’ club did I nearly get killed for? Did you think you were …” Her voice faltered, but she refused to cry in front of him. “Did you think you were protecting me by keeping me in the dark all this time?”
She walked out, slamming the door behind her.
In her room, Sierra unraveled her braids and stared at herself in the mirror. Her newly freed fro still bore the traces of Bennie’s handiwork, but Sierra didn’t feel like combing it out. Good hair, bad hair. Such nonsense. She blew herself a kiss, flipped off an invisible Tía Rosa, and stomped downstairs.
Juan looked up from his sticker-covered acoustic guitar. He sat at the kitchen table with an open bag of chips and a liter bottle of soda in front of him. “You done pouting?” he asked. “Because we need to have a serious conversation about what happened tonight.”
“You’re damn right we do,” Sierra said. She swung a chair around and sat backward in it, glaring at her brother.
“And you can start by thanking me for saving your ass.”
Sierra shrugged and looked away. “Thanks,” she said quietly. “How’d you know to come find me anyway?”
“You hungry?”
“Juan, it’s like midnight!”
“I know.” He jumped up and started rummaging around the cabinets. “Perfect time for midnight breakfast!”
“Alright, but don’t think this’ll get you out of telling me how you showed up in Flatbush tonight.”
Juan cracked some eggs into a bowl. “So, we were couch-crashing at this dude’s spot upstate.”
“Upstate New York? People there listen to Culebra?”
“What? People all over this nation listen to us.”
“But … are there Puerto Ricans in upstate New York?”
“I dunno, Sierra, probably. But I’m talking about white people!”
“Shut up.”
“I swear to God! White kids come out and eat our music up. They crazy about us. Sing along to our lyrics and everything.”
“Half your songs are in Spanish.”
“I know. Go figure. Can I finish what I was saying now?”
Sierra busied herself clearing the table of María’s loose paperwork and some ad catalogs. “By all means.”
Juan opened the refrigerator. “Mom made yucca! Sweet!” He retrieved a ceramic bowl with plastic wrap over it and tossed several white cassava chunks onto the frying pan. “Anyway, we were at this dude’s spot, partying, whatever, hanging out earlier today, and I felt something. I mean, I got the shadowshaping skills — Abuelo initiated me, but I don’t really use them a lot, so it’s all still kind of wild to me, to be honest. But this was like a fluttering in my chest, and then I could just feel the room get crowded. Suddenly there were, like, six spirits in the place.”
“Whoa. Did you have to squinch up your eyes and whatnot to see ’em?”
“Oh, so you do know a thing or two about all this, huh?”
Sierra looked away again. “No thanks to you.”
Juan poked the simmering egg and yucca mix with a spatula. “Anyway, nah, after a while you learn to just see ’em without the squinty thing. They were murmuring, humming to themselves in that way they do.”
“They can talk?”
“Kinda. It’s like you hear it in your head. But it’s not your thoughts. It only makes sense once you’ve felt it.”
Sierra remembered the creature’s awful voice echoing through her and shuddered. “I think I know what you mean.”
“Anyway, the spirits said you were in trouble. Like bad trouble.”
She sat down at
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