disappearance-”

“Dad left ,” I shout. The glass cracks in my hand. “He left us.”

Lula stops her frantic pacing. I stare at myself in mirror again.

You are not a bruja. You are a girl who needs to get far, far away,

where the blood dreams can’t follow .

“You don’t know that,” Lula says. Her bottom lip trembles and her

stormy-gray eyes are glossy with tears.

But I do know that. I was there.

Everyone has a theory of why Patricio Mortiz, benevolent brujo and

loving family man, disappeared without a trace. Some think my father

was taken by the kind of people who still hunt people like us. But

there was no struggle or ransom note. I know in my heart that he left

because of the magic inside me. No matter how much I try to forget,

the memory floats on the surface of my mind.

It was an accident . Back then, I repeated that like a mantra.

I was ten years old and suffered from nightmares and paralyzing

headaches. No one could figure out what was wrong with me. My parents’

Circle came over one day and bathed me in seawater and rubbed ashes on

my face to scare away the ghosts. But it wasn’t ghosts. It was

something inside that wanted to rip me in half to set itself free.

One day, the pain was so bad I stopped going to school. I was

alone in the house. Something woke me, a voice calling from the

shadows. Claws scratched against the wooden floor. Miluna prowled

toward me, her paws trailing ragged, black shadows. Her normally green

eyes were red as rubies, and her pearly white teeth were bared and

covered in yellow froth.

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