Julian’s grin was back, albeit sheepish. “Yeah, my bad.”
He wasn’t back to 100 percent, but he was getting there, and Yadriel would take what he could get. “Maybe work on the impulse control while you’re at it.”
Julian let out a short laugh. “Noted.”
“Great, now that the pity party is over—” Maritza slipped between them. Julian rolled his eyes at Yadriel over the top of her head, and he couldn’t help but grin back. “We need to stop by my place so I can drop off my crap. Can’t go running the streets of East LA like hoodlums if I’m weighed down by my chemistry textbook,” she said, hitching her backpack higher on her shoulder for emphasis.
Luckily, Maritza’s family lived one block over from the cemetery, so it was a quick stop on the way. It was a squat yellow house with a chain-link fence wrapped around it. The gate had a BEWARE OF DOGS sign, and both her parents’ cars were parked in the driveway.
“You stay here,” Maritza told Julian, pointing to her mom’s silver minivan.
Julian made a disgruntled noise. “How long is this gonna take?”
“We’ll be in and out.”
He didn’t look convinced.
“Stay out of sight,” Yadriel told him. “And if anyone looks at you, then they’re probably a brujx, so just act like a spirit—”
Julian squinted. “But I am a spirit—”
“Just don’t look suspicious, okay?”
Julian looked around, clearly not sure what to do with himself.
“Never mind, just”—Yadriel flapped his hands at him—“just hide behind the van and we’ll be right back!”
Julian rolled his eyes, but he did what he was told and crouched down behind the dusty van. “I don’t see how this isn’t suspicious, but okay,” he muttered.
“We’ll be right back!” Yadriel repeated as he shoved Maritza toward the house.
“I’m home!” she shouted once they got inside, chucking her backpack onto the couch.
“In here!” Maritza’s mother called.
Yadriel followed Maritza into the kitchen. Tía Sofia stood at the stove over a pot of brown syrup that smelled sticky and sweet. Another large metal pot sat covered next to it, spilling steam from its sides.
Maritza’s older sister, Paola, sat at the kitchen table. She had two huge textbooks opened up, along with a notebook. Paola was a med student at the nearby university. No matter how much of a rush she was in, Paola’s hair was always styled into a flawless wash-and-go. Black curls fell across her face as she bent over a notebook. She furiously took notes in between highlighting and placing color-coded Post-its.
The other half of the table was filled with portajes Tío Isaac was either repairing or building for various brujos. There were simple daggers scattered among the more elaborate choices of the younger brujos. Loud, rhythmic clanging cut through the air. The open door to the backyard revealed Tío Isaac, standing at his workbench as he hammered out a blade.
“How was school?” Tía Sofia asked, sparing them a glance as she grated piloncillo into the syrup. On tin foil next to her sat orange cubes of calabaza en tacha—candied pumpkin.
“Lame, as usual,” Maritza said, making a beeline for the tray. She snatched up a piece of pumpkin and tossed it into her mouth.
“¡Ay, ten cuidado!” Tía Sofia warned, but it was too late.
Maritza danced in place, waving at her mouth. “Ah, hot!” She spat the scalding pumpkin out, and it fell, with a wet plop, onto one of Paola’s textbooks.
Paola gasped, her pretty face twisting into a snarl. “Seriously, Maritza?!” She smacked Maritza on the butt before scooping off the offending pumpkin and throwing it in the sink.
“Ow! I didn’t mean to!” Maritza scowled.
“Yeah, sure you didn’t!” Paola brushed the glob of syrup off the page.
“You are taking this way too seriously.”
“You don’t take school seriously enough!” Paola shot back. “What exactly do you plan on doing after you graduate if you can’t even heal?”
“Take up forging portajes, like Dad,” Maritza replied, as if it were obvious.
Paola rolled her eyes. “Of course.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?!”
“Would you like a piece, Yadriel?” Tía Sofia asked, turning to Yadriel with a smile, holding up a piece of candied pumpkin on her slotted spoon. Her daughters bickered ferociously behind her.
“No, gracias,” Yadriel said with a small smile. His tongue had been bugging him all day and the pain was only now starting to fade. He didn’t want to aggravate it again.
“Of course you do!” She laughed warmly. “Here!”
Yadriel knew better than to decline an offer of food from a Latinx mom more than once. Carefully, he took a bite, shifting it to his cheek to avoid the cut.
Tía Sofia waited expectantly. “Good?”
Yadriel nodded and smiled, because of course it was. The pumpkin was tender, and the syrup had just the right amount of brown sugar and the faint zest of orange.
“Good!” Tía Sofia give him a pat on the cheek before going back to her cooking. “Are you excited for Día de Muertos? Ay, of course you are! Tu mamá will be there!”
Yadriel tried to return her bright smile, but it was difficult to muster her level of enthusiasm.
“Yes, it’ll be a good year, indeed—”
“No fighting by the portajes!” Tío Isaac called, pausing for a moment on his work. He’d learned the trade from his own father back in Haiti. Tío Isaac scratched at his bushy beard, sweat glistening on his earth-rich brown skin. He huffed a big sigh, his broad chest heaving.
“One of these times their bickering is going to turn into a knife fight, I tell you,” Tío Isaac told Yadriel in conspiratorial exasperation. In a house full of hardheaded boricuas, he was vastly outnumbered but never complained about it. Even when all three Santima women broke into a fight, Tío Isaac would just sigh and shake his head. He was a kind man with a deep well of patience.
“You’re probably right,” Yadriel agreed, eyeing the portajes carefully laid out. He used to watch Tío Isaac work all the time, staring at the portajes with longing, wishing he had one of his own.
Now, he didn’t have to wish anymore.
“Are you staying for dinner, Yads?” Tío Isaac asked. The blade he was hammering sizzled as he dropped it into a bucket of water.
“I’m making ta-ma-leees!” Tía Sofia sang, gesturing to the steaming pot.
“No, actually—”
“I made you some rajas con queso ones, Itza,” her mom said, lifting the lid off the large pot. The smell of sweet masa filled the room. “Hopefully that vegan cheese melts this time,” she added, poking at the wrapped corn husks with a doubtful expression.
Tamales were a staple for Día de Muertos and prepared in obscenely large batches. In ancient times, they were soaked in blood and presented as offerings to Bahlam, the jaguar god of Xibalba. Luckily for Maritza—and everyone else, really—there was no longer a blood sacrifice involved.
“Save them for me to zap in the microwave when I get home!” Maritza told her.
“I make you tamales from scratch and you’re just going to microwave them later?” Tía Sofia demanded, clutching her heart. “And last night you missed out on your papa’s diri ak djon djon! He even made it without shrimp!”
“We got stuff to do, we’re not staying for dinner,” Maritza explained.
Tía Sofia huffed before waving her hand dismissively at her daughter.
“Oh yeah, what kind of stuff?” Paola asked.
Yadriel could tell by the looks the sisters exchanged that this wasn’t going to go well.
“Just to go hang out, nosy! Mom, where’s my rain jacket?”
“Esta allí,” she said, waving toward the living room.
“That’s not helpful!”
“I don’t think you two should be going off on your own after school,” Tío Isaac said, his large form filling up the doorframe as he wiped off his hands on a rag.
“Your papá is right,” Tía Sofia agreed. “It’s too dangerous, especially after Miguel—” Unable to finish her sentence, she crossed herself.
Yadriel’s stomach twisted into knots. “We still haven’t found anything?” he asked.
Tío Isaac shook his head solemnly. “Not yet.”
Yadriel just didn’t get it. How was that possible?
“Not to mention”—Tía Sofia propped her fist on one hip and shook her spoon at her youngest daughter—“you still haven’t tried on the dress I got you for your aquelarre, and you said you’d take those colors out of your hair before Día de Muertos, too!”
Yadriel shot Maritza a hard stare. They needed to find Julian’s friends, get answers that would satisfy the stubborn spirit, and wrap this whole thing up before Día de Muertos.
Maritza nodded, reading his look loud and clear. “Ugh, you guys!” she whined. “I’ll try on the dress later, and I definitely never said I’d re-dye my hair—”