Labyrinth Lost, Page 2

  Lula empties a container of agave syrup into the bowl followed by 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 Hope and All the World’s Brightness. Lula’s altar is the only clean part of her bedroom. It’s a shrine to La Ola, Lady of the Seas and Changing Tides. Lula’s got a prex made of every kind of stone, and she has all kinds of feathers and candles for all the moon cycles. She mostly chants her rezos for good grades and for Maks to stop a lot of goals.

  I don’t ask for anything. Not anymore.

  I place a candle on top of Aunt Ro’s photo, so it can’t be blown off again. Then I go to shut the window but find it isn’t open.

  A third breeze.

  I feel something inside of me stir, and I have to hold my breath to ree
l it back in. It’s my guilt. The thing I’ve kept hidden from my family—the thing that makes me a liar every single day. I know the reason Lula’s canto to bring forth my powers didn’t work. Lula thinks my powers are sleeping.

  She’s wrong.

  I can feel the secrets pushing against my veins, and in turn, I push right back—hiding them deep inside, where I hope one day even I won’t be able to find them.

  3

  Hear me, La Mama, ruler of the sun,

  levanta a la bruja, her power undone.

  —Waking Canto, Book of Cantos

  “You okay?” Lula turns in the passenger seat of Maks’s car.

  I nod. If I tell Lula that a photo of our dead aunt jumped off my altar by an invisible force, she’d just make us go investigate, light some sage, and then we’d really be late for school. Priorities. Plus, we’d have to come up with some elaborate lie for Maks. Or maybe not.

  “Hey, gorgeous.” Maks turns to Lula. “I like your new sweater.”

  I hit my head against the window in the backseat. Lula takes in his compliment with kissy noises, then holds his free hand as he pulls out of the driveway. We wave good-bye to Rose as she boards her bus to school.

  Maks is okay. Though, he is superclueless. He’s been dating my sister for a year, and when he drops her off at her Circle meetings, he just thinks she’s doing yoga. If he had any sense, he’d feel how amazing my sister is, that he’s not worthy of her.

  Lula fawns over him—his dark hair, his new shirt, the irreverent shape of his earlobes. My own sister! I miss the days when we were kids, before magic became our sole focus, before my dad vanished and took away my mother’s happiness, before Lula discovered she liked kissing beautiful boys because she was beautiful too.

  “Someone has a b-day coming up,” Maks says. His bright-blue eyes find mine in the rearview mirror.

  “They do say the whole word now,” I say. His smile is contagious. “You’re not texting.”

  He laughs, making a sharp turn at the light. Who gave this boy his license?

  “Alex!” Lula snaps.

  Lula thinks I’m too cold. I like to think I’m the right amount of cold. That way, no one can hurt me. If Lula were more like me, she wouldn’t have such a large collection of heartbreaks.

  I just have the two.

  Then Maks slams on the brakes. Tires screech and Lula screams. My head slams into the back of the driver’s seat. Pain flares down my neck. Car horns blare and people shout. There’s the smack of hands on the bright red of Maks’s car and pain pulsing through my skull.

  I hear my name called from a distance. A woman’s voice I haven’t heard in a long, long time.

  “Alex, look at me,” Lula says, louder than the voice in my head.

  My head feels heavy when I lean back. I squint against the pain behind my eyes. Maks is already out the door. Cool fall air carries impossible smells: deep-red blood and the smoke of just-blown-out candles from my nightmare.

  At the crosswalk, Maks shoves someone. The guy we almost hit is hidden under a blue hoodie. He points a finger in Maks’s face. Maks puffs up his chest, but the guy in the hoodie is bigger, more muscular, and doesn’t look like someone easily intimidated.

  Lula climbs into the backseat and holds up my chin.

  “Focus on me,” she says, snapping her finger in front of my face.

  I blink a few times, then settle my eyes on her gray ones. “My neck hurts.”

  In seconds, she goes from my unruly sister to the healer she was born to be. Mom says Lula’s power comes from the goodness of wanting to do good. Lula presses a hand on my neck. Her warmth spreads through me like sunshine. I see her and me—the thing that links us together—beyond this world and into the next.

  And then my vision is clear and she says, “Better?”

  Better than ever. I feel like I’ve been hit with adrenaline. Until I see Lula’s face. “Oh, Lula…”

  A bruise blooms on her smooth forehead. She presses her hand on it. “Recoil. You know that. It’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine.” I hate the recoil, the unyielding give-and-take of the universe. My sister can heal, but it comes at a price. Mom tells her to save it. Nicks and scratches heal easy enough. But Lula doesn’t listen.

  “Let me worry about me.”

  “But look at you!” I try to take her face in my hands, but she pulls away from me. The green spot on her forehead is darkening.

  “This is what we do, Ale.” Ah-ley. My family nickname. “I know sometimes it’s scary. But we can’t just turn our backs on who we are.”

  I scoff. “Right, and end up like Aunt Ro and Mama Juanita and Dad. Our lives are cursed. Magic is the problem.”

  Lula looks down at her lap. “Don’t say things like that.”

  “Who else is going to say it?”

  If I were braver, I would tell Lula the truth. Maybe they aren’t cursed, but I am. I’m the reason our lives changed—the reason Dad left us. Instead, I look out the window, where Maks and the blue-hooded boy are still fighting. Lula hops back to the front seat and presses down on the horn.

  “Maks!” she shouts. “Come on. Alex is fine. We’re late.”

  Maks slams his door shut. His face is red from screaming. The impatient traffic jam starts to drive around us.

  The guy we almost hit gives us the middle finger, then keeps crossing the street as the pedestrian light turns white. I watch him as he walks. He rubs the long string of blue beads around his neck, an odd length for a rosary. Then I lose him in a crowd of pedestrians.

  Maks takes Lula’s face in his hands. “Baby, you’re hurt. I’m so sorry.”

  He kisses her forehead, and I count the seconds before he lets go. One…six…ten…

  I tap the back of his seat. “You guys know I’m still back here, right?”

  He turns to me and winks. “Want one too?”

  “I’ll pass. Can you park without killing us?”

  Lula’s back to sister-mode. Her resting witch face silences me.

  Maks smirks, but the humor is gone. “Buckle up.”

  And I do something I haven’t done in years. I whisper a little prayer.

  4

  The encantrix walks alone,

  her power too great.

  Her madness, even greater.

  —The Creation of Witches, Antonietta Mortiz de la Paz

  At the steps of Thorne Hill High, Lula pulls me into a hug.

  “I’m fine,” I groan.

  “Wait for me after school. We have to—”

  “Sunset,” I say quickly. I wish she wouldn’t talk about bruja things in public. “I know. I got it.”

  She kisses my cheek, and I grumble because her lip gloss is so sticky it only comes off with soap. I leave her and Maks to loiter with the soccer team and race up the steps. The school’s tall gothic spires cast pointed shadows across the hordes of students hanging out front. I check my watch. I have two and a half minutes to make it to the girls’ locker room and then first period gym. At my locker, I quickly change into my uniform. I throw on my hoodie because it’s cold.

  A sharp pain pulls from my belly button so hard I drop onto one knee.

  “Are you okay?” a girl asks.

  “Cramps,” I lie, trying to breathe through the pain. I feel a shortness of breath as my heart races. Get a grip, Alex.

  The girl raises her eyebrows, like she’s positive I should be studied by NASA, and walks away.

  Today is not off to a good start. I shut my locker harder than I intended. Static pricks my fingertips like needles and leaves burn marks on the metal door. The slam echoes through the changing room, turning heads in my direction. I bend my head down and concentrate on tying my shoelaces. Girls around me snicker on their way out. Their whispers echo against the metal doors and sharp acoustics of the locker room.
r />   “That girl is so creepy. Her whole family is so weird.”

  “My mom says her mom smells like garlic. She’s like a voodoo priestess or something.”

  “Did you know her slutty sister is dating the goalie?”

  I let go of a shaky breath. A new pain pulls at my chest. I’m used to people thinking I’m weird. Despite my best efforts at not being seen, something always calls attention. When I was a kid, my mom used to put good luck charms in my backpack without telling me, so they’d fall out at school and scare the other kids. No one likes a real rabbit’s paw strung with smelly incense pouches and seashells that jingle with every step. Even now, I keep to myself, except when I’m busy making lab-partner situations awkward. I don’t care when people say things about me. I’ve learned to take it. But I really hate it when they say things about my family. I ball my hands into fists and pull back the anger itching at my fingertips.

  I exit the locker room and search the stairwell for the single familiar face that cheers me up.

  “Today, loser,” a boy says behind me. Then, when I don’t speed up to his liking, he huffs and puffs and shoves me aside. He beats me to the next landing—Ivan Stoliyov, suspended for punching people and throwing a desk chair at Principal Quinn’s head. He reminds me of a blond troll. I’m mentally putting him in check with a witty remark that’ll never actually leave my lips when I, very gracefully, trip up the steps.

  “You are extra coordinated today,” Rishi says.

  From down here, all I can see are her purple boots, two inches of lime-green socks, and the start of a galaxy printed on metallic leggings. On top of that, she wears her standard-issue red Thorne Hill gym shorts and the black-and-red gym shirt. Somehow, she manages to make it look beautiful. Rishi Persaud usually stands at five foot four, but her chunky boots give her an extra five inches to put us at eye level.

  “I like your outfit,” I say. I want to say something more. Something that conveys how relieved I am to see her face or that I missed her over the weekend or that I might be falling apart at the seams because I can’t handle family and school and my nightmares.