Cemetery Boys

by Aiden Thomas

  They needed to get home and find out what had taken Miguel so violently from this life.

  Maritza’s legs were longer than Yadriel’s, and his binder hugged tight around his ribs, making it difficult for him to keep up. The weight of his portaje tucked into his backpack felt especially heavy.

  They rounded the corner and ran into chaos unfolding. Loud voices. People running in and out of the house. Shadows moved back and forth behind the curtains.

  Maritza wrenched open the gate in the chain-link fence and bounded up the stairs, Yadriel right on her heels. He nearly got knocked over by someone rushing out the front door, but he managed to wedge his way inside.

  Their house was small enough to begin with, and in the weeks leading up to Día de Muertos, “cramped” was putting it lightly. Every surface was used as storage for the impending celebrations. Precariously stacked boxes full of prayer candles, silk monarch butterflies, and hundreds of colorful, meticulously cut papel picado were piled on the worn leather couch. The dining room table had been pushed against the wall and was covered in white sugar skulls waiting to be decorated.

  It should have been a scene of preparation for their most important holiday of the year, but instead it was frenzied panic. Maritza clung to the back of Yadriel’s hoodie, sticking close as they got jostled around.

  Miguel’s mother, Claudia, sat at the dining table. Yadriel’s abuelita was at her side, flanked by other brujas. They rubbed her arms and spoke gentle words in Spanish, but Claudia was inconsolable.

  Grief rolled off her in waves. Yadriel could feel it in his bones. The deep wails of primal mourning made him wince. He knew those cries all too well. He had experienced them himself.

  Yadriel could only watch as his abuelita worked her magic.

  She continued to speak calmly into Claudia’s ear as she pulled her portaje from under the neck of her black blouse embroidered with colorful flowers. It was an old rosary of wooden beads with a pewter sacred heart hanging at the end. With deft fingers, Lita unscrewed the top and smeared chicken blood across the sacred heart. “Usa mis manos,” she said in a soft, steady voice, calling to Lady Death. As she murmured, the rosary shimmered with golden light. “Te doy tranquilidad de espíritu.”

  Lita pressed the end of the rosary to Claudia’s forehead. After a moment, the sobs began to subside. Claudia’s pained expression ebbed away, smoothing the pinched lines in her face. Yadriel could feel Claudia’s pain slowly fade to a dull ache. Her shoulders sloped until she sat back in the chair, limbs heavy. Her hands came to a rest in her lap, and though her face was flushed and tears steadily fell, her suffering was far less severe.

  The glowing light of Lita’s rosary faded until it was back to pewter and wood.

  Yadriel’d once asked his mom why they didn’t just take all of someone’s pain when they were sad. She had explained it was important to let people feel grief and mourn the loss of a loved one.

  Yadriel respected his grandmother, and all the brujas, and the incredible powers they possessed. Those powers had just never been his.

  Hiccups racked Claudia’s chest as Lita removed her rosary, leaving a smudge of red on her puckered brow. One of the brujas handed Claudia a glass of water, another dabbed gently at her cheeks with a tissue.

  “Día de Muertos is only a couple days away,” Lita reminded Claudia in her heavily accented English. She gave Claudia’s hand a squeeze with a small smile. “You will see Miguel again.”

  She was right, of course, but Yadriel didn’t think that would provide Claudia with much comfort right now. Lita had told him the same thing when his mother had died. He understood they were lucky in that way, to be able to see their dead loved ones again, but that didn’t make him feel better in the moment. A visit for two days once a year could never make up for the loss of having them around all the time.

  And there was another problem: If Miguel hadn’t passed to the land of the dead—if he was still tethered to this world—he couldn’t return during Día de Muertos.

  What had happened to him?

  Someone rushing out of the kitchen bumped into Yadriel, and the sound of his father’s voice snagged his attention. He tore his eyes away from Claudia and wove through bodies to get to the kitchen, Maritza following close behind him.

  Inside the kitchen, a handful of brujos stood in a group, their eyes on Yadriel’s father. Enrique Vélez Cabrera was a tall man—genes that Yadriel had decidedly not inherited—with an average build. He had a bit of a gut, which pressed against the red-checkered shirt he wore tucked into his jeans. Enrique had kept the same modest haircut and bushy mustache for as long as Yadriel could remember. The only difference now was the salt-and-pepper hair at his temples.

  After Yadriel’s grandfather passed away, Enrique had taken up the position as leader of the East LA brujx. Lita was his right hand, serving as the matriarch of the family and spiritual leader. Enrique was well respected and looked up to. All the men in the room gave him their undivided attention, especially Diego, Yadriel’s older brother, who stood at Enrique’s side, nodding vigorously at every instruction his dad gave.

  “We need to find Miguel’s portaje. If he hasn’t passed on to the land of the dead, he’ll be tethered to it,” Enrique told the group, gripping the edge of the small wooden table. His voice was low and gravelly, his eyes intense. Yadriel looked around, and every brujo’s face held varying degrees of shock.

  “People are already searching the cemetery—he was on shift tonight—but I need more to go to Claudia and Benny’s house,” Enrique told them. Even though Miguel had been in his late twenties, he’d still lived at home to help his disabled father. Miguel was kind and patient, and he’d always been good to Yadriel. A lump lodged in his throat. Yadriel tried to swallow it down.

  “Someone get one of Miguel’s shirts and go wake up Julio; we might need his dogs,” Enrique added, and another brujo ran off.

  Julio was a cranky old brujo who raised pit bulls and trained them to track by scent. It was a skill that came in handy for locating bodies and tethers of lost spirits.

  “Search everywhere!” Enrique stood upright, his eyes searching the crowded kitchen. “Has anyone seen—”

  “Dad!” Yadriel pushed his way to the front.

  Enrique’s head snapped to him, shocked relief hitting his face. “Yadriel!” He grabbed Yadriel and crushed him to his chest, squeezing his arms around him tight. “¡Ay, Dios mío!” His rough hands cupped Yadriel’s face as he pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

  Yadriel tensed, automatically resisting the sudden physical contact.

  His dad gripped his shoulders, looking down at him with a frown. “I was worried something had happened to you!”

  Yadriel stepped back, pulling free of his dad’s hold. “I’m fine—”

  “Where were you two?” Diego demanded, his light brown eyes darting between him and Maritza.

  Yadriel hesitated. Maritza gave a useless shrug.

  There was a reason they had performed Yadriel’s portaje ceremony in secret. A reason that Maritza spent so long making his dagger without her dad knowing. The brujx practices were built on ancient tradition. Going against those traditions was seen as blasphemous. When Yadriel had refused to be presented to Lady Death for his quinces as a bruja, they wouldn’t let him go through it as a brujo. It was out of the question. It wouldn’t work, they’d told him. Just because he said he was a boy, that didn’t change the way Lady Death gave her blessings.

  They wouldn’t even let him try. It was easier to hide behind their traditions than to challenge their own beliefs and understanding of how things in the world of the brujx worked.

  It made Yadriel feel ashamed of who he was. Their blatant rejection felt personal because it was personal. It was an outright rejection of who he was—a transgender boy trying to find his place in their community.

  But they were wrong. Lady Death had answered him. Now, he just needed to prove it.

  Orlando rushed into the kitchen, pulling his
dad’s attention.

  “Did you find him?” Enrique asked.

  Orlando shook his head. “We’re still sweeping the cemetery, but there’s no sign of him yet,” he said, taking off his baseball cap and wringing it in his hands. “We haven’t been able to sense him or anything—it’s like he just vanished!”

  “Dad!” Yadriel tried to make himself taller. “How can I help?” Everyone’s eyes went right over his head.

  “More of you start searching the streets, fan out from the front gate,” Enrique said, a heavy hand still resting on Yadriel’s shoulder. “He wouldn’t have just left his shift for no reason.”

  Orlando nodded and headed for the door. Yadriel moved to follow, but his dad held tight to his shoulder.

  “Not you, Yadriel,” he said, calm but firm.

  “But I can help!” Yadriel insisted.

  Another brujo slipped into the kitchen, and Yadriel felt a pluck of hope in his chest.

  Tío Catriz was his father’s older brother, though, just looking at them, it was difficult to tell. While Enrique Vélez Cabrera was broad and rounded, Catriz Vélez Cabrera was lanky and angular. He wore his long black hair looped into a knot at the base of his neck. He had high cheekbones and a hooked nose. Traditional, flared plugs made of jade and the size of a quarter adorned his earlobes.

  “There you are, Catriz.” Enrique sighed.

  “Tío,” Yadriel said, feeling less outnumbered.

  Catriz threw Yadriel a small grin before turning to his brother. “I came as soon as I felt it,” he said, a little winded. His fine eyebrows pulled together. “Miguel, is he…?”

  Yadriel’s dad nodded. Catriz gave a slow, somber shake of his head. Several brujos in the room crossed themselves.

  Yadriel couldn’t take all the standing around. He wanted to do something. He wanted to help. Miguel was family and a good man—he helped provide for his family and had always been kind to Yadriel. One of Yadriel’s favorite childhood memories was of riding around on the back of Miguel’s motorcycle. Yadriel’s parents had explicitly forbidden him from going anywhere near it, but if he begged enough, Miguel would always give in. Yadriel remembered how his helmet was way too big and heavy as Miguel would give him a ride around the block, barely going ten miles an hour.

  Realizing he’d never see him alive again hit Yadriel with a fresh wave of grief.

  “What if we can’t find him?” Andrés asked, breaking the quiet. He was a skinny, freckle-faced boy, and also Diego’s best friend.

  The muscles in his dad’s jaw tensed. People exchanged looks.

  “Keep searching. We need to find his portaje,” Enrique told them. “If we can summon his spirit, we can ask him what happened.” He rubbed his fist across his brow. Clearly, his dad didn’t think Miguel had died and simply passed peacefully to the afterlife. Yadriel agreed, he just couldn’t see how that could’ve happened with how violently his death felt. “Hopefully, it’ll be with his body.”

  Yadriel’s stomach clenched at the idea of finding Miguel’s lifeless body lying somewhere in their cemetery.

  Andrés’s face turned an impressive shade of green. Yadriel couldn’t believe he used to have a crush on him.

  Enrique picked up his portaje from the counter. It was a hunting knife, much larger and more severe than Yadriel’s, but still understated compared to the style of the young brujos’ portajes.

  Like Diego’s and Andrés’s. Their knives were longer, with a slight curve, too big to be practical or easily concealed. They got their names engraved into the blades and added flashy charms. A small cross hung on a one-inch chain from Andrés’s hilt. Diego’s had a gold-plated calavera. “Gaudy,” Maritza called them. Adornments were impractical and completely unnecessary.

  “We need to get going,” Enrique said, and everyone started to move.

  This was it.

  He would help them find Miguel and lay his cousin to rest in the brujx graveyard. This was the duty of the brujos, so he would do it. Now that he had his own portaje, maybe Yadriel could even be the one to release Miguel’s spirit to the afterlife.

  Yadriel stepped to follow his dad, but Enrique held out his arm to stop him.

  “Not you. You stay here,” he instructed.

  Yadriel’s stomach plummeted. “But I can help!” he insisted.

  “No, Yadriel.” A loud ringing had Enrique digging his cell phone out of his pocket. He swiped his thumb across the screen and lifted it to his ear. “Benny, did you find him?” he asked, expression tense.

  Everyone in the group stilled. Yadriel could hear rushed Spanish on the other side.

  But his father’s shoulders slumped. “No, we haven’t, either.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “We’re trying to gather more people to help search—”

  Yadriel leaped at the opportunity. “I can help!” he repeated.

  His dad turned away from him and continued to speak into the phone. “No, we haven’t—”

  Yadriel scowled, frustration boiling over. “Dad!” he insisted, stepping in front of him. “Let me help, I—”

  “No, Yadriel,” Enrique hissed, frowning as he tried to hear the voice on the other line.

  Normally, Yadriel wasn’t prone to arguing with his dad, but this was important. He looked around to the brujos in the room, for someone to listen to him, but they were already filing out. Except for Tío Catriz, who gave Yadriel a puzzled look.

  When his dad made for the front door, fierce determination made Yadriel step in his way.

  “If you’d just listen to me—” Yadriel wrestled his backpack off his shoulder and yanked open the zipper.

  “Yadriel—”

  He plunged his hand inside, fingers grasping the hilt of his portaje. “Look—”

  “¡Basta!”

  Enrique’s shout made Yadriel jump.

  His dad was an even-tempered man. It genuinely took a lot to get him rattled or for him to lose his temper. It was part of what made him a good leader. Seeing his dad’s face so red, hearing the sharpness of his voice, was jarring. Even Diego, standing just behind Enrique, was startled.

  The room fell silent. Yadriel felt every pair of eyes on him.

  He snapped his mouth shut. The cut on his tongue stung, sharp and metallic.

  Enrique jabbed a finger toward the living room. “You stay here with the rest of the women!”

  Yadriel flinched. Hot shame flooded his cheeks. He released the dagger, letting it fall to the bottom of his backpack. He glared up at his dad in an attempt to look fierce and defiant, even though his eyes burned and his hands quaked.

  “The rest of the women,” he repeated, spitting the words out as if they were poisonous.

  Enrique blinked, anger flickering to confusion, as though Yadriel were suddenly coming into focus before him. He removed his cell phone from his ear. His shoulders sank; his expression went slack. “Yadriel,” he sighed, reaching out for him.

  But Yadriel wasn’t going to stick around to listen.

  Maritza tried to stop him. “Yads—”

  He couldn’t take the look of pity on her face. He veered out of her reach. “Don’t.”

  Yadriel turned and shoved past the onlookers, escaping through the door that led to the garage. It banged against the wall before slamming shut behind him as he stomped down the small set of stairs. The lights sputtered on, revealing organized chaos. His dad’s car was parked off to one side.

  Seething, Yadriel paced back and forth over the oil-stained concrete, his breath ragged as his ribs strained against his binder. Anger and embarrassment warred inside him.

  He wanted to scream or break something.

  Or both.

  His dad’s face—the look of regret when he realized what he’d said to Yadriel—flashed in his mind. Yadriel was always forgiving people for being callous. For misgendering him and calling him by his deadname. He was always giving them the benefit of the doubt, or writing it off as people not understanding or being stuck in their ways when they hurt him.

&n
bsp; Well, Yadriel was tired of it. He was tired of forgiving. He was tired of fighting to just exist and be himself. He was tired of being the odd one out.

  But belonging meant denying who he was. Living as something he wasn’t had nearly torn him apart from the inside out. But he also loved his family, and his community. It was bad enough being an outsider; what would happen if they just couldn’t—or wouldn’t—accept him for who he was?

  Frustration broke in Yadriel’s chest. He kicked the tire of the car with his combat boot, which did nothing but make pain explode in his foot.

  Yadriel cussed loudly and hobbled over to an old stool. Wincing, he sat down heavily.

  Stupid move.

  He scowled at the black sedan, and his angry reflection stared back at him from the windshield. All the running had made his hair fall out of place. Short on the sides with a swath of hair on top, Yadriel put a lot of time into styling it. His hair was one of the few things about his appearance he could control. While he couldn’t get button-up shirts to fit right—either they were too tight across his chest and hips, or comically huge—he could at least get his hair faded and use what little allowance he got on Suavecito pomade. It was the only stuff that could wrangle his thick mass of wavy black hair. He couldn’t thin out his round cheeks, but he could grow his eyebrows in thick and dark. The combat boots were as much practical as they were aesthetic. They gave him an extra inch of height that, while minuscule, helped him feel less self-conscious about how short he was compared to the average sixteen-year-old boy. It was small changes, like mirroring how Diego and his friends dressed or wore their hair, that made him feel more at home in his own skin.

  There was a rustling from the corner, followed by a curious, trilling mewl. A small cat ambled out from behind a stack of cardboard boxes. Although, she looked more like a cartoonist’s rendition of a cat, with a large notch in one ear and her left eye always squinting. Her spine was bony and a little askew. The tip of her tail was practically bald, and she held her back leg awkwardly.

  A heavy sigh released some of the anger in Yadriel’s chest. “C’mere, Purrcaso,” he cooed, holding his hand out.