Ana of California

by Andi Teran

  “We’d like to keep you on through the fall, if you’re interested. You’d go to Hadley High, but you’d also continue to work here.”

  “It’s still an internship, so you’ll have a morning farm shift before school most days,” Emmett interjected. “And a full shift Saturday, plus farmers’ market prep on Sunday mornings. It’ll be tough, but it’s the schedule Abbie and I had when we were in high school.”

  Ana looked from one to the other. “You’re serious?” she said.

  “It’s entirely up to you to decide,” Abbie said. “But we’d love to have you, if you’d like to stay for the semester. We want to help you with your emancipation.”

  Ana was quiet. She looked from one to the other and nodded her head. “Yes,” she said quietly, holding back her exuberance, worried it was enough to topple them over. “Yes, please,” she said again. “Do I tell Mrs. Saucedo tonight?”

  “If you’d like to,” Abbie said. “There’s no pressure, either way. I will speak with her this week.”

  Emmett stood up from the table, as if it were his cue to leave. “Tasty dinner, Sis,” he said. He walked over to Ana and put out his hand as if to shake on the deal.

  “Abbie really likes having you here,” he said. Though Ana heard the name Abbie, she knew he meant himself too. She said nothing and shook his hand.

  “I almost forgot,” he said, pulling out an envelope from his coat pocket. “This is for you.” He handed Ana a white envelope. There was an M written on the front in Emmett’s handwriting, followed by “for magic” written by a different hand. “It’s from Manny,” he said. “He says to use it wisely. I’ll see you both in the morning.”

  They all said good night as Emmett left out the back door.

  “What a day,” Abbie said, exhaling as she rose from the table. “I think I’m going to luxuriate in recipes for the rest of this rainy night. Need anything before I head up?”

  “No, thanks,” Ana said, remaining seated, still not believing she was staying, wondering what was inside the envelope, but guessing what was. “I’ll go make the call.”

  Abbie pulled out a couple of cookbooks to peruse and tucked them under her arm. She looked over at Ana, who was still at the table facing the other way, and she fought the impulse to embrace her, like her own mother would have done. “See you in the morn,” she said, and Ana nodded.

  “Abbie?”

  “Yes, hon?”

  “Good night.”

  “’Night.”

  “Today was a sunny day.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Curls,” Ana said. “So many curls, it’s like they’re multiplying.”

  They’d been sitting around Rye’s bedroom all Sunday afternoon listening to the Hex. Rye sat cross-legged on her bed, hunched over her laptop, while Ana was on the floor opposite the standing mirror, avoiding her reflection while sketching and enjoying the free time. It was her first visit to the Moons’ house, the first time she’d ever left the farm on an afternoon off, and Rye’s room was a jolt of inspiration. Rye didn’t mind that Ana wanted to sketch her space. Ana was taken with the entire room, the walls totally plastered with posters, magazine cuttings, photos, and assorted objects. She mentioned more than once to Rye that she was thankful for the change of scenery.

  It was Labor Day weekend, and the summer was officially over. Ana still couldn’t believe she’d ended up working as a farmhand. She knew all about cover crops and irrigation, the intricacies of tomato training, and why cow manure was more balanced than chicken. She’d become so familiar with the farm’s chickens, in fact, that she and Abbie had finally solidified their names. There was Edna, Josephine, Mama Cass, Li’l Stevie, and Frida K, plus a few others. The lone rooster had always been known as Earl, but Ana had taken to calling him Diego because he seemed to favor Frida the most but still spent time with Edna and Josephine.

  Though the farmwork was difficult at times, Ana found comfort in her gang of fellow workers, who had all stayed at the farm, except for Joey. Ana wasn’t surprised he’d left. And though Emmett and Abbie faced competition from the expansion of the Keyserville farm, Garber Farm continued to fulfill its commitments, and its family legacy.

  Not that there weren’t arguments from time to time. Part of what kept the farm afloat was its most recent client, Will Carson, who ordered produce week after week, even though his restaurant had yet to open.

  “If it ever does open,” Emmett said to Abbie one night during a particularly argumentative conversation Ana wasn’t guilty about listening in on. “He thinks the people of Hadley want fancy food? I’ll tell you what, we need a diner with hearty breakfasts, sandwiches, and early-bird specials, not some farm-to-table crap he keeps filling your ears with . . .”

  “He has ambitions,” Abbie protested. “And he loves our produce and pickles. I’m willing to believe in the guy. Have you heard about the restaurants he’s worked with? Two in San Francisco, a few in L.A., and that famous one in Berkeley, the one with the garden.”

  “I don’t care where he’s worked, what’s up his garden, or if he grew up fifteen miles from here—no one in these parts wants damned nasturtium foam with their pancakes!”

  • • •

  It was the first time Ana felt any normalcy in her life and the first time she had real responsibilities. Though she sometimes missed the freedom to jump on the bus and explore East Los Angeles, to while away hours in the library or explore the hidden pockets of downtown, she had to admit that having people who actually cared about her whereabouts wasn’t that terrible.

  She’d even taken to spending creative time with Abbie some nights after dinner, the results of which were new sign markers for the fields. They’d spent the past week of evenings painting scraps of wood with smiling kale, waltzing turnips, and fennel with Mohawk-shaped fronds. Abbie added fanciful text listing the genus and common names of each crop, and Ana added the Spanish translations underneath. Life had become a busy routine, so much so that Ana hadn’t once thought about school, which was a few days away. The prospect seemed less daunting in Los Angeles, where it was much easier to remain invisible as the new kid in the vastness of the system, but here in Hadley, population everyone knows everyone, Ana knew circumstances would be different.

  “What are you wearing?” Ana asked. “On the first day.”

  “Trying to figure it out right now,” replied Rye. “I’ve saved a ton of street-style images and am leaning toward something Scandinavian in feel. I want to change it up this year.”

  “But what do you normally wear?”

  “It depends on what theme interests me that season. Right now, it’s all about neutral colors and layers and my ongoing love affair with men’s tailoring—and maybe some sort of patch situation, like an old tuxedo jacket covered in slogans. Accessories wise, I’m thinking about embracing the cravat.”

  “Where do you go shopping for that around here?”

  Rye rolled her eyes. “There’s only one store that counts, Ellery Pearl, which is this vintage shop on Main Street. They source stuff for me all the time, like shrunken blazers and weird old brooches. I think I’m the only person in this town who actually appreciates what they do. They cut hair in the back room too. What’s your theme going to be?”

  “Farmer’s closet,” Ana said, thinking about her two pairs of jeans, few T-shirts, army jacket, and her sneakers, which were thrashed but in working order. The rest of her daily uniform came in the form of hand-me-downs from Abbie’s or Emmett’s closets. “I’m thinking of accessorizing with a pitchfork.”

  “Hilarious, also not such a bad idea. Where did you go shopping in L.A.?”

  “Goodwill, exclusively.”

  “Used is the best, right?”

  “It’s like wearing stories. Speaking of which, what’s the story of this room—it’s insane. Who are all these people on the walls?”

  “My inspiration
s, muses. They’re a constant reminder I need to get the hell out of here one day too. New York, London, who knows?”

  Ana looked at the photos surrounding her—women wearing men’s tuxedos, elaborate dresses made entirely of purple flowers, and black feathers rendered around a mannequin’s body in impossible shapes. Above Rye’s desk there was an image of a model wearing an oversize skirt as a dress belted across the chest, the front of it splattered with spray paint. Pinned up around the room there were also several photos of a woman with a severe black bob haircut, sad eyes, and ruby red lips.

  “Who’s that?” Ana asked, pointing to a photo of the woman wearing a white dress with a giant silver lobster clinging to her neck.

  “Isabella Blow. She was this fearless British fashion icon who wore the most outrageous ensembles. And hats! That woman could wear a hat like no one else, except maybe you. You’ve got the face shape for it.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “With her best friend Alexander McQueen in a tartan castle in the sky. She’s dead. So is he. That’s them up there.” Rye nodded toward a printout of a man wearing a princess gown being chased by a woman in a towering hat, the castle behind them burning. “He was the most incredible fashion designer who ever was, until he wasn’t. It’s a tragedy.”

  Ana thought about the word “tragedy” and how it had a different meaning for different people. “My hair is a tragedy,” she said. “Look at it. I can’t walk into school with it all crazy like this.”

  “Hasn’t it always been crazy like that?”

  “Yes. It’s my legacy and part of my curse, but I’m sick of wearing it tied back all the time.”

  “Why don’t you pull it up off of your shoulders in a topknot or something? Let me try putting it in a bun—”

  “No,” Ana said, suddenly standing up. “It’s fine. I’ll figure something out. Where’s the bathroom?”

  • • •

  Ana made her way through the living room of the Moons’ house. As much as she loved the way Abbie decorated Garber Farm, the Moons’ house had an eclectic charm all its own. In addition to the long driveway that wound its way through brush thicket and thin trees, the house sat in the clearing of a redwood grove, a pond fronting the property. Their house was smaller than the farmhouse at Garber Farm, boxy, but two stories with a double-slanted roof. The living room was dimly lit, with low couches and mismatched chairs. Wooden sculptures and woven baskets occupied every surface, and patterned rugs covered the floors. The walls were a brushed gold with various pieces of art hanging from the dark wood trim. Above the fireplace hung a massive oil painting in shades of slashed green featuring an owl with the arms of a man.

  “Holy—” Ana said, crossing the room to get a better look.

  “Captivating, isn’t it?” Della said, walking into the room. “It’s a Rick Bartow, an artist very dear to us.”

  “Is he from here?”

  “Not exactly, but he’s one of my people.”

  “Like . . . family?”

  “He’s Wiyot, as am I. Our people have been on this land for many years,” Della said, her slender hand resting on ropes of beads around her neck. “He painted this one as well.” She pointed to a painting in the far corner above glass-fronted bookshelves; it depicted a small multicolored bird floating in a sea of pale pink.

  “What’s it called?”

  “Kestrel on Pink Field.”

  “It’s soul crushing how the bird is just sitting there all alone in that empty space.”

  “It’s a very strong piece, emotional. At least, it’s always struck me as such. Glad to see it has struck you too,” Della said. “You’re an artist yourself, correct? Abbie was telling me about your drawings and the labels you made for her preserves. She said you have quite the talent.”

  “It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at, the only work I never tire of. I’ve been drawing since I can remember. When I was a kid, I was sort of forced to draw things I didn’t want to, because I’d somehow forgotten what to say. But I realized my voice could sometimes be louder when I didn’t have to deal with all the words.”

  In hindsight, in that moment, Ana wished she’d kept some of the drawings she’d made for Mrs. Saucedo the second time she’d been brought in to child services. It wasn’t that she wanted to relive the nightmare of that day; it was more that she wanted to look back into the eyes of the monsters, the ones she’d had the power to draw and put away. She wanted to remember her abuela’s face the last time she saw it, and the floral pattern of her abuela’s favorite dress, even though she still held a square of fabric from it every night before she went to sleep.

  “Well, you’ll have to take Susan Darnell’s class at school this year,” Della said. “She’s been making and teaching art in these parts for decades—knows all the area galleries and is a wonderful teacher. Rye took her class last year and is signing up again this year.”

  Charlie Moon entered with a tray of cookies and sliced nectarines. He was wearing the same uniform he always wore at the general store, a plain button-up shirt tucked into khakis. He was the opposite of Della Moon, Ana thought, who favored a flowing bohemian look, with rich colors and piles of jewelry on her hands, arms, and chest. He set the tray down on the coffee table next to a sculpture of a curious iguana and nodded at them before slipping out of the room again.

  “Some snacks for you two,” Della said. “I’m so glad you could come over today. You have no idea how happy it makes us to know Rye has found a friend—well, a friend in you.”

  Ana carried the tray back upstairs to Rye’s room, stopping midway to look at a photo of the Moons and a very young Rye, her hair long and flowing, her face open and lit up by an enormous smile. Ana pushed the door open to a wild-eyed Rye, who was wearing nearly the same expression. She nearly toppled over Ana and the tray.

  “I have a solution,” Rye said, her arms resting on Ana’s shoulders, face growing serious. “Three words: ‘Brazilian hair treatment.’ It’s a treatment made specifically for people with curly hair who want to straighten it. My dad bought some for the store, but my mom vetoed it, and I think the boxes are still out in the garage.”

  “Brazilian hair what?”

  “It’s all the rage. I just read about it online and the Web site says it can straighten your hair for months, so it’s not like it’ll be permanent or anything.”

  “How do we do it?”

  “Quick, eat those cookies,” Rye said. “I’ll take the plate down and then sneak into the garage and get it. My mom was furious at my dad for buying it, but at least it’ll work for one customer.”

  “I don’t want to steal—”

  “Please. It’s already been purchased.”

  Ana returned to her sketching while she waited for Rye. She nestled herself into an empty corner with a few pillows and took in the room again. Even though she had her own room back at the Garbers’, she’d never really known what it was like to make a room her own. Aside from the various shared ones in foster homes, she’d slept in the same bedroom as her abuela, and when her parents were alive, it was anywhere from a motel to a refrigerator box with a sleeping bag so as to separate her from her parents’ nightly “discussions.” The group houses were a whole different situation she wanted to forget, specifically the shared rooms and showers. Ana wondered if Rye even knew how lucky she was.

  The door opened and Rye motioned for Ana to follow her. They tiptoed into her parents’ bathroom, which was earthy in feel with sandy brown walls and cream-colored tile.

  “Your parents seem to love baskets,” Ana said.

  “Are you kidding? We have baskets in this house that are used for holding other baskets.”

  “Why are we doing this in here?”

  “My parents are downstairs working in the kitchen, which is precisely why we have to do it up here. Do you want to tame these curls or not?”

 
“More than anything.”

  “Good, then have a seat. I’m supposed to douse you in serum.”

  Ana sat in the small chair near a vanity while Rye threw a towel around her shoulders. Rye put on some gloves and began squirting a bottle of liquid over the top of Ana’s head.

  “This is disgusting. It feels like slime.”

  “Smells like it too.”

  Ana picked up the box of serum while Rye combed the liquid through her hair.

  “It says formaldehyde is one of the ingredients,” Ana said.

  “So?”

  “Not that I’m stellar in science, but I don’t want to be embalmed just yet.”

  “It says you’re supposed to wait fifteen minutes, which is hardly enough time to pickle you from the follicles inward,” Rye said, removing the plastic gloves. “Let’s just take a deep breath and relax, try to forget the stench, and let our minds wander from the essence of rotten eggs lounging in a Jacuzzi of forgotten milk.”

  “I was going to ask you, since we have to sit here . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you know a guy named Cole Brannan?”

  “Why do you ask?” Rye said quickly, her entire body stiffening in a way that answered Ana’s question.

  “He kind of cornered me in the bookstore a while ago and said we’d met before, but I know for a fact we never did.”

  “And you’ve been wondering about him all this time?” Rye said with a strange smile Ana hadn’t seen her make before.

  “Not really, I mean, it just popped into my head when we started talking about school. Does he go to Hadley High?”

  “Yep,” Rye said, clearly annoyed. “He went away at the beginning of the summer. But I guess he’s back, sadly, now that you’ve confirmed it.” Rye chewed the inside of her bottom lip in a way that Ana couldn’t tell was habitual or out of anger. “What did he say?”

  “Just that we’d met, and then he did this weird wave. He was cocky and dirty and wearing motorcycle clothes.”

  “Of course he was. He races.”