by Ryan Calejo
“Greasy as a Mickey D’s twenty-piece,” I said. “See you in PE!”
“Dude, wait—” He tried to grab me, but I juked him and fast-walked (our school has a super strict no-running-in-the-halls policy—automatic three-day detention) over to Violet.
“Hey, how are you holding up?” she asked, yanking out the earbuds as I approached. “Let me guess—taking it one feather at a time?”
“Hilarious,” I said dryly. But I couldn’t keep the stupid grin off my face. “How about you? Blackmailed anyone today?”
“Not yet. But it’s only fourth period.” Flashing me one of her million-watt smiles, she opened the door to the library. “Shall we?”
• • •
There was a bank of computers along the rear wall. We went over and took seats, Violet jabbing the enter key as she set her cheer bag down on the table.
“All right, so I did a little research last night,” she said, lowering her voice, “and I have some bad news, some good news, and some better news. Which one you want first?”
“Let’s get the bad out of the way.”
“Okay, so the bad news is I ran a quick preliminary search of your symptoms and wasn’t able to find much. I spent, like, two hours on WebMD, researching cases of weird bodily manifestations—skin abnormalities, autoimmune disorders caused by stress, that kind of stuff—but really didn’t come across anything even remotely similar to your case.”
No surprise there, I thought. “That’s seriously disappointing.”
“Yeah. And after that I spent another couple hours ransacking the online databases of local newspapers for missing persons reports, trying to see if anyone else had gone missing around the same time as your parents. You know, looking for a pattern.”
“And?”
“Unfortunately, I didn’t find much there, either.”
I sighed. Apparently, not even Ultra Violet could crack my case. “You said something about good news?”
“Yep. So, remember last night when the calaca mentioned some lady he claimed might be able to help us?”
“Uh, kind of . . .”
“Remember the dollar amount he threw out? The fifty-two dollars and twenty-five cents he said it would cost us to get to her?”
I tried to think back. “Sorta . . .”
“Well, he unwittingly spilled the beans,” she said, her voice giddy with excitement.
I shook my head, not following. “What do you mean?”
“He was talking about cab fare, Charlie. See, my working theory is that the calaca has visited this lady before—probably a bunch of times. And the dollar amount he threw out was how much each trip cost him to get from the cemetery—which I’m assuming is his home—to wherever she is. So, this morning I called, like, five local cabbies and got rough estimates of how far from La Rosa Cemetery I could get with exactly fifty-two dollars and twenty-five cents. They all gave me pretty much the same answer, roughly eighteen miles at a rate of two dollars and seventy-five cents per mile, including the drop-off charge. Now check this out. . . .”
She slipped a purple thumb drive out of her pocket, plugged it into the computer, and double-clicked one of the little icons. A second later, an aerial map of South Miami with La Rosa Cemetery dead center blipped to life on the screen. A thick yellow ring (something Violet had probably done in Photoshop) highlighted a bunch of nearby streets, homes, and businesses. “See the areas in yellow?” she asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s what I’ve termed our Ring of Probability. It includes every place a person might live or work that a cabbie would charge fifty-two dollars and twenty-five cents to drive someone to from La Rosa.” Her eyes locked onto mine. “Charlie, you see where I’m going with this . . . ? The lady we’re looking for is somewhere inside that yellow ring. Now we just gotta find her.”
Oh man, this girl was good. . . . She was really, really good. “All right, so, um—what now? We just go door to door or something?”
Violet was shaking her head. “I thought about that, but it would take too long to canvass all those neighborhoods; so I did a little more research and found this.” She double-clicked another file in the thumb drive, and an old newspaper article from the nineties popped up. The headline read: DRUNK DRIVER CRASHES INTO STREETLIGHT—BLAMES A WALKING SKELETON.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. “What the heck . . . ?”
“Yep. According to the police report, the guy said he was driving and saw a skeleton crossing the street. He claimed that was why he crashed. Of course, no one believed him, but guess what? It’s not the only time that’s happened around there.” She double-clicked another file, and a second article popped up, this one a scan. “Three years ago someone else claimed to have seen a skeleton walking along the shoulder of the road. They also crashed. Hit a telephone pole.”
“And that area falls in our Ring of Probability?”
“More like falls squarely in it. In fact, it’s this little strip mall right here on Krome Avenue. . . .” She circled it on the screen with her finger. “It’s right by the Everglades.” Then she leaned back in her chair, grinning proudly. “What d’ya think?”
“I think you have a gift,” I said. “Scary . . . but definitely a gift.” This girl was basically Sherlock Holmes with pom-poms!
“And you wanna hear the even better news?” she asked, still grinning.
“What?”
“I’m free tonight.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Before heading off to fifth period, Violet and I agreed to meet up at her house later that night so we could ride out together to find this lady—whoever she was—and see if we could convince her to help us. So, at around six, I took a nice, long shower, downed a bowl of lobster bisque (which, by the way, Mrs. Wilson wasn’t about to let me leave the house without doing; not that I minded, since it was so delicioso that I had to go in for seconds), then jumped on my bike and headed over to Violet’s.
Violet lived in a nice single-story house at the end of a cul-de-sac. The outside was a bright sunshine yellow, and the flower boxes under the front-facing windows were overflowing with reddish-purple flowers. Violet was waiting for me out front, and fifteen minutes later we were pedaling up the bike lane on Calle Ocho, Violet riding on the extreme right, me checking over my shoulder every few seconds, hoping not to get clipped by an elderly driver. The night was crisp and clear, the sky heavy with stars.
“Pretty nice out,” she said, brushing hair out of her eyes. She was dressed very detective-esque with a fancy brown trench coat, dark jeans, and light blue ankle boots. The tail of her coat flapped out behind her like a cape as she picked up speed.
“Yeah, very nice.” I pedaled faster, trying to keep up with her. “Oh, I was thinking maybe we could swing by my old house first. It’s on the way. Plus, I never really got a chance to look around after the fire. And you never know—we might find some clues or something.”
Her lips split into a dazzling grin. “Now you’re thinking like an investigative journalist, Charlie Hernández.”
“Hey, it’s all one case, right?”
“You can say that again,” she said.
“Hey, it’s all one case, right?”
Violet laughed. “You’re funny.”
“Gracias. It’s kinda my thing.”
She let off the pedals a little, but the wind was still whistling in the spokes of her tires, and it didn’t seem like she’d lost much, if any, speed.
“You training for the Olympics or something?” I asked. I mean, I rode my bike all the time, but my legs were already burning from trying to keep up with her.
“Nah. I’m just used to going fast,” she said. “Been riding that way since I was, like, four. Never used training wheels, either.”
“No training wheels? That’s pretty rad.”
“I guess.” She took her hands off the handlebars, resting them lightly on her knees as she rode. “When I was little my dad told me training wheels were crutches and that winners didn’
t use crutches.” She pulled back the sleeve of her coat to show me a thick white scar near the tip of her elbow. Thing must’ve bled like crazy. “Guess crutches aren’t always such a bad thing, huh?”
“Dios mío.”
“Yeah, and that’s not the only messed-up story I have about my parents. One day a lady brought this really old poster of Doublemint gum into our shop. It was the one with the two girls riding a tandem bike. You know, the Doublemint Twins?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I was, like, five, and I thought it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. But when I asked my mom if we could get one so we could ride together, she said no because it would be a poor life lesson.”
I frowned. “What does that mean?”
“That’s the same question I asked. And you know what she said?”
“What?”
“She said life’s a one-person bike. You don’t get a pedal partner.”
“Dang,” I said. “That’s harsh.”
She smiled weakly. “That’s my mom.”
• • •
Exactly sixty-two days ago, my house would have been described as a nice, single-family ranch-style home with a neatly manicured lawn and an in-ground swimming pool. But after the fire (and the three days of heavy rain that followed), all that was left was a huge black mountain of metal beams, scorched cinder block, and damp, crumbling mortar. The chimney was still standing—sort of—but the entire roof, once a coppery-colored Spanish tile that my dad would pressure wash every other year, had caved in on itself, forming a deep, ash-encrusted V right where the living room used to be.
From our spot on the sidewalk, I could see three windows, and all of them were blown out, every inch of ground in front of them singed black.
I blinked. Hard. Seeing my house this way was like a punch to the gut all over again. The ghosts of fire-engine sirens and my shouting neighbors echoed in my brain like the clanging of a bell, and I had to squeeze my eyes shut just to keep tears from spilling out. But even with my eyes closed, I could still see the policemen and firefighters scrambling around my yard, yelling instructions at one another and trailing fire hoses and foam guns as they tried anything they could to put the fire out, to keep it from spreading. I could even smell the smoke and feel the incredible heat rolling off my house in waves as walls collapsed and windows exploded from the spiking temperatures. I tried to block it all out, to fight back the awful images, but it was impossible.
“Man,” Violet said as we laid our bikes down on the strip of grass opposite the sidewalk.
I gave my burning eyes a good rub before opening them again. “Yeah . . .”
“Must’ve been one heck of a fire.”
“Biggest one in thirty years, according to the fire chief.”
“I believe it.” Glancing quickly around, Violet ducked under the strip of yellow crime scene tape (which clearly read DO NOT ENTER) and started around the back, sticking to the shadows like a cat burglar.
“Hey, wait up!” I shouted, but I guess she didn’t hear me because she disappeared behind the hedge of soot-stained shrubs without so much as a backward glance.
When I finally caught up with her, she was standing in the middle of my backyard, turning in slow circles and snapping pictures of the house and the piles of scorched wood and debris that were scattered everywhere.
“What are you doing?” I asked, more sharply than I’d meant to.
“I’m photographing the scene for my records. I wanna make sure we don’t miss anything.” She snapped a couple more pics, the quick flashes throwing bright white triangles across the yard. “This is the same app FBI agents use on their phones. Cost me ninety-nine cents. I found it on sale in the app store.”
“Cool.”
“It’s only going to take me a minute.”
“Take your time,” I said. Then I turned and walked slowly along the edge of the empty pool, staring silently at the charred remains of the only place I’d ever called home. Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine things the way they used to be, the way we used to be—the happy little family in the happy little house with the pink flamingo mailbox.
All of a sudden, a flood of memories came rushing back: my mom tucking me into bed at night, her face lit up by the soft blue-green glow of my Scooby-Doo night lamp; my abuela sitting on one of the tall stools at the kitchen counter, telling her stories while I sat across from her, drinking my mom’s famous mango and banana batido right out of the blender; my dad, smiling and breathing hard beneath his Miami Marlins baseball cap as he pushed me down the sidewalk on Christmas morning, teaching me to ride a bike for the very first time.
A lump formed in my throat. Back then everything about my life had seemed so ordinary. So normal. But the truth was right now I would give anything for that kind of normal. Anything to be with them again. To hear their voices a—
“Charlie, I found something!” Violet shouted, snapping me back to reality. I brushed wetness off my cheeks as she rushed over, holding out her hand. Something glinted on her palm. “It’s a key,” she said. “Check it out. . . .”
“Where’d you find that?” I asked.
“Behind the shed.” She handed it to me. “You’ve never seen it before?”
I shook my head as I turned the key over in my hand. It looked old. Like something out of a pirate movie—the big iron kind used to open treasure chests or prison doors. The end was in the shape of a pretzel, and the key’s teeth reminded me of a shark’s, two rows deep and jutting up wildly in every direction; I’d never seen anything like it.
“You said you found it behind the shed?”
“Well, more like stuck to the shed,” Violet said. “I think it’s magnetized.”
“Magnetized?” Okay, now, that was weird.
“And I’m pretty sure it’s made of the same metal as your mom’s locket. But it’s obviously too big to open the locket.” She thought for a moment. “Did your parents have a safe, maybe?”
I opened my mouth to say, I don’t think so—and heard music.
It was faint, but unmistakable.
Mariachi music.
“You hear that . . . ?” I said, tilting my head. I even thought I recognized the song: “Volver, Volver,” by Vicente Fernández.
Violet only stared at me. “Hear what?”
“The music. It sounds like—”
Movement to my left caught my eye. I turned to see a figure in a black vaquero jacket and jangling boots snooping around inside what was left of my house.
I didn’t think, just grabbed Violet and pulled her down behind one of the piles of charred wood.
“Charlie, what are you doing?” she hissed, swatting my hands away.
“There’s someone inside my house!”
Violet peeked over the top of the pile. “Where?”
“¡Ahí!” I whispered, pointing. “Walking through the kitchen!”
She squinted hard, then shook her head. “Charlie, there’s no one in there.”
Only there was . . . Even through the inky darkness, I could make out his round, pale face and the small silver guitar strapped to his back. The dude looked like some sort of mariachi gangster. He definitely wasn’t a policeman (not even some funky-dressing detective—nah, not in that crazy getup), which begged the question: What the heck was he doing inside my house . . . ?
Then the trespassing weirdo stepped into a column of moonlight slanting in through one of the huge holes in the roof, and I realized that what I’d mistaken for deep shadow surrounding him was actually a ridiculously oversize sombrero!
Something stirred in the back of my brain. Who would wear a hat that big?
Then everything clicked. The hat. The jacket. The exotic silver guitarra.
It was El Sombrerón!
¡El que canta y encanta!
The infamous Central American boogeyman!
But—
How was this possible . . . ?
Before I could even begin to process the craziness of this, the sombrero-we
aring supervillain sniffed the air, then turned his dark gaze in our direction.
Yikes!
I quickly ducked back down, yanking Violet with me.
“Charlie! Geez! What is wrong with you?”
“It’s El Sombrerón!” I rasped. “He’s looking this way!”
“El who?”
“He’s, uh, uh—he’s basically a goblin in a big hat and cowboy boots! He likes to ride horses and braid their tails. He also serenades girls with his guitarra.”
“He sounds like fun.”
“Yeah, except once they fall in love with him, he puts dirt in their food so they can’t eat or sleep until they eventually die.”
“Not so fun then.” She glanced back at the house, concern creeping into her expression. “But Charlie, I don’t see anyone. . . .”
“What do you mean you don’t see anyone? He’s right th—”
Suddenly, the key Violet had found became scorching hot in my hand. I yelped and threw it down with a gasp.
“Charlie, what happened?”
“The key,” I said, blowing on the tips of my fingers. “Stupid thing burned me. . . .”
“The key burned you?” Violet gave me a skeptical look. Then she touched a finger to it lightly. “But it’s not even hot.”
“My fingers would strongly disagree. . . .” Strongly.
Frowning, she picked it up. “It’s as cold as an ice cube. Here. Touch.”
“I’ll pass,” I said. I popped my head back out to check what El Sombrerón was up to, but I didn’t see him anywhere. He’d vanished. Goose bumps rose on my skin. “Where’d he go . . . ?”
Violet put her hand on my shoulder. “Charlie, are you okay?”
Feeling dazed, confused—and a little nuts, to be totally honest—I stared back at my house, thinking, How could he have just disappeared into thin air like that? It didn’t make any sense.
“Charlie, I can call someone. You want me to text my cousin? She’s a doctor.”
I shook my head. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?” Violet didn’t sound convinced. “I can text her. It’s no biggie.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I promise.”
