In the heavy, joyless days after Ron’s funeral, Pallas’s company was the only contact Peasblossom truly enjoyed, a fact he hid from Nora and Anna the best he could. Pallas had never experienced death, but she seemed to understand. After hearing of the family’s bereavement through the neighborhood grapevine, she visited the bookstore most mornings with a pastry for Nora and salmon jerky for Peas. She wisely avoided all overt expressions of sympathy. She was simply present, holding her ground a few feet back from the abyss.
By spring, the cat found himself sleeping less and eating more. He raised his head when customers came in and resumed his rigorous grooming schedule. By early summer, Peasblossom was back at work.
Nora’s well-curated mix of new and used books made the shop a neighborhood favorite, but it was Peasblossom’s uncanny knack as a bookseller that made the shop a Bay Area legend. The cat’s picks were as profound as his methods were strict.
The process began with a certain quality of human yearning, a need for story that penetrated the cat’s sun-drenched shop window meditations. Listening with some internal apparatus he could not name, Peasblossom would wander the store.
At times, the draw to a title was languid. He’d stretch, yawn, wash and stroll to a certain shelf, rubbing his cheek against the appropriate book. Other instances required assertiveness, even haste. Then Peasblossom would streak to a book, sometimes pouncing on top of it or biting its spine. Customers learned to listen as Peasblossom’s selections gained a reputation for being spot-on, even life changing.
The only person who remained nonplussed was Pallas. Even a “Shouts and Murmurs” profile on Peasblossom in The New Yorker had failed to impress. With her cynicism, excellent fashion sense, and advanced skills in feline massage, Pallas’s visits remained one of the highlights of Peasblossom’s week.
“Look at him!” Pallas said. “He’s like a pasha prince, all stretched out in the sun. He’s taking up the entire table.”
“He’s kind of dirty for a prince,” Xochi said, running a hand down his spine. “Look at this fur.”
Peasblossom’s tail twitched. He’d already washed as well as he could, considering the condition of his back. He’d limped into the bookstore only a few hours earlier after his interview with the Hag, and had hardly eaten or slept since Equinox. Peasblossom allowed a rare uncensored meow to escape his parched throat. Pallas responded quickly, scratching his chin and ears as he’d trained her to do.
“He looks tired,” Xochi said. “I wonder what he’s been up to.”
Peasblossom suppressed a snort. If Xochi could manage even the most rudimentary of cross-species communication, she’d know that if the cat was tired, it was from attempting to clean up her spectacular mess.
The bell on the door chimed, and a group of tourists crowded the shop. Xochi paged through a book on Frida Kahlo while Pallas absently scratched Peasblossom’s shoulder.
“Here,” Pallas said to Xochi, “can you take over cat massage while I look for a book?”
Xochi’s nails were short, likely bitten, but they found the perfect pressure on Peasblossom’s tight shoulders without any coaching. “You’re such a handsome cat,” she murmured in her pleasant feline alto.
“Oh!” Pallas groaned. “I can’t believe it.”
“No good books?” Xochi inched her strong fingers down Peasblossom’s aching spine.
“No. It’s this.” Pallas indicated a label on the shelf marked young adult. “There’s a show tonight, some unplugged thingy with a band from LA. My dad and Ky are sitting in. Everyone’s going, and they want you to go, too. I was supposed to tell you this morning.”
“I don’t get how that reminded you.” Xochi’s tone was light, but the cat sensed a change in her.
“I was talking about it with Io,” Pallas said. “We’ve been having breakfast together.” She was trying to sound casual, but it was obvious how happy she was with the new arrangement. “You know how you’re always saying I should do more ‘age-appropriate’ stuff and act like a real kid? Well, Io and I realized we all have some developmental stuff we need to do. And you’re, like, a ‘young adult.’ Which means you need to go out and hear bad music and drink beer and flirt. That means taking some nights off. Seriously, Xochi. You deserve to have a little fun.”
“I don’t know,” Xochi said. “You were pretty bummed last time I did that.”
“Yeah. But I feel better now. I’m glad you’re my governess, but come on, can you imagine Jane Eyre if all she did was take care of the little French girl? No Mr. Rochester, no big mystery? Bo-ring!”
“You have a point,” Xochi said. “I’m kind of tired, though. Not like I got much sleep last night with you hogging the covers.”
“They all want you to go. They said to be ready by nine-thirty.”
Xochi’s change in scent made Peasblossom sit up. “Who’s going?” Her voice revealed an inner turmoil. Peasblossom braced himself for the leap off the low table and rubbed against her ankles. When she stooped down to pet him, he inhaled. Nutmeg and basil, her natural scent. Cherry lip gloss. The musk of pheromones. The bitter-dandelion reek of fear.
“Everyone.” Pallas reached down to give Peasblossom a goodbye pat. “Except my mom. She says she’s had enough socializing for one week. But everyone else, except possibly Pad. Kiki has a date with the LA band’s drummer and Bubbles says Pad is going to stay home and cry, but Pad says he’s for sure going because the band has groupies who are, like, triplets or something.”
Their voices faded as they said goodbye to Nora and left the store. Peasblossom inhaled again, the air still thick with Xochi’s scent. He tasted her fear, teased out its parts.
In between, Peasblossom thought. That’s what the Hag called Xochi. Not yet a woman, but no longer a child. He sighed, settling back into the sun. As he recalled the Hag’s final words, the fur rose along his spine.
Those creepy little cop kids lay down the law, baby. Anybody in their way better pull over fast.
16
Mad Girl’s Love Song
“I love that poem,” Leviticus said.
Xochi looked up from her book. She’d been reading Ariel on the patio—silently at first, but when she reached the poem “Lady Lazarus,” the words’ bitter chocolate had refused to melt on her tongue until she read aloud.
Leviticus set two mugs of coffee on the table and sat across from Xochi.
“It’s my favorite so far,” Xochi said. “I can feel her voice in it, like a sort of command. Like she wanted it to be read out loud.”
“Yeah,” Leviticus said. “She has incredible rhythm.”
Xochi sipped her coffee. “Why is this so good?”
“Organic whipping cream. My secret weapon.” The words could have echoed yesterday’s flirtation, the stupid thing with the cake, but they didn’t.
Xochi had been tired all afternoon, but now she was shaky. It couldn’t be the coffee; she’d only had a sip. Leviticus picked the book up from the table and set it back down, his hand resting just inches from hers. The garden was suddenly silent: no birds, no traffic, no wind.
All her life, Xochi had been a back-seat witness to the trouble a person could make in the small fraying seconds between things. If she moved an inch, raised her eyes, brushed his wrist with her fingertip, everything would change.
A car alarm broke the silence. The crows cawed on the power lines. Leviticus reached for his coffee and the moment was gone. Maybe she’d only imagined it.
A cloud slipped in front of the sun. “I should get my gear together.” His voice was distant and polite now, the way it had been before their ride.
“Okay,” Xochi said. “See you later.”
He left. His coffee sat next to hers, still steaming. The Hollywood palms hissed at the sudden wind. Xochi gulped the rest of her coffee, scalding her mouth.
17
Precious
“Fraülein.”
Breath tickled the back of Xochi’s neck. She tried to wake up, but the dream forest held her tight.
She follows her brother through briars into a stand of fir, bare feet tender with cold. As if for luck, he touches each trunk as they pass. Xochi does the same, the bark rough under her small green hand . . .
“Xochi! Come on!”
Moonlight shocks through a break in the trees. A golden tub stands in the distance. Every part of her longs for it, but it is so far away. Worry furs the edges of her mind. She is so cold. So tired . . .
“Fraülein! Time to go!”
“. . . Pad?” Xochi tried to snuggle back under the blankets, but Pad yanked them away.
“Bubbles sent me to collect you. She’s in a mood—let’s not make her wait.”
The dual phenomena of Pad in her bedroom and Bubbles being anything but cheerful made Xochi sit up. Half asleep, she put on her boots, grabbed her leather jacket, and followed him downstairs.
“Meet you at the van,” he said, pushing Xochi out the kitchen door toward the carriage house, home to Aaron’s pampered Volkswagen bus.
The sliding side door was already open. “Hey,” Aaron said, smiling.
“About time,” Kylen said from the passenger seat.
Xochi blinked, transported for a millisecond to the cold forest. What was it with these dreams? Inside her boots, her feet were freezing. She zipped her jacket up to her chin.
Bubbles and Leviticus sat on the bench seat in back. The obvious place for Xochi was between them. Even if the window seat was colder, there was no way she was squishing in next to Leviticus, not after the weirdness with the coffee and the poem.
“Can I sit by the window, please?”
“Of course, sweetie. Are you okay?” Bubbles scooted closer to Leviticus and patted the seat beside her, bad mood nowhere in sight, although her oversized sunglasses were an odd choice for nighttime.
Kylen shot a glance over his shoulder, sneaky antennae probing for information. Xochi forced herself to meet his eyes. They were pretty—pure black, with delicate, almost transparent lids. Xochi remembered the hematite bracelet Loretta wore to births. “It draws everything to ground,” she always said. “Helps you tap into the earth.” Maybe that’s how Kylen did whatever he did—drawing in people’s secrets with those hematite eyes.
“Where’s Pad?” Kylen reached in front of Aaron to lean on the horn.
“Stop it,” Bubbles snapped. “Not everybody’s on their way out to a show at ten o’clock on a Wednesday. Our neighbors actually work.”
“Whoa, girl,” Aaron said. “Come on, now.”
“Don’t.” Bubbles pulled up her dark glasses and met Aaron’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He blew her a kiss. She mimed throwing it back at him and slammed her glasses back over her eyes. Kylen reached over Aaron and hit the horn again, lightly this time.
“Sorry, B,” Kylen said. “We gotta go.”
“Anything I can do?” Leviticus sounded like he was worried Bubbles might bite.
“Only if you have a quaalude, sweetie.” Bubbles said.
Pad rushed into the carriage house. “Sorry,” he said. “Had to get the phone. Should I take my motorcycle?”
“Get in,” Bubbles said. “We’re running late. Sit on the floor.”
“Xochi needs the window,” Kylen said, “and Pad gets carsick. She should sit on his lap.”
“Awesome,” Pad grinned.
“Fine.” Xochi got up. “I don’t mind if Pad doesn’t.”
“Right this way, fraülein.”
Xochi settled onto Pad’s lap. Kylen meant to embarrass her with the seating arrangement, but Pad’s arms around her waist were surprisingly comfortable and so warm. She exhaled, tension draining from her shoulders. Pad sighed, too, a sadder exhalation.
“What’s wrong?”
“Just missing my sisters. You remind me of Sam. She’s the youngest.”
“How many do you have?”
“Five. I’m second to the oldest, the only boy. How about you?”
“Only child.” Xochi had once longed for a sister or brother. Now she wondered, had she wanted a companion or a witness? Pad squeezed her elbow, and Xochi leaned her head against his, watching the city pass by outside the window.
Aaron turned up the stereo. The Beastie Boys’ bratty rap spat from the speakers. “She’s Crafty,” Xochi’s favorite. By the time the guy in the song woke up naked on the floor with all his stuff stolen, even Bubbles was smiling.
The van slowed in a neighborhood Xochi didn’t recognize. Aaron drove around the block to the alley and everyone got out and started unloading except Bubbles, who stomped to the door marked stage and went inside. Xochi hesitated. She’d expected a music hall, but the sign over the door said ray’s bar.
“Don’t worry,” Leviticus said, “no one’s going to hassle you backstage. Wait till it gets crowded before you go out front and you’ll be fine.”
His tone was nice but distant, like this morning. Nothing like the day before.
“So wait,” Kylen said, helping Leviticus unload his guitar rig. “She’s not twenty-one? How old is she, then?”
“She’s seventeen.” Xochi grabbed a mic stand and followed them through the stage door. “And she’s right here.” Saying it felt good.
“Why did I think you were older?” Aaron asked as he headed back to the van for a second load.
“Because she lied,” Kylen called after him. “We’ve been through this.”
“Who lied about what?” Pad moved carefully into the narrow hallway with Kylen’s stand-up bass.
“Me,” Xochi said, meeting Kylen’s eyes. Did she see a twitch of humor? No, just irritation. What had she ever done to get on his bad side? Was he still mad about the naked tarot cello thing? She turned back to Pad. “I’m not exactly twenty-one.”
“She’s exactly seventeen,” Kylen said. “Which makes her underage for everything, not just booze.” He said it slowly, staring straight at Leviticus.
“Damn!” Pad grinned. “That was a close one the other night.”
“In your dreams,” Xochi said.
Pad poked Xochi in the ribs. “Hey, Lev,” he called, “I’ll go talk to the sound guy.”
“Good,” Leviticus said curtly. “Thanks.” Did he really think something had happened between her and Pad? Would he even care?
“I—” Xochi began, but before she’d even finished the word, Leviticus was walking away.
Bubbles slouched against the wall in the hallway. Xochi stifled a giggle at her tank top, fuck off printed in sparkly pink across her chest.
“The Rabbit Hole guys are here.” Aaron put his arm around Bubbles and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I’m gonna help them unload.”
Bubbles shrugged him off. “They didn’t even ask you to play tonight. They have the star dressing room, too. They should use their big egos to get their stuff inside.”
“Those guys aren’t so bad. And you know what my mom always says—two rudes don’t make a polite.” He planted a kiss on Bubbles’s forehead. “See you later?”
Bubbles rolled her eyes but accepted a final hug. “C’mon.” She grabbed Xochi’s hand. “Those assholes take forever with their precious gear. Let’s go drink their booze.”
Yawning, Xochi followed Bubbles into a room with a faded red star on the door. A bare bulb threw shadows at the peeling skin of band posters and graffiti covering the walls. Streaky pink carnations drooped in a martini shaker on the makeup counter. A dented bucket held fresh ice and a bottle of champagne. There was a space heater in the corner, already on, adding a hint of stale plastic to the reek of beer and cigarettes.
Bubbles uncorked the champagne with professional ease and took a swig before launching into the saga of her doomed relationship with Dylan, Rabbit Hole’s lead singer. “Goes to sho
w you, if you have to date a musician, avoid lead singer-guitarist types at all costs. The only one I’ve ever met who’s not a total misogynist asshole is Leviticus, and he’s one of a kind.”
“I’ve noticed,” Xochi said. Bubbles passed her the bottle. Xochi took a sip. She shook off her jacket and sank into the vinyl couch, resisting the urge to lie down.
“Sweetie,” Bubbles said, “what are you wearing?”
Xochi looked down at her usual uniform of jeans, a T-shirt and combat boots. “I fell asleep. I didn’t have time to change.”
“I’m going to tell you something.”
Xochi raised the bottle to take another sip, but Bubbles intercepted it.
“I don’t know what happened to you before you came to us, but I know it wasn’t good.”
Xochi opened her lips to deny it, then closed them again. Bubbles pulled her up so they stood before the mirror together, a short, curvy Tinkerbell and a tallish Lost Girl with dark under-eye circles and ragamuffin clothes. “Close your eyes,” Bubbles commanded.
Xochi obeyed. Hands moved over her back from her neck down to her waist, as if scrubbing away a stain. When the pressure subsided, long nails marched up her spine, inch by inch, a slow procession of fairy feet. The steps came faster and faster until suddenly, they stopped. Bubbles lifted up Xochi’s T-shirt and traced a careful shape on her back.
“Wings,” she said. “Right here.”
Xochi imagined brown feathers, a long, forked tail. She opened her eyes.
“When I was little,” Bubbles said, “I was really cute. Like, ridiculous. Everyone said I looked just like Shirley Temple.” Bubbles pulled at one of her curls. “I was totally into it. Wore little dresses, sang for company. There was this one time I was doing cherry drops on the monkey bars. I was wearing a dress. My underwear showed when I did the part where you drop back and flip to land. A lady on yard duty—a grown-up—called me a slut.
“When bad shit started happening at home, I thought it was my fault. I stopped playing on the monkey bars. I stopped wearing dresses. I stopped being cute. But here’s the thing: it didn’t work. No matter what I did, shit kept happening. So I decided—from now on, I’m going to be as cute and shiny and slutty as I want. That’s what I’m talking about, Xochi. You don’t have to hide. You get to be fabulous. Anyone who has a problem with it can fuck off.” She stuck out her chest, underlining the words on her tank top with a product-model flourish of her hand.
All of Us with Wings Page 9
