by JB Salsbury
“Yeah. She was sent home today with a fever.” She sighs. “Her immune system isn’t used to the public-school system yet.”
Don’t care, none of my business. “Why’s that?” Dammit!
Miguel comes into the kitchen, eyes wide. “I smell Tia Carla’s flautas.”
“There should be some veggie ones for you.” I step away from the tray, and he checks the ends of each rolled-up tortilla before placing the nonmeat ones on his plate.
“Don’t eat ʼem all!” Julian runs in and grabs a plate.
“Save some for everyone else.” When I turn around to continue talking to Laura, she’s gone, but the bottle of medication sits on the counter.
The name on the bottle catches my eye: Mercy Bernadette.
Her last name sounds like another first name.
I ignore all my questions and tend to my growling stomach. My brothers and I gather around the table and gorge ourselves on flautas. We don’t talk, just moan and crunch through the crispy fried shells to the warm spicy centers, which remind me of family holidays back in the day when it was no big deal that our family led one of the biggest Latino gangs in Los Angeles. Back from when life was simple and the whole family would help Abuelita in the kitchen, I can still remember the sound of their laughter and how they’d bark at the men, who’d steal bites during the process. Julian was the exception. Being the baby, he was always on our mom’s hip, and she’d feed him little tastes of whatever they were working on.
I watch him across the table, smiling as he chews, and I wonder if the flavors are taking him back as well.
We force ourselves to leave a dozen flautas for Chris, Laura, and Mercy. While Miguel and Julian clean the kitchen, I poke my head into the hallway. Mercy’s door is open, and voices are whispering inside. I assume she’s talking to Laura.
They must be hungry.
That’s what I tell myself as I nosily creep toward Mercy’s room. I peer inside, expecting to find them both in there, but only one person is in the room.
Mercy is in the same kneeling position I’ve seen her in before. She’s wearing a man-sized T-shirt that tucks around her knees and calves so that the only things peeking out from under it are her ghostly white toes. Her long hair is a mess down her back as if she’s been restless in bed with a fever, and her chin is tilted up toward the ceiling.
She’s whispering something frantic, but I can’t make out the words.
For a moment, I just watch. I know I’m intruding on something meant to be private, but I can’t pull myself away.
Her lips move almost soundlessly. After a minute, I pick up on a rhythm as though she’s chanting the same ten words over and over. I move a little closer, hoping to understand what she’s saying, but she stops. Her eyes slowly open, and she turns to face me.
My pulse races to the speed it did when I nearly hit Julian, and I briefly wonder how many times I can put the organ through this kind of jumpstart before it gives out on me.
“Is it okay if I come in?” Too late now. I’m already inside and feel awkward for getting caught spying.
She doesn’t say yes, but she doesn’t say no either, only staring at me with those icy clear eyes. A sheen of sweat dampens her forehead, a slight wetness that coats her hairline. Her cheeks are flushed pink, along with her lips, and the skin around her eyes is darker than normal.
Something about seeing her like this, knowing she’s not feeling well and being in a new place, I feel the need to apologize for avoiding her at school the last couple days. But I don’t.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
Still, she says nothing.
“You should probably get in bed. Try to sleep. That’s uh . . .” Why does this suddenly feel so weird? “Sleep always does the trick.”
Her gaze slides to my neck, and I swear she smiles—just a little. “You came.”
For a second, I think someone else must be in the room, because she couldn’t be talking to me. Yet when I take a quick peek, it’s just us.
“Did you need something?” I ask.
Her eyes dart back to mine, and yep, there it is, a smile. It’s small, but it’s there.
“Come on, let me uh . . .” I hold out my hand to help her up, but she simply stares at it then looks back up at me. I drop my hand and nod toward her bed. “You should get in bed.”
She follows my gaze, and in one fluid motion, as if she’s done it a million times before, rises to her feet. The shirt she’s wearing goes down past her knees, and her long, pale legs practically glow in the dimly lit room. I wonder if she’s wearing panties or shorts underneath. When she crawls into bed, I’m not enough of an asshole to try to find out, and I turn my head until she’s covered with the thick comforter.
Her teeth chatter together, but her eyes stay fixed on me—not so much me but my neck.
“You cold?”
“Yes.”
I head over to her closet and pull down an extra blanket to cover her with it as I would do for the boys.
She nuzzles under it.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
“Hungry?”
“No, thank you.”
She snakes one arm out from under the covers and reaches for me. Unsure of what she wants, I step closer as her hand lifts higher toward my throat. The tattoo.
“This?” I point at my neck.
“Yes.”
“You like it?”
When I edge a little closer, she drops her hand, her gaze glued to my neck. “Yes.”
My chest warms.
She bunches the blanket up closer to her throat, and a shiver wracks her body. I take my cue to leave even though something about her vulnerability makes me want to stay. A strange primal urge fills me with the need to stand watch, to sit at her door and be there if she should wake up and need something.
“Weird,” I whisper to myself as I step out of her room, closing the door behind me.
Who knew I’d have such a bleeding heart for the freaky girl.
Ten years ago
“ANGEL, YOU’RE TREMBLING.” Señora fixes the back of my gown. This isn’t the usual garment I wear. This one is different.
“Forgive me, Señora.” I try to still my shivering hands.
Her round body comes into view as she licks her fingers to smooth back a few strands of my hair, pressing them to my head. “Speak. Tell me what is on your mind.”
“I’m only frightened. I know Papa said not to be, but I cannot help it.”
Once she seems satisfied with my appearance, she nods toward the square of fabric on the floor by my bed. I shuffle my feet to keep from stepping on the long gown and kneel there, slowly resting my hands in my lap just as I’ve been taught.
She puts away the few things she had out on my dressing table—brush, strongly scented oil, and pins she uses to secure my hair. I’m grateful that sitting on my legs and knotting my hands seems to hide my nervousness.
“You lack faith, Angel.” Her eyes darken with disappointment, and I force my chin up no matter how badly it wants to drop under the weight of her scorn. She crosses to me and sits at the edge of my bed. “You remember the story of the saint who dug the well? The one you read about in your studies?”
My face gets hot, and I shift nervously under her inspection. My studies are tedious, and sometimes I skip a few.
She frowns down at me. “I see. Well, this story you should have paid attention to. It’s about girl who was gifted abilities similar to yours.”
“Like me? But I thought—”
She silences me with a look that says I should allow her to finish. I know she doesn’t like it when I question her, so I bite my lips together.
“She wasn’t exactly like you, Angel. But when she was young, your age, she had visions, messages from the Blessed Mother.” She makes the sign of the cross on her chest. “Our Holy Mother instructed the girl to dig a hole in the dirt. She told the people in her city what she saw, and they all thought she was crazy. They threatened to
lock her away forever for her visions. You see, mankind is a fallen people. They will always hate and condemn what they don’t understand.”
That made my stomach hurt.
“But this young girl . . . she knew it was her fate. She ignored the threats of man and followed her heart. She got on her knees and put her hands to the earth, and you know what?”
I shake my head, hanging on every word.
“She dug. Just as the Holy Mother instructed. She dug so deep she hit water, and the spring that sprang forth was healing water.”
“Healing water . . .” I say the words aloud, feeling every syllable on my tongue. “Like me.”
“That’s right. Just like you.”
“What is she called?” Is she Angel, also like me?
“She is called Saint Bernadette.”
“Saint Bernadette.”
“When the doubt and fear set in, Angel, I want you to consider this young girl who, like you, was saddled with an incredible responsibility. You are to never turn your back on what you’re here to do.” Her stern glare demands I pay attention to what she’s going to say next. “Even when it feels impossible, when it would seem the world is against you, consider what would’ve happened if Saint Bernadette would’ve ignored her calling by the Blessed Mother. Still to this day, that spring gives its healing water. People make pilgrimages from all over the world, seeking its magic, just as they will do for you.”
“Yes, Señora.” My hands no longer tremble. “Maybe I will one day make this journey you talk about, and I’ll meet her myself—”
“Not in this lifetime.” She frowns. “But in the next.”
I have so many questions but no way to ask, so I hold them in and prepare for whatever my gift will bring me—out of this room to faraway places where I’ll meet people who have come from the farthest reaches of the earth to seek my touch.
No matter where I end up, whatever obstacles I face, I will always remember what I am.
Milo
MERCY’S BRONCHITIS KNOCKED her on her ass for almost two weeks. She would have these coughing fits in the middle of the night that I could hear from my window across the yard. It reminded me of a nasty case of bronchitis Miguel had when he was ten. He’d cough all night, and no one got any sleep—that is, until our dad started having him drink tequila every night before bed. People can judge all they want—it worked. Not that I’d suggest Laura force-feed the girl Jose Cuervo.
Mercy’s back at school, and after that night in her room when she was sick, something has changed between us. Maybe I’m becoming used to seeing her, or maybe I just feel sorry for her. I remember the first time I got sick and didn’t have my mom around to take care of me. I had a nasty flu and high fevers, and my body hurt all over. Nothing brought home the reality that my mom was really gone like not having her there with Sprite and crackers or with a washcloth to press against my head.
Call me a pussy, but it’s the truth. No matter how old I get, I hate being sick without my mom.
I wonder if Mercy felt the same.
I planned on seeing her in the cafeteria today and, rather than ignoring her like the first time, I’d stop and say hi. But in fourth period, Mr. Miller said I had to come in to retake a lit test, and it ate up most of the lunch hour.
By the time I finish, I have only minutes before the next bell. I slam through the doorway into the hall with a plan to take a piss before class. Turning the corner and without thinking about where I am, I see a handful of students filing into a classroom.
“Come on, friends. Keep moving, okay? Come on, chop-chop. Mercy?” The gentle tone of the teacher’s voice has me grinding to a halt. “Honey, is everything okay?”
I pull my focus from the door to see Mercy leaning back against the wall with her head down and her hair falling forward to veil her face.
“Mercy?” The teacher reaches for her, and she seems to sink farther into herself.
My feet move before I can think too much about it. I should check on her. It’s what Laura would want me to do.
“Hey,” I say.
Ms. Murphy stares up at me. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, yeah . . . I was just passing by.” I look at Mercy and see her still stuck with her back to the wall and her eyes to the floor. “Mercy?”
At the sound of her name, she looks up, and I’m almost knocked backward at the intensity of her expression—stark white skin and pale eyes glistening with panic.
I clear my throat and try to focus on Ms. Murphy’s messy bun and glasses, which have slid halfway down her nose. “Mercy’s my . . .” What is she? “We’re part of the same family.”
It’s the best and most understandable explanation I can come up with. Ms. Murphy must know Mercy’s in foster care, and everyone at school knows about Miguel and me. She puts it all together quickly and relaxes a little. “Oh, great. Well, maybe you can help. After lunch, she froze up on me.”
A bang followed by the sound of laughter filters out from her classroom.
“Shoot.” She looks back and forth between Mercy and her other students. “Sit in your seats, please.”
“I got this.” I motion toward Ghostgirl. “Go ahead, and I’ll talk to her.”
She seems conflicted about leaving us, then I hear what sounds like one hundred pencils hitting the floor inside the room.
“Okay, yeah.” She pats my shoulder as she passes me. “Thank you.”
I slide right next to Mercy with my back against the wall, and standing here curled in on herself, she seems a good foot shorter than she did yesterday.
“You feeling okay?” I peek down at her, fully expecting a nonverbal answer.
She shocks the shit out of me by saying, “No.”
“You sick?”
She shakes her head.
“What’s going on?” I twist so that I’m leaning with my shoulder to the wall and facing her.
Her eyes track my movement, and she mimics it, twisting to face me, but her gaze stays glued to my chest. “I hear what they say about me.”
This is the most I’ve ever heard her speak, and her voice is smooth and slightly accented.
I can’t help but focus on the spot where the hair sprouts from her scalp, amazed to see not even a hint of pigment in either, so different from most girls, whose natural hair color can always be found at the root. “Someone fuckin’ with you?”
She blinks up at me, and this time I don’t recoil, having become used to the shocking bite of her eyes. “I don’t . . .” Her teeth slide against her lower lip a few times as she seems to sound something out. “Fuckin’ with you?”
Where in the hell did this girl come from?
“Yeah, is someone being mean to you? Hurting your feelings?”
“Oh . . .” She shakes her head, and her eyes dart between my chest and my neck. “I don’t think anyone is fuckin’ with me.”
“Ms. Murphy’s a good lady . . . kids are straight, so what’s the problem?”
She seems to contemplate that a second or two. “The people here don’t like me. I hear them whispering—freak, gross, ugly.”
Yeah, well . . . welcome to high school, sweetheart. “People are assholes.” And wasn’t I one of them, storming out of the cafeteria and ignoring her completely her first week here? “You’ll get used to it. Unfortunately, going to high school means putting up with dickheads.” I glance around and realize everyone who walks by us stares. I glare at a few until they get the hint and mind their own fucking business. “Next time you hear someone talking about you, find out their name, okay? I’ll take care of it.”
Her eyes are fixed on my lips, white brows pinched together as if she doesn’t understand my language and is attempting to translate each word as it comes from my mouth.
The warning bell rings, and Mercy jumps and covers her ears. I reach for her wrists, and the second my hands touch her, she stiffens.
“Hey . . . it’s okay.” I bring her arms back to her sides, disappointed that her sweatshirt covers her ski
n so that I can’t slake my curiosity about what she feels like. “It just means it’s time to go to class, Güera.”
She eyes her classroom door.
“You think you can tough it out a few more hours?”
“Where will you be?”
Something clenches in my chest, similar to the feeling I get when I find Miguel alone in a crowd of people who pass him as if he doesn’t exist.
“I’ll be”—I point down the hallway—“there, the door on the end.”
She chews her bottom lip, studying the door, and I’m not convinced she’s feeling any more confident, which gives me an idea.
“Here.” I reach forward and sift my fingers through all the long hair at her nape. I expect it to feel different, coarse maybe, but I didn’t expect it to be so silky, even softer than Carrie’s. I gather all her hair at the base of her neck, and my thumb brushes across the downy skin there. She shivers at the contact. Just as I thought, her skin is like velvet.
I freeze for a second as the desire to palm her throat and feel the throb of her pulse against all that warm, milky smooth skin assaults me. Pull it together, Milo!
I gather her hair and tuck it back then bring forward the hood of her sweatshirt. “This okay?” I tug the fabric as far over her face as I can, making sure she can still see, as her eyes stay glued to my neck. “Better?”
“Yes.” She looks up at me, and a tiny smile tilts her full lips.
“Good.” As we just stare at each other, I’ll be damned if I can pull myself away.
“Milo.” She nods toward my neck. “I know her.”
I frown. “You know the Virgin Mary?”
A bashful expression washes over her face, and with it comes the prettiest pink color in her cheeks. “No, but I know all about her.”
Ah, so Ghostgirl is a Bible banger. That explains why Laura had us all go to church and why Mercy seemed so alive when we were there, why she always fixates on my neck. “That’s good. Ya know, my abuelita always told me to pray to Mary when I’m scared.”
Even in the bustling, chaotic hallways of Washington High, I feel as if we’re alone, locked in a bubble, as her eyes stay trained on me.
