“You’re a late bloomer, mi’jita,” my mom says.
“Our magic isn’t as strong as it was when we were free to practice.” Lady crosses her arms over her chest, and her long, fringe shawl dances around her. “Nowadays, some brujas are lucky if they can make a pencil float, even with years of practice. Some can only see the future in two-minute intervals. Some can only heal shallow cuts. The gifts of the Deos get weaker with each generation. That’s why you are so very curious. What you did—what your mama told me—that’s physical. That takes power. Only an encantrix has that kind of power. You might be a great one.”
A feather falls from somewhere and brushes my skin. I take a step back, knocking against an armoire. The knob digs into my spine. I try to turn around to hold the structure steady, but a small, bleached skull falls off and smashes on the ground.
“Encantrix or not, you’d better clean that up,” Lady says. She points to the black velvet curtain that leads to the back of the store. Lula scoffs and tries on a prex made of sparkling crystals, and Rose mutters something to the mounted head of a jackalope. My mom goes over the list of things we need for my ceremony with Lady.
I rush to the back, where she keeps the cleaning supplies. There’s a door painted dark purple. At eye level is an etching of a golden sun and silver moon for La Mama and El Papa. The sun is crowned by the sideways crescent of the moon. It’s the same moon I wear as a necklace, a gift from my father. I trace the painted symbols on the door. Directly below the sun is a gnarly-looking tree with thin, stringy leaves.
“Encantrix.” I sound the word out.
The seashell wind chime snaps me out of my thoughts. I grab a broom and dustpan and head back out to clean up the mess I made. Some of the bone dust gets up in my nose and makes me sneeze.
“Gross,” I mutter, dumping the contents in the garbage can near the register.
“Gross yourself,” he says.
A guy, possibly around Lula’s age but trying to look older, stands on the other side of the counter. He’s got brilliant diamond stud earrings and a fresh, buzzed haircut like the boys around the block. I find myself staring. His hands are covered in tattoos, like he dipped his arms in solid ink up to his wrists. From there, the ink continues in swirling lines, like jellyfish tendrils drifting on the sea of his light-brown skin.
Thick, dark lashes fringe his eyes, which can’t decide between green and blue. When he sees me, he smiles, revealing a tiny dimple, like a comma at the edge of his mouth. He licks the cold off his full lips. Touches his necklace. Blue beads like a long rosary. A prex.
My face burns when I realize this is the same guy we almost ran over the other day.
He grabs a few things on the way to the counter. I should probably go to my mother, but I don’t want to deal with Deathday things. So I stay put and try to ignore the guy’s presence, even though he seems to take up the whole room with the way he walks right up to me. He sets a red votive candle, some dove feathers, and a jar of tongues on the counter. The tongues swim in the murky, green liquid like they’re mocking me. I flick the bell at the register to let Lady know she’s got a customer.
“I’ll be right there,” Lady shouts from the front of the shop.
I put the broom and dustpan in the back. When I return, he’s still standing there. Again, he smiles when he looks at me.
“What?” I ask. I wonder if he’s aware of how his stare makes me want to turn around and run.
“You look familiar.”
“I just have that kind of face.”
“No, you don’t,” he says, smirking. “I remember you. Red Civic. Riding with that pretty boy that wore too much cologne.”
“Sorry about that.”
“You weren’t the one driving.” He crosses his arms over his chest, making his muscles more pronounced. It makes his tattoo appear like it’s moving. The ends of the inky tendrils stop at the finest points.
“My eyes are up here,” he says, making a V with his middle and index finger and points them at his eyes.
I’ve never seen a boy with such bipolar eyes, let alone a permanent wrinkle between his brows, like he spends more time frowning than anything else. I ring Lady’s bell a few more times.
“Deathday shopping?” he says, smirking. “You look excited.”
“How’d you know?” I ask, matching his sarcasm.
“Overheard your mom. I’m Nova, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.” The pads of my hands itch. It’s like the magic I’ve tried to push back so long has gotten a little bit of freedom and now it wants more. It coils inside me at the base of my belly and spreads. I take a deep, calming breath and push it back. “Shouldn’t you be out jaywalking?”
He laughs, then leans close to me, so I can see the dip between his brows is not a frown mark but a thin scar. And it’s not just there. He’s got three more matching nicks, one on each cheek and the last on his chin, like the cardinal points of a compass.
“Most girls get pumped for their Deathday.”
“Yeah, you know what a bruja wants.”
“Not really. I just guess until I get it right.” His smile falters, but not for long. “It’s okay to be scared. You just have to do your part and welcome your dead. It’s tradition.”
“It’s not fair,” I say. I don’t know why I say it. It just came out. He’s a stranger. But sometimes it’s easier to confide in strangers than the people who love us. “It feels like I don’t have a choice in my life.”
“You could always not do it.”
I can’t really tell if he’s joking, but I can’t deny the little spark of hope that fills my heart. Every bruja and brujo I know has had their Deathday.
“How?” I hope I don’t sound too eager.
He shrugs. “I’m sure you’re not the first witch in history to fear her own strength. Sorry to break it to you, brujita.” Little bruja.
“Didn’t you hear? I’m superspecial. I’m an encantrix.” Why did I admit to that? A second ago I wanted to deny it.
His eyes brighten with surprise, then appraisal. “Good for you.”
“I’m not sure ‘good’ is what I was going for.”
“Well, you only get one Deathday.”
“Except the actual day we die.”
He chuckles, and it makes his face look softer. “That’s a little morbid, even for me.”
I rest my hands on the cool glass. He leans closer to me. His eyes are bluer now. Smoke from the sage bundle burning in the corner descends around us. “I think it’s sweet that you’re nervous.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. How?”
“Well, I usually charge for my wisdom.” He raps his knuckles on the countertop.