Omega Morales and the Legend of La Lechuza Read online

  “It’s a great idea,” Carlitos finally says.

  “Yeah,” I add, “maybe we can do some more brainstorming about it tonight.”

  Clau knows we’re lying, but she’s as good at pretending that we’re fooled by her little game of make-believe as we are at pretending that it isn’t a game at all.

  “Not tonight.” Mami appears from the kitchen, hands stained red from the Salvia elegans she’s been crushing up and adding to her beeswax. She smells like pineapple. “You’re helping me make deliveries, remember?” She starts stacking an old milk crate with the finished veladoras, glass clinking.

  At the supermarket the tall prayer candles are usually painted with the unusually pale face of Christ or the Virgin Mary floating over a bed of roses. The vendedoras at la pulga like to get all fancy with it and bedazzle them with jewels. But no matter how many rhinestones they glue to Jesus’s crown of thorns, their candles still don’t answer prayers quite like Mami’s can.

  Pineapple sage for healing, honeysuckle for joy, marigolds for getting through grief, chocolate cosmos for beauty, poppies for a better night’s sleep, yucca for protection, and morning glories for healing a broken heart.

  Everything that grows has a purpose. And a price.

  “Now, no more IOUs. These are ten bucks each, and Señor Jimenez owes us double for the veladora we delivered last week.” Mami hands me the milk crate and the weight sinks it straight down to the floor.

  I groan. “Help me with this, will you?”

  “You can’t send us back out there,” Carlitos says. “Not with Abby still on patrol.”

  Mami sighs. “Abby… pobrecita.”

  “Poor girl?” Carlitos snaps. “Poor us! She’s evil!”

  “She’s lonely,” Mami corrects him.

  I cross my arms. “Well, then she shouldn’t have turned on her only friends.”

  “Well, maybe those friends should remember what changed her in the first place.” Mami shakes her head, scrubbing some dry wax from the kitchen counter. “It was only six months ago that Abby lost her mom. I can’t imagine what it must be like for that family, and for her especially.”

  I know what Mami means. Abby’s brothers are rotten and were always tormenting her. Well, all of them except her twin brother, Aiden, because he’s actually decent and kind and has nice dimples and an even nicer smile… but that’s besides the point. After Abby’s mom died, things got even worse, which is why she slept over so often right after it happened. She said she felt safe here and it was the only time I saw her smile.

  Mami tosses her hair back into a ponytail, igniting the scent of her lavender shampoo.

  Another one of her home remedies that always makes her smell like safety. Like home. I think about what it would be like if something happened to her. If I could never eat her food again, hug her again, smell her again. Maybe Abby can’t help but be a monster. I’d probably become one too.

  “I’m sorry, but Abby’s mom passing away isn’t what made her a pathological liar. She was like that before,” Carlitos says. “And now she’s lying about Omega being some sort of cat killer.”

  Mami crosses her arms, concerned. “I heard the Villarreals’ cat went missing.”

  “And Doña Maria’s,” Carlitos adds.

  “Apparently, there are others and Abby thinks I’m the one responsible.”

  “My little pepita?” Abuela makes her way over and squeezes my cheeks. “She couldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Mami raises an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t call her a cat killer, but innocent she is not.” She looks toward the hallway leading to my bedroom. My very messy bedroom. “How many times have I told you to clean your room this week? You know company’s coming.”

  “Yeah, but we don’t know who or when.”

  Abuelo had another one of his prophetic dreams—this time about a mysterious visitor.

  “It doesn’t matter. They’re coming.” She pushes the milk crate toward me again; Carlitos and I each take one of the handles. “And you’re going. Remember, no IOUs.” She kisses me on the cheek. “Gracias.”

  Abuela walks us out. When she opens the door, the sky is a few shades darker.

  Storm clouds.

  “They’ll pass,” I say, because they always do. It’s one of the perks of living in a desert Bermuda Triangle. We always see the storm coming, but it never cracks over our plains.

  But Abuela isn’t looking at them like something that’ll pass. It’s just a flicker, just for half a second, but suddenly she looks afraid. I wonder if it has something to do with the visitor Abuelo’s been dreaming about. Or maybe there really is a cat killer on the loose.

  A shiver races down my spine, but when I turn, it isn’t Clau. “Abuela…?” Carlitos says.

  She pushes us down the steps, still glancing up at the sky. “You two better hurry. No messin’ around. I want you back here in an hour. ¿Entienden?”

  “Sí, ’buela,” Carlitos says. “We’ll hurry.”

  We carry the milk crate toward the road, the breeze lukewarm and sliding over me like a stranger. The wind picks up a bit, and Carlitos and I exchange a look. Behind us, Abuela makes the sign of the cross.

  CLAU SHAKES HER HEAD. “IT’S HER TELENOVELAS. This week Esmeralda got into a car accident during a rainstorm and lost her memory.”

  “How many times has that woman lost her memory?”

  “At least four.” Carlitos snaps, “If they don’t come up with another plot device, I’m going to start hiding the remote!”

  “Right. Because Abuela won’t be able to use her empathic abilities to sense its precise location just by looking at you.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, my own empathic abilities are almost fifty-fifty these days. My magic’s getting stronger.” He smiles to himself.

  There’s a twinge in my chest. “Well, at least that makes one of us.”

  “Maybe it just takes longer for mixed people,” Carlitos offers. “Like the magic’s not all there yet.”

  I always hate it when the magic side of my family says things like that. Like it’s Papi’s fault that my magic doesn’t work. Because he’s human and “ordinary,” even though he’s the most special person I know. I especially hate it when they blame him because I know the truth. Deep down in my gut I can feel it. My magic isn’t broken because of him. It’s broken because of me. There’s something wrong with me.

  As Clau floats to the end of the next gravel driveway, Carlitos and I follow behind, huffing and puffing until we reach Señor Jimenez’s house.

  “Speaking of not being all there…,” Carlitos says.

  “Be nice,” I say. “Señor Jimenez isn’t that old.”

  “Old enough to think handing out cabbage on Halloween isn’t the most horrible thing a person could possibly do to a child.”

  “So just give them to Pega. Rabbits eat anything, don’t they?”

  Carlitos rolls his eyes. “Thank God your mom never let you get a pet.”

  I smirk, patting him on the top of the head. “You’re my pet.”

  Clau crosses her arms. “Then what does that make me?”

  “Fine,” I groan, “you’re both my pets.”

  “Woof, woof!” Clau barks in amusement.

  “Now, go let Señor Jimenez know we’re here.”

  “Will do.” Clau gets fuzzy at the seams again, making herself less solid so she can fly through the wind chimes lining the porch.

  As we approach, the front steps bend like jagged teeth, the porch columns creating an arched smile against the front of the house. The windows sink inward, matching the narrow set of Señor Jimenez’s eyes, every inch of the house twisting to mimic his wrinkled face.

  To a normal person, it’s just a house. Just a plain front door and dusty windows. But an empath sees something different. Because a home is something different, holding the shape of the people inside, those heartbeats giving it life too.

  It’s the same reason why some people look like their dogs. When you exchange energy with something, it becomes a part of you and vice versa. That’s why Mami says you shouldn’t just put out good energy but surround yourself with it too.

  Señor Jimenez may be old and his house may be the worst to stop at on Halloween, but he is also kind. It radiates from every inch of this place, the wind chimes mingled with his laugh as he opens the front door, a big smile on his face.

  “¿Para mí?” he asks, pointing to the milk crate.

  I take out the bright red veladora, pocks of orange poppy petals suspended in the wax.

  He hands me two ten-dollar bills. “Tell your mother last week’s worked like a charm.” He takes the candle, back cracking as he stands up straight. “I’ve almost fixed this aching back.”

  “Gracias, señor.”

  The screen door creaks closed as he waves over his shoulder. The wind chimes are still laughing as we walk to the next house.

  We drop off bitter melon and sunflowers for Mrs. Murillo’s migraines, hopbush for Señor Rivas’s gout, chigüisa for Señora Salas’s asthma, and pongolote and pepper leaf for Mr. Huerta’s unknown medical condition, which despite being invisible to the naked eye, seems to be incredibly urgent.

  “Tell your mom she’s a lifesaver,” he says before rushing inside and slamming the door.

  As we approach the next row of homes, all the kindness and gratitude still clinging to us from the last few deliveries slowly begins to vanish. Mrs. Statham, former president of the neighborhood watch group, practices her watching skills on us through her kitchen window. The glass tints and fills with spiderweb cracks to match her glare.

  As long as I can remember, no one’s dared to run against her. Until this year, when Abby’s dad threw his hat in the ring and actually won. Now Mr. Montgomery and his buddies patrol the streets in his beat-up pickup truck looking for overgrown lawns and people playing their music too loud.

  At the next house over, Mr. Fisher waters his roses. To him, they’re probably blooming and vibrant. To me, they’re black just like his stare. He looks from las velas back to our faces. Then he spits, the white mess almost landing on Carlitos’s shoes.

  Carlitos scowls at him. “I don’t care what Soona says. Someday I’m going to learn how to cast a curse.”

  “Only an idiot would cast a curse,” I say. “All it does is bind you to that person forever. You want to be spiritually handcuffed to Mr. Fisher for all eternity?”

  “No.” Carlitos groans. “I just want to sew his lips together so he can never spit at us again.”

  “I would make him water his roses under the hot sun for the rest of his life.” Clau purses her lips, thinking. “Then I would make those roses grow thorns and s—”

  “Okay,” I say, “we got it.”

  Carlitos stops walking, eyeing Clau.

  I shake my head. “Besides, it still wouldn’t change the fact that he wants to spit at us.”

  “We could change that too!” Carlitos says.

  “You mean if Abuela would let us use magic on the very people who are afraid of it the most?”

  “That’s exactly who we should be using our magic on. How else are we going to get rid of all the evil in the world?”

  “And what do you think happens to all that evil? It doesn’t suddenly disappear.”

  “Well then, what happens to it?”

  I shrug, annoyed. “I don’t know. But obviously something bad or else this town wouldn’t be split in two. Abuela and Soona would have put it back together already.”

  “So you don’t think evil can be destroyed?”

  “It’s energy,” I say. “So no.”

  “Yeah.” Clau rolls her eyes. “Haven’t you taken physics? It’s like the first law or something.”

  Carlitos wrinkles his nose. “I’m in sixth grade.”

  He kicks at a rock in the road and it tumbles end over end before landing in the middle of the town square, which should really be called the town oval. Or maybe the town blob?

  There’s a fountain in the center with no running water, and the old city hall building is bookended by a bingo hall and a dance hall on one side, and on the other, a dining hall and a meeting hall that leads to the post office.

  I’ve seen old photos of this place lit up by twinkle lights while kids splashed their bare feet at the fountain’s edge. They used to have weddings here and a band would play in the alcove, the acoustics carrying the sound far into the desert. Or, at least, that’s what Abuela says. But then people started to leave, moving to bigger cities, and every time they did, they took a bit of the magic with them.

  Then a stranger bought the town and started carving it into pieces, looking for oil. When they found some, people started coming looking for jobs. And that’s how Noche Buena was cracked in two. First the earth was split and then the town.

  From this spot, I can see how the two versions of Noche Buena sit like mirror images. The past and the present in a staring contest that’s been going on so long, neither side can even produce tears, everything dried up and near dead.

  But if I close my eyes I can still feel the magic. I can still feel the love that used to give it life. I can still feel where our family is rooted to this spot under this endless sky that will never be torn in two.

  “Oh no,” Carlitos hisses, “it’s Mrs. Villarreal.”

  Down the street, Mrs. Villarreal is taping something to a lamppost. She presses her hand to the paper, smoothing out the edges before wiping her eyes.

  “Ugh,” Carlitos groans, “and she’s crying too.”

  “Maybe because her cat just went missing,” I snap.

  “So? I’m sure it’ll turn up eventually. Let’s just take the long way.”

  He takes a step in the opposite direction and I snatch him by the shirt, yanking him back. “We don’t have time to take the long way. Abuela told us to hurry, remember?” I let go. “I’m surprised your Spidey-senses aren’t tingling too.”

  “Oh, they’re tingling and they’re telling me that Mrs. Villarreal should be avoided at all costs.”

  “Come on.” This time Clau nudges him forward with a cold touch that makes him jump. “It’s not like she’s going to use you as a human Kleenex.”

  “Yeah, just be nice.”

  He relents. “I’m always nice.”

  When Mrs. Villarreal spots us, her face scrunches up like she’d been saving her tears, waiting for an audience. Her lip quivers as she turns back to the missing poster, her cat, Oscar, sitting up tall and staring into the camera, a white stripe down the center of his black belly.

  She pets the photo lovingly. “Oscar never liked being the center of attention. He preferred the spotlight to be on me.” She meets my eyes. “But it seems now I have no choice. I have to get the word out that he’s missing.”

  Carlitos coughs into his hand. “Creepy.”

  Mrs. Villarreal blinks. “What’s that, dear?”

  “Nothing,” I butt in. “He’s just thirsty.”

  “Yeah,” Carlitos says, “we’ve been walking around in this heat making deliveries for nearly an hour.”

  Mrs. Villarreal nods, closing her eyes slowly. “I walked for hours when Oscar first went missing.” She opens them wide, tears welling up again. “I visited all his favorite haunts. The dumpster behind the Allsup’s. The dumpster behind the church. The dumpster behind the school cafeteria.”

  Carlitos wrinkles his nose. “He sure liked dumpsters, huh?” I elbow Carlitos in the side.

  “It was like he just… vanished.”

  “Has he run off before?”

  “Never for this long.” She chokes back more tears. “He never would have left me….”

  Carlitos narrows his eyes. “We’re still talking about the cat, right?”

  I elbow him again, the spot tender this time. “Ow!”

  Mrs. Villarreal sniffles. “Come again?”

  “Uh, he said… ow… how can we help you?”

  She exhales. “Oh, thank goodness.” Then she slams a stack of missing posters into my chest. “Put these up anywhere you can find a flat surface.” She lowers her voice. “I have a feeling someone around here knows more than they’re telling.”

  “Why do you say that?” I ask.

  She cuts her eyes to the empty road, then back to us. “This.” She pulls a sparkly pink collar from her purse. “Oscar was practically human, but he certainly didn’t have thumbs. Someone took his collar off and tried to hide it in the bushes.”

  Carlitos raises an eyebrow. “So you think he was kidnapped?”

  “I think you mean catnapped,” Clau corrects him.

  “Of course he was!” Mrs. Villarreal’s lip quivers again. “But I’m going to find out who took him. I’m going to find out if it’s the last thing I do!”

  I swallow, wondering if she’s heard the rumor Abby’s been spreading about me. Especially if Mr. Montgomery’s been spreading it too. Maybe it just hasn’t gotten around to her yet. Maybe this is my chance to prove it’s not true before it does.

  I hold up the stack, smiling. “And we’ll do whatever we can to help. Starting with hanging these flyers.”

  “Thank you, dear.” She cups my face before walking to the end of the street.

  “Great,” Carlitos says. “Now it’ll be dark by the time we get home.”

  I hand him half the stack. “We’ll make the last delivery and put some of these up on the way. It’ll be fine.”

  “And it’s good karma,” Clau adds.

  “What do you need good karma for?” Carlitos snaps, only because he’s irritated. And because Clau’s dead. Actually, it’s sort of a fair question.

  “None of your business,” Clau snaps back.

  On our way to the last house, we pass by Oscar’s beloved Allsup’s. Carlitos slips around the back and tosses his stack of flyers in the dumpster.

  I kick the metal siding and he jumps. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He shrugs. “She said he loves dumpsters. Maybe he’ll see the posters and decide to go home.”

  “Or”—Clau points—“maybe he can’t.”

  Back in the direction we came from, Mrs. Villarreal stands on her tiptoes, taping a flyer to the back of a bread truck. Between her legs, Oscar winds back and forth like he’s made of fog.