Rogelia's House of Magic

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Magical Spells and Incantations for Beginners and Believers

About the Author

Also by Jamie Martinez Wood

Copyright

T
O THE WOMEN WHO INSPIRED THE CHARACTER
OF
R
OGELIA
—N
ANA
D
ELLA AND
N
ANA
M
AME
,
MY MENTORS ALWAYS
.
BESOS
.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to my editor, Claudia Gabel, for her enthusiasm, insight, guidance, and patience. Her wise direction helped make
Rogelia’s House of Magic
the best it can be. My gratitude also goes out to my agent, Julie Castiglia, for believing in me from the beginning. Greece, here we come!

Kevin Wood, Julia Budd-Bredek, Alethia Kasben, Dana Wardrop, Stella Ramirez-Gollnick, Lynne Blackman, Stephanie Keefer, Charyn Gant, Carmen Gonzales, and Helena Pasquarelli offered consistent and amazing assistance and support. Thanks to Anna, Sarah, Eden, Jessica, and Kayla; to Daryl and Nila of Four Crows for the rabbit tale; Kim Koplin for her Bolsa Chica information; Elena Avila for her
curanderismo;
and Rocio Watson for her story. Great big fat hugs and wet kisses to Gina Illes for all the walks and talks that helped make Rojo’s Mojo and my girls, Fern, Marina, and Xochitl, real and accessible to a world beyond my own head and heart.

Besos y abrazos para mi Cielo y Diego.

One

M
arina Peralta stared out the passenger-side front window of her mother’s Infiniti SUV as it pulled into the driveway of a canary yellow A-frame where her best friend, Fernanda Fuego, lived. Between the wild mix of luscious flowers in the front yard and the bright colors trimming the house, it seemed like the Fuego family used nearly every color Crayola ever invented to decorate. Marina looked longingly at the powder blue and white house next door, with its relatively boring agapanthus-filled garden. She remembered how she used to peer out its upstairs window at the eclectic neighborhood.

“I miss living here sometimes,” Marina said wistfully. She twirled the ends of her long brown hair and stared reflectively at the porch swing where she and Fern had gobbled down ice cream cones nearly every summer night.

“How could you miss living in the barrio?” Marina’s mother asked as she lay on the horn, causing Marina to flinch. “I worked hard to get us out of this neighborhood, and I don’t want you spending any more time here than you have to.”

Five years ago, Marina’s mother, Rebecca, had become an instant success as a real estate agent. She uprooted the family, consisting of Marina; her younger sisters, Monica and Samantha; and their stepfather, Steve Michelson, to an upper-middle-class section of Orange Olive at the base of the prestigious Peralta Hills. For the most part, Marina liked her new neighborhood—every yard was immaculate, there was a pool in her backyard, and a gorgeous gate marked the entrance of the subdivision—but it was also kind of sterile and a little too perfect. She missed the cozy feel of her old neighborhood.

Marina twiddled the drawstrings of her khaki miniskirt and frowned at the seagull appliqué on her Hollister tank top to keep from saying anything. She didn’t dare give the answer she wanted to give. The retort at the tip of her tongue would have started an argument, but at that moment, Fernanda came bounding out of her house.

“I’m ready!” Fernanda called as she ran down the bright red porch steps and across the lawn. Her curly shoulder-length auburn hair flopped playfully over her Plimsouls T-shirt, a tribute to her love of 1980s psychedelic and punk bands. She opened the car door, held on to her paisley wraparound skirt, and slid into the backseat. Immediately she kicked off her Birkenstock sandals. “Hey, Marina. Good afternoon, Mrs. Peralta.”

“Hey, Fern. We’ve got to pick up something before we go to my house,” Marina said.

“What do you need to pick up?” Fern asked, leaning forward from the backseat.

Marina twisted around and tugged one of Fern’s untamed ringlets. “A chart.”

Fern swatted her hand away and Marina chuckled under her breath before settling back into her seat. She had started pulling Fern’s tangle of corkscrew, cinnamon-colored curls when they were in grade school. It was the one thing Marina could do to get talkative Fern to shut up. Now that they were both fifteen, Marina just did it to annoy her.

“What kind of chart?” Fern asked.

“An astrological chart,” Marina’s mother answered as they cruised down the streets of Orange County, California, looking for a specialty store among the historic brick storefronts. “And I need you to run in and get it for me, Marina.”

“Mom!” Marina protested.

“I need to pick up the special invitation paper for your Grandpy’s birthday party, and this will save me time,” Marina’s mother said.

Marina glared out the window, frustration clouding her big brown eyes. She hated it when her mom sent her on errands, especially when it came to goofy ones like fetching an astrology chart. What if she said something stupid and embarrassed herself? Marina twisted her hair at the nape of her neck and got one of her many silver rings caught in a knot of her unbrushed mane. Impervious to the pain, she yanked her finger free along with several long light brown strands.

“It makes me so mad every time I pass through here,” Marina’s mother said suddenly as she navigated a roundabout known as the Orange Circle. At the center was a circular park with a fountain, benches, and tall cypress trees. The Orange Circle was intersected by two streets, Glassell and Chapman.

“Not again,” Marina moaned. She had heard her mother’s rant about their family’s glory days way too often. Her mother took every possible opportunity to gloat about being Spanish and yet despised anything that connected her to Mexican roots, especially the barrio. Marina didn’t quite understand the difference.

Marina’s mother ignored her daughter and looked in the rearview mirror at Fern. “Our Spanish ancestors, José Antonio Yorba and Juan Pablo Peralta, built a very successful ranching business with the land grant they received from the king of Spain.”

“Over two hundred years ago,” Marina grumbled.

“They lost all of it when California became a state,” Marina’s mother continued. “Then those damn gringo lawyers Chapman and Glassell stole our land.”

“Here we are,” Marina said in a forced lighthearted tone, pointing at a store with floor-to-ceiling windows and a large wooden sign with the words
MOONLIGHT MIDWIFERY
painted in dark blue calligraphy next to a crescent moon.

Marina’s mother pulled into a space in front of the shop.

“Oooh, look at the crystals hanging from the trees! Come on, let’s go.” Fern was chomping at the bit. She dug her toes into her Birks and opened the car door.

Marina groaned softly. While she adored Fern’s wild and unpredictable nature, Fern often got the two of them into trouble that Marina had to bail them out of with a combination of cleverness and false bravado. Marina liked adventures, too, as long as her mother didn’t find out about them.

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” Marina’s mother said. “I want you outside waiting for me.”

“Okay,” Marina replied as she quickly hopped out of the car.

The wind whistled through the overgrown ficus trees, whose roots buckled the brick sidewalks. Across the street a faded antique-shop window offered an ancient metal tricycle, a claw-foot tub with flowers blooming in it, and a washboard with several coats of peeling paint.

Wind chimes jingled as Fern opened the shop’s front door. “This place is so cool!” she shrieked.

“You don’t have to shout.” Marina clutched the silver chimes to stop them ringing.

A small, yapping white poodle sniffed their shoes. Fern reached down to pet the dog’s matted dreadlocks.

“Don’t!” Marina pulled Fern up by the arm. “Molly’s blind and deaf, with a real attitude. She’ll bite you. Come on, let’s go inside.”

Fern frowned at the dog with regret and practically skipped inside. Marina prayed that her friend wouldn’t do anything stupid or embarrassing—or both.

Large windows covered by several sun catchers served as walls for the New Age store. Etheric, angelic music filled the air. To their left, clear shelves were stacked high with tarot, divination, and meditation cards; bath salts; statues of fairies and angels; and self-help books. A circle of five or so djembe drums painted in pastel colors lined the floor in front of baskets filled with different-shaped brass bells. Tons of sparkling, jewel-toned shawls were draped over a hat tree next to a rack of relaxation CDs.

A woman with long, straight, graying brown hair stepped through a doorway covered by a colorful tapestry. She had a long nose pierced with a ring and wore a flowing ankle-length purple dress. “May I help you?” she asked.

“I’m here to pick up an astrological chart for my mom, Rebecca Peralta,” Marina replied.

“I’ll just be a few minutes.” The woman retreated to the back of the store.

Fern began browsing through a rack of elaborately drawn fairy cards. She spun the rack to goggle at the drawings of forests, lakes, and waterfalls enchanted by a variety of elves, imps, fairies, and other elemental creatures.

Marina turned to Fern. “So we finally hired a new maid.”

“Will you still have to clean your own room?” Fern inquired, picking out a card of a mermaid.

“Of course,” Marina said sourly. “I’ll have to scour my bathroom grout with a toothbrush to keep my cell phone. Want to hear something totally wild?”

Fern nodded as she put back the card and turned to examine the hundreds of essential oils displayed in a glass case. She pulled the door open by the attached drop crystal and selected a sample bottle of frankincense oil. She sniffed the deep resin scent and trembled with delight.

“The new maid recently came here from Mexico with her twin granddaughters,” Marina said. “There was an accident on the way and one of her granddaughters was killed, but the other survived. I guess she’s our age. Her name is Xochitl.”

Fern glanced at Marina with concern in her eyes. “Xochitl is pronounced ‘So-chee,’ not ‘So-chit-ley.’ The ‘t’ is silent.”

“I never can pronounce Spanish correctly,” Marina said distractedly. Despite the fact that her mother’s family was Mexican American, the only time she ever heard anyone in her family speak Spanish was at her great-grandfather’s ninety-fourth birthday party. And when she had tried to understand what the old people were saying, her mother had ushered her off to another room.

Fern placed the oil back in the case. “Her sister died? That’s so sad.”

“I know. The maid’s name is Rogelia Garcia. She’s going to stay in the room next to the garage during the week. I think Xochitl may be living with her some of the time, since her dad works some late nights. He works with my stepfather.”

“You mean the room
in
the garage?” Fern asked with a sly smirk. She picked up the lavender oil and took a whiff of the camphorlike flowery smell before putting it down and closing the case door.

“Now that they’ve converted it from a three-car garage to a two-car garage, the extra space is like a big room. Mom even put curtains on the windows. Besides, the garage is attached to the hall, so its kind of part of the house.”

“I hate to tell you, but it’s still a garage.” Fern picked up a crystal and held it to the window. The crystal caught the light and sent rainbows dancing across the room.

Marina sighed. Fern could be such a smart-ass.

“Anyway, you should see all the stuff Rogelia has in her room. There’s the tooth of some animal, a dead butterfly, candles, crosses, crystals, and bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling. And she’s got one of these.” Marina pointed to a picture of a red heart with flames shooting out the top.

“That’s a Sacred Heart,” Fern replied. When Marina gave her a questioning glance, Fern smiled, took a deep breath, and recited in one amazingly fast string of words, “O Sacred Heart of Jesus who said, ‘Ask and you shall receive,’ I beg that by the ardent flames of love that kindle your heart you hear my prayer, grant the graces I ask, and pour your blessings and mercy over me that I may be made worthy of your divine Sacred Heart. Amen.”

Marina laughed. “What was that?”

“A Catholic prayer. Unlike you, heathen that you are, I still go to church.” Fern tossed her head with a pompous air, sending her curls flapping in all directions.

“That’s pretty harsh,” Marina commented. “The church ostracized Mom when she divorced my first dad and married my stepfather when I was only six. What was I supposed to do? Go to church by myself?” Marina shuddered. “Besides, the Catholic Church freaks me out. They’re so superstitious and rigid.”

“Really? I love the ritual of it. The incense, the saints, the chanting. All those candles burning.” Fern moved to a shelf and ran her finger along the spines of several books. Marina followed her.

“So what does the Sacred Heart have to do with all that other stuff I saw in Rogelia’s room?” Marina persisted. Rogelia intrigued her, and she wanted to get to the bottom of this mystery.

“The Sacred Heart is a Catholic thing, but combined with the herbs and an animal tooth, I don’t know. We’ll definitely have to get to know this Rogelia a bit more,” Fern suggested.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Marina answered.

“Hey, check this out.” Fern held up a spell book for teens, entitled
Magik for Teens.
She opened it carefully and scanned the pages. “Look, here’s a spell to lessen homework.”

“I thought you were a devout Catholic,” Marina said, raising her eyebrows.

“I said I like the ritual part. They can keep their guilt and sacrifice. Come on, let’s do a spell.” Fern danced the book in front of Marina’s face.

The sound of footsteps on the creaking wood floors caused Marina to spin around. The store owner stood there, observing her and Fern with beady eyes.

“Some people say giving a teen a spell book is like giving them keys to a car without teaching them how to drive.” The woman watched them gravely for a moment longer; then apparently she decided they passed some test, and her mouth crinkled into a smile. Marina noticed a small blue crescent-moon tattoo on the woman’s neck behind her earlobe and thought she was pretty when she smiled.

“Well, why don’t you teach us some stuff, then?” Fern blurted out.

Marina stared at her in total amazement. Fern rarely thought before she spoke, but Marina was used to that, even if she didn’t understand how Fern could be so straightforward at all times. Marina cared way too much about other people’s opinions. Her moods and self-esteem fluctuated based on others’ compliments or insults.

“I’m not the kind of teacher you need,” the woman answered. “If you are interested in magic, you should find a mentor, someone who can be available for all your questions. Perhaps a
curandera.
”

“What’s a
curandera
?” Marina asked Fern in a low whisper.

“A folk healer,” Fern whispered back. She put her hands on her hips and turned to the store owner. “Will she teach me how to do spells?”

Marina rolled her eyes.

“That’s what a
curandera
does. You can call them spells, remedies, prayers, whatever you like,” the woman said. “If the
curandera
chooses to accept you as an apprentice…” She paused and rubbed her long nose, continuing to stare at Marina and Fern with her intense gaze. “Learning magic is not something you enter into lightly. The
curandera
teaches you as much about life as she does about magic or whatever she calls it. To the
curandera,
the supernatural is not as far-fetched as the word ‘magic’ typically appears.”