Signal to Noise (28 page)

M
ECHE SAT WITH
her grandmother, sorting scraps of yarn into balls. Her grandmother did not believe in wasting anything and the collected little bits of yarn would be used for new projects.

The needles clicked and Meche set the balls from largest to smallest, then arranged them by colour. She’d done this since she was a child and it was kind of fun, especially if she could play some good music in the background and get her grandmother to tell stories.

“Some witches can cut their chests with sharp blades and will not bleed. Others can summon invisible spirits. And then there are those who can fascinate animals with their gaze.”

“I’d prefer to fascinate people with my gaze,” Meche replied.

“You might be able to do that too,” her grandmother said.

Meche placed the balls of yarn in a big bowl and set it down on the floor.

“Grandma, did you ever cast a spell?”

“You keep asking that.”

“I want to know.”

“I might have tried, once or twice.”

“Did it work?”

“It was such a long time ago.”

“What did you try?”

“I tried to be invisible.”

“How did you do it?”

“That would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

“Please.”

“Alright. I knitted a blanket, dark as night, and wore it around me. It made me... disappear. Of course, I wouldn’t be able to do that anymore.” She paused to look at the cover she was knitting. “My eyes are not what they used to be. Anyway, magic is for the young.”

“Maybe you could try again,” Meche said. “I could help you.”

“You don’t like to knit.”

“I
would
knit a magic blanket.”

“The only problem is I don’t stitch spells anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I hurt people, once.”

“Did they deserve to be hurt?”

Grandmother touched Meche’s chin. “Don’t they always, when you’re a girl?”

Meche thought some people deserved a taste of their own medicine and she didn’t see why anyone would stop using spells when they could be so much fun. Why let go of the power? She sure as hell wouldn’t.

“Oh, come on. Show me one spell.”

Her grandmother smiled and set her needles down. “I’m tired, Meche.”

She stood up, stumbling. Meche helped steady her.

“Are you alright, grandma?”

“I’m tired,” she said, patting Meche’s shoulder. “I’m just tired.”

S
EBASTIAN STUMBLED INTO
his apartment. His body ached something awful and the coppery taste of blood lingered in his mouth.

The door to his bedroom was closed. By the noises filtering out, his brother was with a girl. He wanted to get out of the dirty, stained clothes he was wearing. Sebastian knocked, pressing his forehead against the door.

“Go away,” came Romualdo’s reply.

“I need to come in.”

“Go the fuck away.”

Something snapped in Sebastian. Furious, he kicked the door and it slammed open. A naked girl he didn’t know squealed, pulling the covers over herself. Romualdo glared at him.

“What the hell?! What are you doing, barging in...”

Sebastian pulled a duffel bag from under his bed and dumped some clothes in it. When Romualdo stalked towards him, Sebastian stretched up his whole length—which was considerable—and looked his brother in the eye. Romualdo took two steps back and Sebastian returned to the duffel bag, tossing in two books and zipping it closed.

He stopped to look at himself in the bathroom mirror. His left eye was very bruised. It would be purple, swollen, awful in the morning. Caked blood dirtied his collar. He opened the faucet and drank from it, spitting out blood. He washed his face and his hands, took off the soiled clothes and looked at the bruises on his chest.

He changed into dark jeans and a dark shirt, put on a clean jacket and hurried out the door. He strapped the bag to the motorcycle and went to the corner, tossing a couple of coins into the payphone.

Meche answered at the fifth ring.

“Yes?”

“Meche, be downstairs.”

“You’re coming over? Now? It’s nearly midnight.”

“Be there.”

He hung up and by the time he parked his bike across the street from her building, Meche was standing outside, arms crossed and wearing a large grey sweater. She looked annoyed, but as he walked closer her expression changed.

“What happened to you?” she asked. “Did you have an accident?”

“Constantino and his friends beat me up.”

“Why?”

“Because I went out with Isadora tonight.”

“What the hell? What are you going to do?”

He knew what he wanted. No trouble coming up with a picture. It was black on white, very simple.

“Get on the bike. We’re going.”

“My mom’s not going to let me go for a ride at this time of the night, I—”

“No, I mean go as in
go
.”

“What?”

“Run away with me.”

M
ECHE TRIED TO
process the four words properly, but they were too daunting.
Run away with me
.

“Let’s go to Europe together,” he said. “Let’s see the Arctic circle.”

“Okay, unless you have a super-duper motorcycle that can float all the way to...”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean? You’re freaking me out.”

Sebastian leaned down, grabbing her hands between his and pulling her up, so she had to stand on her tiptoes to look at his face.

“I hate this place. I hate this neighbourhood. I hate the kids here. I hate the school. I hate the view from my apartment window. You hate it too. What are we waiting for? Let’s run away together.”

Meche had never seriously considered running away. That’s the kind of stuff people did in the movies, like joining the circus. It didn’t happen in real life. Meche didn’t want to go. She didn’t like high school much but there was her dad, mom, grandma. The records and the computer sitting in the living room. Daniela. Her room with the posters of several bands and the narrow bed. She feared abandoning all that.

“Sebastian, that’s silly,” she whispered.

“Meche, you said you’d never leave me.”

“Come on.”

His hands clutched her own together and he pulled her forward, her knuckles brushing his chest.

“Come with me.”

Meche wondered what was his plan was. Would they just get off in some other city when they ran out of gas? Then, what? What were two teenagers supposed to do to survive? Beg for a coin, wash car windows at the stoplight, sell bubble gum to the drivers? Meche had seen street kids. She didn’t hold any wild dreams that somehow they’d make it to Paris whole, get a garret with a view of the Seine and Sebastian could be a bohemian writer while Meche coded some awesome bit of software which made them millionaires. That was the kind of shit to be found in one of Daniela’s novels. Shit which never happens because when teenagers run away they end up living in some abandoned hovel which smells of piss, prostituting themselves to make ends meet.

“We can cast a spell. We can get the money. We can do it.”

Meche opened her mouth. His face had the kind of need she had never seen in another human being and there was a hunger there she did not understand.

She was fifteen. The intensity of him, of this moment, caught her unprepared. She felt that if she went with Sebastian he’d steal a deep part of her. She would change and she feared this. She feared him, feared what it might mean.

“I am—”

“No,” she said jumping back. “No way.”

Sebastian didn’t believe her. For a long minute he smiled, confident, believing she was just joking. She would laugh soon and tell him of course she was going. His smile died as she backed away, towards the entrance of the building.

He walked back to his motorcycle and jumped on it before turning to look at her.

The look he gave her turned Meche to stone. His face was splintered with pain. He looked ahead and Meche raised her hands, thinking of stopping him, thinking—

Too late. The motorcycle sped away and she walked back into her building.

S
EBASTIAN STOOD OUTSIDE
his apartment building, counting the beats of his heart.

How stupid of him. Idiotic. To think he would do something as silly, and Meche, that she might—

He leaned over the motorcycle, thinking he was about to cry.

“Sebastian?”

He looked up and saw Isadora stepping out of a car, pressing her hands against her mouth. Her driver gave him an indifferent glance, as though he were a stain on the ground.

“I’m so sorry about what happened,” she said.

“What are you doing here?” he muttered.

“I was very worried.”

“I’m alright.”

Isadora walked to his side, squeezing his arm. “He’s a brute,” she whispered. “Oh, I truly am sorry.”

“No broken bones,” he said, wincing. “Just bruises.”

“I should get you to a doctor.”

“I’m fine. Really. I just need some sleep.”

They were both quiet.

Her hand rose and settled on his cheek. She kissed him there and Sebastian couldn’t help smiling, despite everything.

“You’re very brave,” she said. “Again, I’m sorry. I’ll see you at school, alright?”

“Sure.”

She slipped back into the car and waved at him.

The car rolled away and Sebastian stood in the middle of the street, hands in his pockets. He waited there for about ten minutes thinking perhaps Meche might come around.

She did not.

Sebastian took a deep breath and saw the moon hiding, skittish behind a cloud. He shook his head and decided to call it a night, erasing the faint path she had traced in his mind.

T
WO DAYS LATER
she offered him revenge with the same casual tone a vendor at the
tianguis
might offer to discount you a bunch of rotting bananas.

He had not talked to her about the incident. Her refusal stung, the look on her face had torn him apart. There were so many things he wanted to tell her and knew very well he shouldn’t. So he kept his mouth shut.

“We should hex the guys who beat you,” Meche said, licking a chilli lollipop. “Make them pay for what happened.”

It was a cheap trick to buy his sympathy or a blatant misinterpretation of his emotions. Either way, it showed she did not understand him at all.

“Why?”

“They deserve it.”

“It wouldn’t fix anything.”

“Well, we could at least heal your wounds.”

“The exterior ones don’t matter.”

“You are so lame sometimes.”

“Most of the times,” he corrected her.

“Why, if some boys beat you to a bloody pulp, wouldn’t you beat them back? Why—”

“Because they don’t matter,” he snapped at her.

“You’re a pussy.”

“Yeah, and I’m gay too, no? ‘Sebastian Soto, el Joto’, right? Thanks. Many thanks.”

Meche gave her lollipop a final lick and tossed it away, raising a petulant eyebrow at him. No doubt she thought herself very smart, very talented, because of the spells. Superior to him in every way because he was a coward who wouldn’t respond to fire with fire.

“If life offers you something, you should take it,” she said. “Life’s offering you a chance to get even.”

“Take it, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll remember next time.”

He’d show her one day... yeah.

They did not say anything else the rest of the way home.

Mexico City, 2009

S
OMEWHERE BETWEEN THREE
and four a.m. Meche rose from her bed and walked across the room, staring at a wall where there used to be a poster of The Police. It had come down many years before but the wall still bore its outline, the marks of yellowed tape showing where it had been.

This,
she thought,
is the real meaning of a haunting
.

She grabbed her father’s manuscript and went into the kitchen. She made tea and put her earbuds in, idly turning the pages as she took little sips. She ought to read it. Ought to go through the whole thing and yet—

She kept getting distracted.

Around nine in the morning she phoned Daniela.

“Hey,” Meche said. “Today is the last night of the
novena
. I was wondering if you’re coming over.”

“You’ve had a change of heart?”

“I’m leaving soon. I’d like to say goodbye to you.”

“Sure. I’ll be there.”

“Um... Sebastian can come too.”

“Do you want to see him?”

Meche ran a finger down the page, frowning. Yes. No. Both.

“Just tell him it’ll be okay if he comes over.”

“I can give you his phone number. You can phone him yourself.”

“No, it’s fine. I have some stuff to do now. See you.”

Meche pressed her forehead against the table, slowly straightening up.

G
ENTRIFICATION HAD SWEPT
through the
colonia
but it had left the factory intact. There was a sign announcing the upcoming construction of an apartment building in its place, but the factory still stood for now. Still ruinous, the outside now sprayed with all kinds of graffiti.

Meche looked at it, looming over her like a strange stone idol. Their usual entry point had been half-heartedly boarded up, and she pulled the plywood apart easily. She slid in, dragging the portable record player with her.

The interior of the factory—definitely no designer’s wet dream in her younger days—had become even more of an eyesore. Rusted pipes, peeling walls, debris, bits of glass, all these were familiar sights, but twenty years had made the decay more prominent.

Meche climbed the stairs, creating echoes as she moved.

The door to their room was open.

Meche paused before it, holding her breath, and walked in.

It was empty. Disappointment hit her like a wave. She did not know what she had expected to find, but it wasn’t there.

Someone had stolen the couch and the tables. All the posters—the great musical collage she had created—had been taken away.

She moved towards the circular window and looked outside. The neighborhood had changed, but the light filtering through the window still had the same spectral quality and the view was hazy, as though the city were shrouded in mist.