Tortilla Sun (3 page)

Judging by the size of the handwriting, I counted out how many letters I thought might fit in the small space. Maybe six or seven? It was almost as frustrating as trying to finish a story. Maybe it wasn’t even good for wishing anymore with the words rubbed out, but it was still my dad’s and I had a feeling that those missing words mattered.

With the ball in hand, I stepped into the courtyard and walked past the fountain onto a small lawn that led to a rose garden. Past the roses, a small slope cascaded down to a grove of trees that seemed to go on forever. Shadows danced and played beneath the swaying branches in the setting sun.

I tossed the ball up, up toward the wispy clouds beyond the treetops. And with a rush it fell back down from the sky. The weight of the ball dropping into my hands felt safe and solid, giving me confidence. So I skipped the ball off a few tree trunks and ran to scoop it up. But with one poorly aimed throw, it bounced into a nearby bush. I dropped on all fours to search for it, but couldn’t see much in the shadows of the grove.

“Where are you?” I murmured.

When I stretched my arm into the tangled underbrush, it got caught in the branches. “Ouch!” I removed my arm swiftly and surveyed the small scrapes across my wrist and elbow. Getting the baseball out wasn’t going to be so easy. I plunked down at the foot of a large cottonwood, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. A light breeze caressed my cuts. Drifting off, I heard whispers bounce off the trees, and had a strange feeling I wasn’t alone.

Whoosh, whoosh
.

After the faintest
whoosh
, one word echoed clearly across the grove:
Come
.

I pressed my back against the tree and scanned the area.

“Who’s there?” I called.

Come …

The breeze wrapped itself around me. I started to make a run for it but then I remembered my baseball nudged under that nasty bush. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving it there, not overnight. Just as I was about to reach into the thorny branches again, it rolled out from under the bush on its own. In one swift motion, I snatched it up and dashed back toward Nana’s, hoping and praying there was enough sunlight to lead the way. My feet raced over the lawn and the breeze followed me. Only when I reached the house and bolted Estrella’s French doors behind me did I exhale at last, my hot breath fogging up the glass.

I darted into the hall to grab Mary’s picture from the wall. Back in the room, I propped the painting up against the French doors, figuring she’d be better protection from whatever was outside in the trees than a little lock.

“You’re back,” Nana said from the doorway. “Is everything okay?”

I whipped around, clutching my chest. “You surprised me. Oh yeah, just tired. Thought I’d go to sleep.”

Nana glanced toward Mary against the French doors and back toward me.

“I … I was just looking at it more closely.”

“You are welcome to anything in this house,
mija
.” Nana’s soft caramel eyes glistened.

Glancing out the window, I nodded slowly.

“I left a burrito by the bed if you’re hungry.” She tilted her head to one side and stared intently at me. “I am so happy you are finally here. Let me know if you need anything.” She turned to leave. “Breakfast is at seven o’clock sharp.”

“In the morning?”

Nana laughed and closed the door.

Sinking into the chair at the desk with flaking green paint, I flipped through my story cards until I found a blank one and wrote,
Gypsy found an enchanted forest where the wind spoke to her.

If Mom were here she would have said, “Be reasonable, Izzy. There must be a logical reason why you heard a voice in the wind.”

I repeated the word
logical
over and over as I tried to piece together the events of the day, and that’s when I remembered the herbs I ate with the tea. Maybe they had a strange effect on people who weren’t used to them, like making them think they heard things.

A few moments later I lay in bed listening to the silence. I longed for the familiar sounds of home: the low hum of traffic, beeping horns, the distant buzz of the street lights. Wedges of moonlight shone across the wall above my bed where an angel statue hung. He had small delicate glass eyes that stared down at me, and one wing stretching upward. I’d never seen an angel with a missing wing. Starlight danced across the angel’s face and for just a moment I didn’t feel so alone.

And I soon realized I wasn’t, because I heard a hushed male voice coming from the walls. I sat up and strained to hear, but couldn’t make out the words. I slipped from bed and tiptoed toward a long turquoise Indian rug hanging near the closet. Behind it was a padlocked door. I pressed my ear against it.

“Who’s there?” the stranger’s voice said.

I jerked back, unsure of what to do. Settled on waking Nana, I turned and headed toward the hall when I heard, “How about
some music?” and then a guitar strummed softly. A sweet melody drifted through the walls, filling the room with a steady rhythm that slowed my feet and quieted my mind.

“Who are you?” I whispered as I climbed into bed.

The next morning, sweet smells floated under the bedroom door, urging me to get up. I blinked at the clock on my nightstand: 6:45.

I shuffled to the kitchen and found Nana swaying to the Spanish ballads on the radio. Her soft yellow dress swayed with her, nearly sweeping the floor. Another woman sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee. The woman winked at me and smiled.

“You must be Isadora.” She had a thick Spanish accent, and had on her “painted face,” as Mom would have said. Thick black pencil lined her upper eyelids and her lips were filled in past their natural line with orange lipstick that matched her bright orange sundress dotted with little pink roses.

“Izzy,” I said as I tried to straighten my messy hair by tucking it behind my ears.

I pictured myself on top of the roof shouting to the whole village: Newsflash. My name is Izzy, NOT Isadora!

Nana turned down the music. “
Buenos días, mijita
. This is Mrs. Castillo. Her husband is the one who brought you home yesterday.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Castillo.” I sat next to her at the long pine table in the middle of the kitchen.

She waved her arms vigorously. “No, no, no. You call me Tía.”

I didn’t know much Spanish but I knew enough to know
tía
meant aunt and that she wasn’t my aunt.

She must’ve read my mind. “All the kids in the village call me Tía. It sounds so much younger than Mrs., don’t you think?”

I nodded to be polite before a yawn slipped out.

Nana chuckled. “Your mama was never an early riser either. She used to show up in her robe just like you, hair all tousled about her face. Half the time she had her eyes closed.”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “Well, she’s changed a lot then. She usually leaves the house before I’m even up for school.”

“Well, who feeds you?”

“Nana, I’m twelve years old. I can pour myself some cereal.”

Nana shook her head. “Not in this house. No siree. You will eat home-cooked
comida
every day. No wonder you’re just skin and bones.”

I felt swallowed by my robe all of a sudden and pulled the tie around my waist tighter.

Mrs. Castillo set her coffee cup on the table and examined her long red nails, then turned her attention back to Nana. “Did you hear Ramona is quitting the church?”

Nana spun around. “Really?”

Mrs. Castillo nodded. “It’s that man she’s been dating. The old coot. He’s brainwashed her into thinking she won’t get into heaven unless she goes to his church in the city.”

Nana nodded with concern.

“So what are we doing today?” I interrupted.

Nana looked at me and smiled like she had forgotten I was there. Then she snapped her fingers above her head and spun around. “
La fiesta
, remember?”

I wondered if I was going to like this party.

Mrs. Castillo added, “There’ll be
música
. My son plays the guitar. His room is on the other side of the door in your room.”

“Is that who I heard talking last night?” I said.

Mrs. Castillo frowned. “Did he keep you awake? I told him you were here and to be quiet.”

Nana slid scrambled eggs and
chorizo
onto a plate and set it before me. “Mateo’s bedroom backs up to yours. I rent the front of the house to the Castillos. I didn’t want to close off the walls permanently, so we just bolt the doors closed for privacy.

“Before that, this house felt like a wide open canyon. I’m too old to be filling so many empty spaces.”

I folded the eggs into a
tortilla
and pushed the spicy sausage to the side. “How old is he?”

“Thirteen,” Mrs. Castillo said.

“He’s a nice boy. All soap and water,” Nana said.

“And good-looking too,” Mrs. Castillo added with a wide grin and a wink.

“His father helps me a great deal around here.” Nana said. “Don’t worry,
mija
. He can’t unlock the door.”

The back of my neck grew warm. “Soap and water?” I could barely understand Nana’s Spanish and now her English confused me.

Nana laughed. “Sweet and clean.”

Mrs. Castillo wore a gold ring on every finger. She twisted each mindlessly. “Well, I better get to the beauty shop.” She stood and kissed Nana on the cheek.
“Gracias por el café.”
She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek too!
“Adiós.”
Then she sashayed out of the room, her chubby ankles hanging over her strappy high heels.

Nana leaned against the table. “Do you want to sleep somewhere else? There are several rooms to choose from. I just thought you’d like to sleep in your mom’s old room.”

My mouth was stuffed with eggs and
tortilla
, so I just shook my head back and forth. The thought of packing and unpacking
again
sounded awful. I hated to admit it, but I’d never slept in such a pretty room and kind of liked it. “That room belonged to my mom?”

“Sí
. You seem surprised.”

“Just doesn’t seem like her.” I shook my head, thinking about the swirling blue walls. “Why do you think she never brought me here to visit?” I tossed my head back and stuffed the last bit of
tortilla
into my mouth before the eggs spilled out the end.

Nana turned toward the sink and began to wash the dishes. “You know how busy she is. Sometimes plans stretch so long and thin that they break and you’re left with no plans at all.”

She turned to me and wiped her wet hands across her apron. “But I am just pink and joy that you are here for the entire summer. I have waited a long time to get to know you and show you your culture.”

“You mean tickled pink?”

“No.” Nana batted her hand in the air. “Those clichés are just for unoriginal people. I use words that feel right, not sound right.”

By late afternoon, I had hung star-shaped metal lanterns from the trees, set white plastic chairs against the tables, and hung a lime-colored donkey
piñata
from the twisted tree in the center of the yard. I draped multicolored cloths across the tables and lit all thirty-five votive candles at the center of each. The smell of
tamales
,
enchiladas
, and beans floated through the air. My stomach grumbled.

“Need some help?”

I spun around. A boy about my age stood in the shadows with a multicolored cloth in his hands.

“Uh, no. I think I’ve got it.”

“You’re Izzy, right?”

I folded my arms across my chest. “Yeah. Who are you?”

He grinned as he set the cloth on a nearby table. “I’m Mateo. Your nana told me and pretty much everyone else all about you.”

The guy behind the wall!

Mateo stepped into the light, his toffee brown eyes dancing. “So you’re from California, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s it like there?”

I shrugged. “Sunny.”

He laughed. “That’s it? Just sunny?”

I didn’t know what he wanted me to say. “Yeah. I guess the beach is cool. Have you ever been?”

He shook his head and a wave of dark hair fell over his left eye. “Nope. Not yet. But I plan on it someday. Is there a lot of treasure there?”

“Treasure?”

He reached up with both arms and leaned on one of the overhead branches. “Yeah, you know like legends of buried treasure and stuff.”

“I’ve never heard of any.”

“I was just wondering because I was reading this book on the West and how lots has never been found. We have treasure buried near the village. And since I’m a treasure hunter, I thought I’d check it out.”

I chuckled and peered more closely at him to make sure he wasn’t teasing me. “A treasure hunter?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna be an archaeologist.”

“Have you ever found anything?”

“Not yet, but I will. Got the map and everything.” He dropped his arms from the hanging branch, stuffed a hand into his pocket and pulled out a map.

I reached out to touch it, but he jerked his hand back. “You can’t touch it.”

“Why not?” I asked, twisting a loose thread on the hem of my T-shirt around my pinky.

He raised his hands and shook his head. “It’s just … this legend. It says the map can only be touched by someone who’s brave or the treasure won’t be found. That’s why I always carry it with me.”

What made him so brave? I flipped my hair back and lifted my chin proudly. “I’m brave.”

He smiled and his eyes widened. “You look brave. But I need to be sure.”

Over Mateo’s shoulder, I saw a tall, elegant woman approach the house carrying a plate covered by foil. She wore a white, billowy sundress that hung to her feet. She looked like a distant cloud floating across heaven. Her dark hair hung to her waist, peeking out from under a layer of white streaks, like moonbeams illuminating the midnight sky.

As she opened the back door, she turned slowly and gazed directly at me. My chest grew heavy under the weight of her intense gaze. I couldn’t turn away.

“What are you staring at?” Mateo asked, turning to see.