“Close the door,” I tell Rose after our parents head downstairs.
I sit cross-legged on my faded flower-pattern rug as Alex prepares for the canto. Since she embraced her power, her brown eyes have tiny gold flecks, and her hair falls in thick, lustrous waves. She even wears it loose around her shoulders, and I think it’s because Rishi likes to twirl it around her finger when they think we’re not looking. There’s a light inside of her. The light of an encantrix and a girl in love. I hate to say I told you so, but I did tell her so. Magic transforms you. Magic changes you. Magic saves you.
I want to still believe in all those things.
Rose cleans up my altar, sneezing when she breathes in layers of dust. She lights a candle for El Amor, Deo of Love and Fervor. Beside it, she lights a candle for La Mama, Ruler of the Sun and Mother of all the Deos.
“Gross, Lula. When was the last time you cleaned your altar?” Rose asks, wiping her fingers on the front of her jeans.
I only shrug and lie back on the floor. She sits at my feet and holds my ankles. This isn’t for magic. I think she’s just trying to comfort me in the only way she knows how. Alex kneels right over my head. A year ago, Alex kept her power bottled up. Now, she calls on it easily. She pulls the smoke from the candles, elongating it between her fingertips like a cat’s cradle until it encircles the three of us like a dome.
Next, Alex rips the head off a long-stemmed, white rose and sets the petals in a bowl. Our magic, our brujeria, isn’t only about putting herbs together and chanting rhymes. Anyone could do that. This canto has no words, just the sweet hum my sister makes as she sifts through the rose petals. The rise of her magic fills the room, settles along my skin like silk.
One by one, she places each petal on my face. She hums until she’s covered every inch of pearlescent scar tissue and I’m wearing a mask made of roses. She pushes her power into the rose mask, and slowly, it takes on her magic. The petals heat up and soften, melting into my scars like second skin.
I’m never ready for the next part, but I grab the carpet and brace myself. Glamour magic requires pain. I hiss when it stings like hot needles jabbing into my flesh.
“Maybe we should stop,” Rose tells Alex.
I shake my head once. “I’m okay. I swear.”
Alex keeps going, holding her hands over my face, waves of heat emanating from her palms. I breathe and grind my teeth through the discomfort.
“There,” Alex says.
The earthy sweetness of roses in bloom fills my bedroom. Nothing coats the senses quite like roses do. Alex and I lock eyes, and there is so much I want to say. Thank you. I’m sorry. Are you okay? Her face, right where my scars should be, darkens with red splotches. I recognize the recoil of glamour magic—bruises and redness that match the person being worked on. All magic comes with a cost. The cyclical give-and-take of the universe to keep us balanced.
She never complains though. She smiles. Stands. Busies herself with her phone.
I go to my dresser and I pull out a round hand mirror that I got at a garage sale for a dollar. It’s a dull metal but makes me feel like the Evil Queen from Snow White. When I was little, I used to root for Snow, but lately, I feel the queen was way misunderstood. Women with power always get a bad rep.
My mood changes instantly when I look at myself in the mirror. I feel like I’m bound to this bit of magic that gives me back a part of myself, even if it’s superficial. The scars are gone. The Bellaza Canto is a stronger form of glamour. When I touch the area where the four claw marks are supposed to be, there is nothing there but flawless, sun-kissed skin.
“Mirror, mirror,” I whisper to my reflection, tilting my face from side to side.
I grab my favorite pink lipstick and apply it. It’s a coral shade that brings out the honey brown of my skin and make my gray eyes stormier. I fluff my mane of black curls and rub my lips together to make sure my lipstick is even. I wish I could make this feeling last. For now, I’m going to enjoy it until the next time.
“Thank you,” I tell Alex, and press a sticky kiss on her cheek.
“Gross,” she mutters, wiping it off. Then she picks up the decapitated rose stem and bowl of unused petals. “Let’s go, Rosie.”
My phone chimes and my heart flutters when I see Maks’s name on the screen. I’m outside.
I analyze the message as I put on my socks. His texts get shorter and shorter every day. Part of it is my fault for being so distant. Ever since Los Lagos, shadows seem to leap around every corner and crowds make me feel as if I’m sinking, my head barely above water. Nothing puts a big, fat hex on a social life like the fear of monsters only I can see.
“Today will be better,” I tell my reflection, slipping into Maks’s letterman jacket before I run down the stairs.
“See you at the game!” my mom shouts.
I wave as I zoom out the door and into Maks’s car parked out front. The minute I’m outside the house, I can breathe again. When I’m around Maks, I don’t have to think about magic, and I’m ready to sink into the comfort of his humanity.
“Hey,” Maks says, not looking up.
He fiddles with the radio stations, but they’re all staticky. He ends up plugging in his phone. His personal coach doesn’t believe in kissing, or anything else exciting, on game day. I want to believe that’s why his voice is distant and that’s why he isn’t reaching for my hand. But seeing him fills me with a sense of need—the need to be my old self. The need to be happy. So I press my lips on his cheek and leave the pink imprint of my mouth.
“You’re in a good mood,” he says, thick, black brows knitting in confusion, and I’m bothered that he sounds so surprised. His knee shakes a little, and I place my hand on it to try to comfort him. He always gets nervous before games. But he’s the best goalie the school has seen in years. Nothing gets past him.
“Last game of the year. It’s a big deal.” I smile when he looks at me before putting the car in drive. Relief washes over me when he takes my hand in his and kisses my knuckles, then speeds down the empty Brooklyn street.
“We’ve beaten Van Buren like six hundred times, but they’re still a solid team.” He squeezes my hand once, then lets it go.
“You okay?” I ask. As a healer, I can sense the tension knotting his aura. He’s always nervous before a game, but today it’s worse than usual. Maybe I’m feeling the residual magic from Alex’s canto. My magic has been way off.
At the red light, he turns to me. His hair is combed back at the top and his edges are freshly buzzed. I brush my fingers at his nape, where the barber didn’t brush off all the stray hairs.
“Lula,” he says my name like a sigh.
He turns to me again. I can’t tell what he’s searching for, but when I look at him, really look at him, I remember why I fell for him. The sweet, caring boy whose smile made me dizzy. I always keep a sprig of hydrangeas on my altar because they remind me of his eyes.
We both start when someone honks behind us, and he faces the road again.
“I was thinking,” I say, trying to make my voice low and playful, but I end up feeling silly, “we could do something after the game. Just the two of us.”
“I already told the team they could party at my house. My parents are on a business trip, and my sister’s already at Uki camp for the summer.”
I shouldn’t be annoyed, but I am. I tell myself he’s just tired. He’s been practicing extra hard. He’s going to Boston College on a soccer scholarship and wants to be at the top of his game.
“We haven’t really been alone in a while,” I say.
“That’s not my fault.”
“It’s not my fault either. Look, I don’t want to fight.”
Another red light. He shakes his head, like he’s dispersing the thought he just had.
“What?”
“I’m just saying”—he sighs and flicks on his turn signal—“we haven’t been alone because you never feel like being alone. You’ve been so off, and I don’t know what to do anymore.”