“Skye, I know you’ve always thought of them as family, but they go where MaMaLu’s work takes her. I’m sure they just wanted to make this easy for you.”
“I don’t believe you.” I pushed him away. “I’m not going anywhere until I see them.”
“Those can stay,” my father said to Abella, who was tucking away the paper creations that Esteban had made for me.
“I’m not leaving those behind!” I grabbed the box from her.
“We only have room for important stuff, Skye, and we have to be quick about it. We leave for the airport soon. I need you to help Abella, and get ready. Can you do that, Skye?”
“No! I won’t! I’m not going anywhere. I’m not packing anything. You go.”
“Skye—”
“You’re always gone anyways. I’m staying here, and when MaMaLu finds out, she’ll come back and we’ll—”
“Skye!”
I don’t know which of us was more surprised when he slapped me. It was hard and sharp, and it stung. The box fell out of my hands and we both stared at the paper animals lying at our feet.
“When are you going to understand that they’re just the help?” said my father. “They’re not blood, they’re not family. The only person you can count on is me. And the only person I can count on is you. Everything else and everyone else will come and go. If MaMaLu and Esteban want to see you, they will find a way. And you can write to them. As often as you like. But we have to leave now, Skye. We don’t have a choice.”
And so I’d gone, even though I kept turning back as we left Casa Paloma. I thought I heard Esteban calling my name, but all I saw through the rear window were plumes of dust as we drove down the dirt road. I turned back when we left Mexico. I turned back when we landed in the States. I turned back every time I saw a boy with skin like Esteban, and I turned back every time I caught a glimpse of long, dark hair adorned with flowers.
After a while, I stopped turning back because MaMaLu and Esteban never replied to the strawberry scented letters I sent, or the carefully glued photo collages I made: This is my new school. This is my new room. This is my new address. This is my new hair cut because my hair grew too long and there’s no one to brush it for me, now. I miss you, MaMaLu. Write back, Esteban. On five, okay?
Eventually, I buried the memories, along with the hurt. Our trip to San Diego turned out to be a permanent stay. When my father slapped me that day, he’d slammed the door shut—my world had turned wary and guarded. Family is family. Friends aren’t forever. Everything will break. People say goodbye. Get too close and you get hurt.
When Damian slapped me, he’d blown the same world apart, bringing down tiny little pieces that I was still trying to put together. There was more to the story than my father had told me. MaMaLu and Esteban hadn’t just left without saying goodbye. Something had happened. Something that had turned Esteban into Damian.
I thought he’d chopped and dyed my hair black to keep people from recognizing me, but he’d done it for himself, so I bore no resemblance to the girl he used to know. Damian was set on revenge for whatever horrible, terrible thing he thought my father had done, and whatever associations he had of me were buried so deep in his psyche that he was able to do horrible, terrible things to me. He treated me like a thing rather than a person to safeguard himself. He hurt me, humiliated me, shut out my voice, my face, my tears. But once in a while, those memories came back, and they still meant something because they shook him out of the red haze of anger and hatred. The Esteban I knew was in there somewhere, and he’d heard me praying for him. He was the only reason I was still alive.
I didn’t know how long I had, but I knew there was no point asking Damian to explain why he was doing this. He would never have come this far if he didn’t feel justified. There was only one person who could get through to him.
I had to find a way to get to MaMaLu before it was too late.