Miss Meteor Read online

  Dedication

  To friends lost, then found again

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Chicky

  Lita

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Books by Tehlor Kay Mejia and Anna-Marie McLemore

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Lita

  THIS IS THE first thing anyone will tell you about Meteor, New Mexico: it was named for a piece of iron and nickel that fell from the sky and cratered into the earth a few miles outside town.

  This is the last thing I’ll ever tell you about me: I came here with it.

  I don’t remember the moment I turned from star-stuff thrown off a meteor into a girl. But I guess that part’s not so strange. No one really remembers being born.

  Some days, Bruja Lupe will almost—almost—admit that we came from the same star-sprinkled patch of sky. That we came here with that small but very overheated rock that fell through the atmosphere more than fifty years ago.

  To everyone around Meteor, Bruja Lupe and I are mother and daughter.

  And I am enough of a daughter to her to know that, at this moment, she is seething.

  Our last appointment of the day is twenty-three minutes late.

  A gringa, no doubt. The gringos are always the latest, assuming we have all day to wait.

  People can make any jokes they want about Mexicans being late, but anyone like us knows better than to show up late to see a curandera.

  When the knock at the door does come, it comes forty-five minutes late.

  Bruja Lupe will show the woman no mercy.

  She huffs over the tablecloth and candles while I answer the front door.

  The woman looks me up and down. She is so thin, her nails so neatly manicured, that I can’t help wondering if she’s looking at my soft arms and bitten-down cuticles.

  “Are you the witch?” she asks.

  I shake my head and lead her inside, where a glaring Bruja Lupe gestures for the woman to lie down on our repurposed dining room table.

  “Yeah, I don’t have a lot of time,” the woman says, dropping her purse on the table, wrinkling the cloth I pressed this morning.

  I try not to gasp. She’s using the table where Bruja Lupe does our remedios like a hat rack.

  Bruja Lupe gives a placid smile.

  No, no mercy at all.

  “I just need to know what color to dye my hair for my reunion,” the woman says. “My ex is gonna be there, and I need him to suffer.”

  Bruja Lupe looks at me, and I try not to sigh.

  What a waste. Doesn’t this woman have a better question to spend her money on?

  “Look into my daughter’s eyes.” Bruja Lupe pushes me forward. “And we will find the answers, for this child holds the heavens within her.”

  Leave it to Bruja Lupe to use poetry to tell our secrets without telling our secrets.

  By now, I’ve seen enough movies to understand I’m not what anyone would expect of a girl who shares blood with the stars. They’d expect thin, fragile, with hair of pale gold or silver and eyes as light as the Out of This World Motel pool. Not a rounded-out girl with skin the color of desert rock, my hair so brown that indoors it looks black, my eyes as dark as our deep-stained dresser.

  I count this as a singular lack of imagination on the part of all those movies. Girls like me don’t all look the same, any more than stars do.

  The woman gives a solemn nod.

  She slouches to gaze into my eyes, as though they might swirl like pinwheels, or like I might shake my head like a Magic 8 Ball, a different answer showing up in each iris.

  Bruja Lupe begins to hum.

  And then screech, like she’s possessed by a spirit.

  She grabs her prop scarves, the ones she never uses except for clients who have thoroughly pissed her off, and throws them in every direction.

  The woman’s eyes widen at the flying cloth, while Bruja Lupe lets her own roll back into her head.

  Then, finally, she wails, “Platinum blond!”

  It’s an unfeeling choice. This woman’s eyes and skin are so pale that with such light hair she’ll have little color at all. When the woman pays and tips us, leaving with a teary “Thank you,” I almost consider following her into the parking lot and saying so.

  But I let the woman leave.

  We have to pay rent somehow.

  Only, soon, Bruja Lupe’s going to have to do it without me.

  The front door clicks shut.

  “Was that really necessary?” I ask.

  “Who’s the mother here?” Bruja Lupe asks, pulling the cloth off the table, blowing out each of the candles she lit for absolutely no reason. “You or me?”

  Why Bruja Lupe got to be the older one, and thus in charge, I’ll never know. One theory is that I’m just slower at everything, including making a girl out of myself. Another is that the stuff I am made of spooled off a young star, while the star-stuff that became Bruja Lupe is steady as an iron core, molten and metal. Whatever the reason, it’s always struck me as highly unfair that she got to skip being my age entirely, and I have to spend four years at Meteor Central High.

  To everyone here in Meteor, I am fifteen years old. And that’s just as well, because I may know I am made of star-stuff, but I don’t remember the way it feels to be anything but the girl I am.

  Bruja Lupe glances my direction. “I only cheat those who ask for the wrong things. Lo sabes.”

  It’s true. For those who want to know if they’ll become rich, she pretends to see the future between the coffee maker and the microwave. Last month, she gave a useless tincture to a woman who wanted her sister written out of their parents’ will. For the man who wanted a spell to keep his wife from noticing he was cheating, she kept screaming without warning and throwing hierbas in the man’s face.

  Bruja Lupe puts some of the money in her purse, some in a drawer, and hands some to me.

  Any further complaint disappears off my tongue.

  I’ll add the little bit of money to the other little bits of money I keep under my bed. Bruja Lupe probably thinks I use it on soda or lipstick, but I’ve saved it all for her, a small offering left behind for when I’m gone.

  After the woman drives away, I lie on my bed, clutching my stomach, trying to hold myself together. I don’t lift my shirt because I don’t want to see it, the strip of my stomach that looks like a little Milky Way, the first part of me that is turning back into stardust.

  “Oh, Estrellita.” Bruja Lupe sighs from the door.

  Her pity is never a good sign. Bruja Lupe doesn’t offer pity for fevers, stomach f
lu, or sprained ankles. The fact that she offers it now means I can’t ignore this.

  I am turning back into the stardust I once was.

  She knows it. And her knowing it means I have to know it.

  I could feel sorry for myself. I could stay curled up on my bed and lament the ways in which the sky is taking me back, the ways in which I am losing myself. But the truth is, I started losing myself a while ago.

  It happened around the same time my best friend stopped being my best friend.

  Sometimes I wonder if Chicky and I stopped being friends because she saw it, the stardust under my skin. Maybe she realized that the name everyone calls me—Lita—is short for Estrellita. Little star. Maybe she began to think of me like a mermaid or a unicorn or something else she had to decide didn’t exist.

  I doubt it though. I may be made out of the same dust and glow as the lights in the sky, but if you read any of the astronomy books in the library—you’ll realize, isn’t everyone?

  Chicky

  WHEN YOU LIVE in a three-bedroom house with five other people, you learn quickly how to minimize your time in the bathroom.

  Heels click impatiently outside, manicured nails rapping. There’s always a ride coming, or a party starting, or a shift to get to. There’s always an emergency, and it’s never mine. Tonight, the voices increase, decibel by decibel. I don’t answer, because I don’t have to. What can they do? It’s the only door in the house that locks from the inside.

  In front of me, in a bathroom shared between four sisters, stands an arsenal of beauty supplies. Liners, shadows, powders, masks. Polishes and mascaras and highlighters. In front of me, my face’s own reflection stands staunchly naked, brown and a little freckled. A protest flag.

  My name is Chicky Quintanilla, it says. And I won’t be painted like a doll.

  The mantra is almost enough to get me out the door unscathed.

  “It’s about time!”

  “Are you serious?! What were you even doing in there? You look the same!”

  “Berto’s gonna be here any second! Move!”

  “Girls, let’s keep it to a dull roar, please. Your mother’s balancing the books.”

  The hallway creaks under the boots my mom raised her eyebrows at in the department store, and I like the sound. It means I’m causing a small reaction, even in the din. It says I was here, even if it doesn’t say it loudly. I’m never saying anything loudly. Not here, not anywhere.

  “Chicky?” my mom calls from her office—a renovated closet once full of board games with missing pieces. She sits in there like a queen on a throne with the accounting books she barely keeps out of the red, so proud of the space she’s earned by keeping our family’s diner running for a decade. Dad fixed up the closet/office for her on her thirty-fifth birthday. He’s not great with practical stuff like bills, but he cares, you know?

  “Hey,” I say, shaking my hair out of my eyes, exposing them for once.

  Brown today, green tomorrow, my dad always says. But that sunflower in the middle always stays the same.

  “Sit with me while I balance?”

  There’s loud music to listen to, and magazine pictures to cut out and stick to the walls, and sure, homework to do, if I get that desperate. But I make myself at home on the rag rug in the corner anyway, not caring about the tiny cat hairs that immediately adhere to my diner uniform.

  I wish I could say I stay because I love my mom. I mean, I really do, but tonight it’s about something more. My eyes are scanning everything—the chair with the stuffing poking through, the three-light-bulb lamp with two burned out, the worn spot on her shoe that’s about to become a full-on hole.

  To everyone in Meteor, New Mexico, the Quintanillas are a family of self-starters, immigrant parents who came across the border “the right way” (as if there’s a right way to run from danger) and built a business that’s become a town institution.

  Never mind that half the customers have tabs in the triple digits that they never intend to pay. Never mind the worry lines beside my mom’s eyes, and the sleepless pacing of my dad’s sneakers down the hallways during tax season.

  Four beautiful girls, the neighbors say. Though the youngest is a little odd with her flannel shirts and her boy’s haircut.

  We get good grades, we help out at the diner, and we stay out of trouble for the most part. Between that and the neon Open sign that clicks on every day at seven a.m., we must have it all, right? Not like those other immigrants. The “lowlifes and criminals” the news is always screaming about.

  As if financial security is any measure of a person’s character. Or their humanity.

  Personally, I consider those stereotypes a singular and offensive lack of imagination on the part of the news. But I probably shouldn’t be surprised by that.

  “What’s on your mind, Banana?” my mom asks, and I grimace.

  “Mom, please,” I say for at least the billionth time.

  She laughs, and the sound is so bright and rare, like a butterfly in a rainstorm that lands right on your finger and just makes you marvel at the fact that life can exist. I vow at that moment to never give her grief about my name again. She deserves better.

  “Should I say Chiquita instead?” she asks, her smile young, her pen forgotten atop the painstaking columns of numbers that never seem to add up to a new dryer, or a radiator for the car. “Your grandmother was awfully fond of it.” She looks up at the picture above her makeshift desk, and her smile changes temperatures, cools into something nostalgic like the autumn wind that only blows one week out of the year in the New Mexico desert.

  The photo should be in the Smithsonian, and that’s not an exaggeration. Not because it’s particularly good artistically, but because it documents an actual, modern-day miracle. My sisters and I, existing in the same two feet of space, without anyone being maimed or ridiculed.

  In the picture, we almost look happy.

  The Quintanilla girls are all named by an archaic tradition that has persisted through you don’t want to know how many generations. Exactly twenty-six days before a Quintanilla baby’s birth, her bisabuela will have a dream that decides her name. She hands it down like the verdict of a grand jury, and no one dares question it. Even if the name is something really stupid, like say, Chiquita.

  From oldest to youngest my sisters smile from the frame, and as my mother gazes at it I swear I will try to love them, if only for this moment, and if only for her sake.

  Cereza, the eldest, tart and sweet like the fruit our father’s grandmother dreamed of picking in a summer rainstorm. No one argues with Cereza, not even Papa. With her dyed red hair curling to her waist and every diner customer wrapped around her nude manicure, she’s juggling nursing college, too. She’s the queen of the family, the daughter we should all aspire to be. Sometimes we all secretly hate her for it.

  Next to her is Uva, named for bisabuela’s dream about stomping grapes between her bare brown toes. Round and smiling, full of the giddy headiness of young wine (bisabuela’s words, not mine, Uva’s the peacekeeper. The common thread. The comic relief. She’s the kindest and the best of us.

  Beside her is Fresa, la princesa, the apple of Papa’s eye and the cruelest and most beautiful of us all. I’ve thought on more than one occasion that my parents should have stopped there, with this sweet and wicked sister, the balancing fire, the face and figure that made her the second runner-up in the Miss Meteor pageant last year. She tells anyone who’ll listen that if there wasn’t a rule against entering twice, she’d have the crown this year.

  Her boyfriend, Berto, who drives a vintage Camaro, claims she tastes like the strawberries she was named for when bisabuela dreamed of flowering vines crawling across the desert, digging in deep and cracking open the ground before their fruit swelled bloodred.

  I know it’s just her lip gloss. Two ninety-nine at Meteor Mart. She buys them five at a time.

  Mama clucks her tongue, drawing me out of the photo, as if her disapproval can change the earning and spe
nding totals her neat hand follows down each column.

  There’s only one sister left to examine, and of course, it’s me.

  Twenty-six days before my birth, my bisabuela dreamed of the dancing girl with the fruit-filled hat from the banana commercials, smiling and spinning circles beneath a thousand twinkling lights. No one dared name me banana, of course, but bisabuela didn’t hesitate. She’d always liked that girl, with her bold dress and her wide smile, and so she handed down my name. Decided my future.

  Chiquita, she said. And that was that.

  I decided the rest for myself, by becoming as unlike a girl named Chiquita as I could. With my awkward, gangly limbs and my perpetual slouch, straight black hair that flops heavily into my eyes with or without my permission, I’m more likely to scowl than smile, more likely to stay up worrying than to drunkenly giggle at a boy around a desert fire in an oil can.

  I like dark jeans, and sweatshirts with thumbholes in the sleeves, and when I’m older, I’m going to convince Mom to let me get a nose ring.

  But until then I’m just Chicky, a tomboy at best, the least popular girl in Meteor Central High’s sophomore class. The girl who should have been as pretty as her sisters, but just isn’t. The girl who doesn’t have a single friend.

  I had a friend once, who was bright where I was dull, who smiled where I scowled. I caught her like a falling star one night just after kindergarten let out for the summer, and I never dreamed I’d let her go.

  My mom asked me once, what happened to Estrellita, the girl who saw worlds, and I mumbled something about growing up and growing apart.

  It wasn’t the truth.

  The truth is this: Bisabuela wasn’t wrong when she dreamed of the dancing girl on the surface, toes barely touching the earth. But she should have named me for the earth below her feet. The depths she never plunged. Because when people start to dig in, I run. There’s too much darkness down there.

  Lita found that out the hard way, and we never quite recovered.

  In a town this small, for girls like us, survival is based mostly on how well you can camouflage, not on dredging up the bloodred and sunshine yellow of your secrets and splattering them across your chest.

  But if you read about warfare in any of the history books in the library you’ll ask yourself: Isn’t it that way for everyone?