depictions of cantos gone wrong. Many brujas and brujos find their

deaths by trying to overstep the limits of their magic. If I’m

supposed to be this all-powerful bruja, then I should be able to

handle it. Mom says that you have to believe in that which you ask of

the gods, and I believe in mine.

When I find the canto I’m looking for, my magic rattles inside me

like a beast in a cage. I tiptoe through to our other supply closet,

full of votive candles and shells and everything a bruja needs. I grab

a single black feather from a female raven-the messenger of the Lady

de la Muerte. She’s a hooded woman with a cane, and the worst omen you

get during a card reading.

The sky starts to brighten. Red stains the fat clouds that hide

the sun. I’m running out of time. I feel like my future is slipping

from my fingers. I want to do everything I can to hold on. My eyes

burn as I read the text once again. I may not want anything to do with

being a bruja, but I’ve always been a good student.

The depiction of the Banishing Canto is virtually recoil free.

Side effects look like severe drowsiness and temporary paralysis. I’m

prepared for the recoil to hurt. A moment of pain is better than a

lifetime of being hunted.

Somewhere downstairs, I hear my mother’s footsteps. Every morning

at five, she puts on a strong pot of coffee and makes buttered toast.

I leave the Book of Cantos on my bed and start to get ready for

today’s festivities. I lock myself in the bathroom. I run the shower

as hot as possible. I scrub my skin until it’s red, and I wonder where

cantos go. I wonder if there is an endless vortex or a big space dump

where this stuff ends up. Every wish, every prayer has to go

somewhere, right? I mean, do the gods even listen?

I lose track of how long I’ve been in the shower until Lula bangs

on the door.

“Just because it’s your party doesn’t mean you can take your sweet

time! I have to do your hair.”

When I don’t answer, all I hear is a grunt and what I presume is a

hair flip because she can’t storm out without a good hair flip.

I lather my body in rose oil and stand in front of the mirror to

air dry.

“You can do this,” I tell my reflection.

I put on a brave face and go to Lula’s room, where my dress and

flowers are laid out.

“Let me work my magic,” Lula says, like we’re regular girls

getting ready for a regular birthday party instead of sister brujas

ready to wake the dead.

• • •

Mama Juanita used to say that when you drop a spoon, get ready for

company, probably from a vindictive woman. A fork-a handsome man. A

knife-lock the doors and windows. Since I’ve literally wrecked our

kitchen twice in a week, I don’t even want to think of what’s in store

for me today.

Every single surface is filled with fat, white candles and pulsing

flames. Dozens of brujas and brujos fill the house in their Deathday

best. Lady’s turquoise head wrap is tall, accented with dozens of tiny

crystals. Great-Aunt Esperanza shimmers in the colors of a peacock

with a fascinator of the same bird’s feathers. Our distant cousins,

the brujas from Lula’s circle, are done up in chiffon skirts and silk

blouses covered in glitter. You’d think it was their birthday and not

mine. When I think of family, I think of Mom, Lula, and Rose. When my

mom thinks of family, she means everyone related to us by a single

drop of blood or marriage.

I smooth down my simple, white dress covered in hand-stitched

little flowers along the neckline. Traditional. Plain. Functional.

It’s going to get stained anyway.

“Rose, get back here!” I hiss.

But she leaves my side and dives straight for the tray of guava

and brie empanadas.

Uncle Gladios makes a beeline for me. He holds my face with his

grizzly hands. Traces of sweet sugarcane rum and cigar smoke cling to

his clothes.

“You are a woman now,” he says. “I knew there had to be great

power in you.”

I put on a smile when all I want to do is roll my eyes. It’s

always nice when your older male relatives tell you how great it is to

be a woman now , like I was an androgynous experiment before. I duck

out of his grip before he caves my head in.

The hugging and face pinching goes on for a while. Aunts and

uncles and cousins touch my hair and dress and necklace. Suddenly I

feel like there are too many people in my house. It’s too loud, too

much, too bright.

Old Samuel drags his conga drums across the living room. He wears

a white tunic with tiny mirrors sewn across the chest. The mirrors are

to ward off bad spirits because they can’t stand to see their own

reflections. Lady’s deep voice shouts orders about where the ceremony

will take place. Crazy Uncle Julio brought a lonely pink balloon, and

it’s already started to sag in the corner.

Lula comes over and holds my hand. She stands straight and defiant

as eyes linger on the scars on her cheek. Her hair is braided around

her head like a crown, and instead of traditional flowers, she opted

for a veiled fascinator covered in gems. She pulls on the veil to make

sure it falls over her scars, and for the first time, I see a chink in

my sister’s armor.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her.

“Not now.” She holds my hand tighter, and we do a lap around the

living room.

Lula elbows me hard and nods at the group of newcomers. She

whistles just loud enough for me to hear.

“That’s a drink of water and a half.”

“Gross, we’re probably related,” I remind her.

Rose shakes her head on her way to the punch bowl. “No, we’re

not.”

But when Nova turns around, dressed in a blue button-down that

frames his broad chest and shoulders, the magic in my belly tugs, and

a warm pain passes over me. His earrings wink in the light. I don’t

know if I want to keep staring at his smile or find a quiet corner

where I can throw up. Who am I kidding? There are no quiet corners in

this house. Not tonight. He looks down the hall, where I’m standing,

but his gaze goes right past me.

Emma, a cousin thrice removed, stands next to Lula, hooking their

arms together. Emma has small teeth and a pointy nose that gives her a

look like she’s always smelling something sour. “Oh my Deos, he’s so

fine.”

“Totally fly,” Mayi joins in, pursing her lips like she’s getting

ready to blow him a kiss.

“I heard he did three years in juvie,” Emma says.

“I heard his parents were into some really bad juju,” Mayi says.

Her dark skin is like polished stone. Her long, dark hair comes down

to her tiny waist. “That’s why he lives with his grandma.”

“You guys are holding out on me,” Lula tells them.

Mayi turns to Lula. She hesitates, then says, “Want me to glamour

your scars?”

Lula looks startled for a moment. She unhooks herself from Emma’s

arm, reaches for her veil, and adjusts it.

“No,” Lula says. “But you might want to go to the bathroom. Your

real nose is starting to show.”

Nova looks over to where we’re all staring at him. The girls all

turn around quickly, except me. He smiles and licks his lips. A

no-good kind of lick that says, I’m going to get you .

“Oh hey, Alex,” Emma says, as if only just noticing me. “Happy

early birthday.”

“Are you ready to accept our Circle invitation?” Mayi asks.

“I think I’d rather clip Crazy Uncle Julio’s toenails,” I say as

the front door opens again. “More people. I’d better go say hi.”

Lula runs after me and pulls me into the corner near the stairs.