shrugs, runs her index finger across the thick layer of dust that

cakes my altar. Out of all the brujas in this house, I’m not winning

any awards for altar maintenance. A small, white candle is burned to

the stub, and the pink roses I bought over the summer have shriveled

to dust. There are two photos-one of my mom, Lula, Rose, and me at the

beach, and one of my Birth Rites ceremony with Aunt Rosaria.

“Lula said to wake you up,” Rose says, rubbing the altar dust

between her fingers. “We have to make the ambrosia before we leave for

school. You also might want to clean your altar before the canto

tonight.”

“Sure, sure,” I say dismissively. I busy myself in my closet,

searching for my favorite sweater. I try to push back the swirl of

anxiety that surges from my belly to my heart. “We both know she’s

wasting her time, right? We’ve done three spells already and none of

them have worked.”

“Maybe this one will,” Rose says. “Besides, you know Lula won’t

rest until she gets what she wants.”

Funny how no one asks what I want.

Rose starts to leave, then stops at my door. She lifts her chin in

the direction of the mess in my closet. “Lula was already here looking

for something to wear, in case you were wondering.”

“Of course she was.” I roll my eyes and mentally curse my older

sister. When I get to the bathroom, it’s locked. Now I have to wait

for Lula to fluff her dark curls to perfection, then pick out all of

her blackheads.

I bang on the door. “How many times do I have to tell you not to

go in my room?”

There’s the click of the blow dryer shutting off. “Did you say

something?”

“Come on. Hurry up!”

“Well, your fat ass should have gotten out of bed earlier! Chop,

chop, brujita! We have a canto to prepare for.”

I bang my fist on the door again. “Your ass is fatter than mine!”

“I’m hungry,” Rose says.

I jump. Knowing how our floor creaks, I have no idea how she walks

so quietly. “I hate when you sneak up behind me.”

“I wasn’t sneaking,” she mutters.

I want to get mad. Why can’t Lula be the one to make breakfast for

a change? I just want a nice, hot shower to clear my head. I want to

go through the motions of the day and pretend like we’re one normal,

functional family. I look at Rose’s sweet face and resign myself to

the burden of being the middle child.

“Come,” I tell Rose. I bang the bathroom door one last time. “And

you better put my sweater back where you found it!”

In the kitchen, I grab all the ingredients I need while Rose sits

at the table.

“Mom says if you guys keep fighting she’s going to take your

voices with a Silencing Canto.”

“Then it’s a good thing she already left,” I mutter.

There’s a cereal bowl and spoon on the drying rack and a green

votive candle next to my mom’s favorite good luck rooster. The candle

makes the room smell like a forest, and it’s the only indication that

my mom was here.

Since it’s a Monday morning, my mom’s already on a train into

Manhattan, where she works at a gynecologist’s office. My mom, whose

magical hands have safely delivered more babies than the freshly

med-schooled doctors she files papers for, is a receptionist. That’s

my mother’s calling: bringing souls into this world. Calling or no

calling, a bruja’s got to pay the bills.

When I try to flip my first pancake, it sticks on the pan. My

calling is not making pancakes. Unless it’s making bad pancakes, in

which case, I’m on the right track.

Rose is already dressed and sitting at the kitchen table. “I want

that one.”

“The burned one?” I flip it onto a blue plate and set it in front

of her.

“It tastes good with syrup and butter.”

“You’re so odd.”

“That’s why you love me.”

“Who told you that?” I say, adding a smile and a wink.

Rose pulls her staticky, brown hair into a ponytail, but no matter

how much we spray it or cover it in gel, little strands threaten to

fly away. It comes with her powers-something about being extra charged

with other worlds-but it sucks when you’re a poor girl from Brooklyn

going to a super-ritzy junior high in Manhattan. Rose even gets a

proper uniform. Lula and I never got uniforms. Then again, Rose is a

genius, even compared to us. Lula barely passes, and even though I’m

at the top of my class, I still got left back a year after-well, after

my dad. I have high hopes for Rose to do more with herself. When I

went to sleep, she was still awake and reading a textbook that is as

incomprehensible to me as our family Book of Cantos.

Just then, Lula comes bouncing down the steps, a pop song belting

out of her perfectly glossy, pink mouth. Her curls bounce as if her

enthusiasm reaches right to her hair follicles. Her honey-brown skin

looks gold in the soft morning light. Her gray eyes are filled with

mischief just waiting to get out. Her smile is so bright and dazzling

that I forget I’m mad at her for hogging the bathroom. Then I see

she’s wearing my favorite sweater. It’s the color of eggnog and so

soft it feels like wearing a cloud.

“I want funny shapes.” She pecks a kiss on my cheek.

“ You’re a funny shape,” I tell her.

I make Lula’s pancakes, this time too mushy in the center. I throw

the plate in front of her and leave a stack for myself.

“I thought you were starting on the ambrosia,” Lula says, annoyed.

She has zero right to be annoyed right now.

“Someone has to feed Rose,” I say matter-of-factly.

Lula shakes her head. “Ma works really hard. You know that.”

“I didn’t say she doesn’t work hard,” I say defensively.

“Whatever, let’s just get this done before Maks gets here.” Lula

walks down the hall to the closet where we keep our family altar and

grabs our Book of Cantos. It has every spell, prayer, and piece of

information that our ancestors have collected from the beginning of

our family line. Even when the Book falls apart after a few decades,

it gets mended, and we just keep adding to it.

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to keep Captain Hair Gel waiting,” I say.

Rose snickers but quiets down with a stern look from Lula.

“You can walk to school if you hate him so much.” Lula sucks her

teeth and purses her lips. Maks, Lula’s boyfriend, drives us to school

every day. He wears too much cologne, and I’m pretty sure his

rock-solid hair is a soccer violation, but as long as he keeps saving

goals, no one seems to mind.

Lula slams the Book on kitchen table and flips through the pages.

I wonder what it’s like in other households during breakfast. Do their

condiment shelves share space with jars of consecrated cemetery dirt

and blue chicken feet? Do their mothers pray to ancient gods before

they leave for work every morning? Do they keep the index finger bones

of their ancestors in red velvet pouches to ward off thieves?

I already know the answer is no. This is my world. Sometimes I

wish it weren’t.

Lula rinses the metal bowl I used to make the pancake batter and

sets it beside the Book.

“Can I help?” Rose asks.

“It’s okay, Rosie,” Lula says. “We got this.”

Rose nods once but stays put to watch.

“Alex,” Lula says, “boil pink rose petals in water, and I’ll get

started on the base.”

I do as I’m told even though I know my sister’s efforts are

wasted. But that’s a secret I’m keeping to myself for now.

Lula empties a container of agave syrup into the bowl followed by

raspberry jam and half a can of sweetened milk. When she’s done