Marco had never stolen anything before. Though the miserable task had fallen to him (as he had known it would) he wasn’t at all sure how to begin.

Heart thumping wildly in his chest, mouth dry, palms clammy, Marco looked over his shoulder, an involuntary response to an imagined sound and a guilty conscience. He stood perfectly still, ears at attention, listening. He could hear the adults murmuring in the livingroom, but he heard no tell-tale footsteps. He was alone in the kitchen. It was now or never.

He opened the refrigerator, wincing at the noise it made as he broke the vacuum seal, and scanned its contents for the beer Chucho had brought home just an hour earlier. He saw a gallon of whole milk, a half-empty bag of coffee beans, some avocado, tomato, orange juice, a beef marinade and three cans of Coke. But he didn’t see the beer.

Closing the refrigerator, he tiptoed to the kitchen’s doorway and peered around the corner. The grown-ups were talking quietly, their faces somber. They’d looked like that for weeks now, at least the women had. Chucho had only returned from his last haul a few days ago, but already the news of the recent deaths had settled into the lines of his face, making him appear older, careworn. Even Aunt Conchita, who was usually a grab bag of laughter and smiles, had replaced her usual merriment with an intense melancholy.

Looking at them made Marco feel sad.

Then he saw what he was looking for. On the coffee table were four tall, frosty bottles of Corona. Chucho and his friend Manny were drinking the other two.

There was no way he was getting to that beer without anybody seeing.

Marco withdrew into the kitchen and considered his options. He could go back to the shed outside and tell Alejandro and Cheehawk that he couldn’t get the beer and suffer their taunts and name calling. That certainly wouldn’t be anything new. But there was another option, and on this night, Marco wasn’t yet ready to concede defeat.

Chucho kept the tequila on the top shelf of the pantry, out of the twins’ reach. But the six pack of pulque that he’d brought back from Mexico last winter sat collecting dust on the  pantry floor, underneath a sack of potatoes, forgotten by everyone.

Everyone except Marco.

He didn’t know what pulque was except that everyone had laughed when Chucho had brought it back from the homeland, saying they hadn’t had pulque since they were teenagers. Chucho had popped open a can, taken a deep swig, made a face that was a cross between revulsion and merriment, and passed it around. Everyone had tried it, shaking their heads, declaring they much preferred beer and that the agave should stick with producing tequila. They’d finished off that one can and put the other five in the pantry where Marco now knelt, silently retrieving a single can from its plastic yolk.

He sighed with relief, glanced around once more, and, finding himself still alone, hid the can under his t-shirt and, triumphant, slipped quietly out the back door.

“What the hell is this?”

Cheehawk held the can of pulque with a look of bewildered disgust on this face. “This isn’t beer. It isn’t even cold,” he complained. “You got the wrong stuff.”

Marco shrugged. “The beer was in the living room with the grown-ups. I couldn’t get it without them seeing me. Anyway, this has alcohol in it, too.”

Cheehawk looked skeptical.  “How do you know?”

“Because when they were drinking it at Christmas they wouldn’t let me and Alex have any.”

Alejandro nodded. “That’s true.”

Cheehawk popped the top open, closed one eye, and peered into the small, dark opening. “I can’t see anything,” he said. “I’m not gonna try this, Marco, until you try it first.”

Marco’s jaw dropped. “I don’t even want any! I got it for you! I’m not drinking that!”

“But you were supposed to get the beer,” Cheehawk said. “So since you got the wrong stuff, you should have to try it first!”

Cheehawk pushed the can into Marco’s hands, and the younger boy sighed, closing his fingers around the warm can. He should have known it would end up like this. He wasn’t remotely curious about the effects of alcohol, but he didn’t want to look like a scaredy-cat either.

He put the can to his lips. Holding his breath, he took a tiny sip.

“Do you feel anything?” Cheehawk asked.

Alejandro elbowed him in the side. “Doesn’t work like that, stupid! You don’t get drunk right away!”

Cheehawk scowled, returned his attention to Marco. “What does it taste like?”

Marco had been prepared for the worst. When they were very little, Alejandro had made Marco taste a cup of black coffee that their mother had left on the patio overnight. It had tasted awful, and had left an oily, acid taste in his mouth that seemed to linger for days. Using that awful experience as a baseline, Marco had sipped gingerly and fretfully at the pulque, steeling himself for the worst.

It wasn’t anything like he expected.

The warm liquid was thick and frothy, and tasted like strawberries dipped in honey. He took a second sip, less fearful, and this time it tasted like tres leches cake with cinnamon and nutmeg. A fuzzy, warm sensation filled his chest and began to spread slowly to his stomach, his cheeks, until suddenly he was warm all over.

“What’s it taste like, Marco?”

Marco set the can down in front of him and shrugged. “It’s hard to explain,” he said. “It kinda tastes like a carnival.”

“A carnival?” Alejandro rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“Well, I said it was hard to explain,” Marco said. “You can just try it yourself!”

Cheehawk and Alejaandro exchanged looks, and finally the older boy gave a litte shrug and picked up the can. Hellbent on not being upstaged by a weenie like Marco, Cheehawk knocked the pulque back, taking in a large swig.

His eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he choked, retched, and spit the pulque out. Droplets splattered all over Alejandro, who gave his friend a push. “HEY! Watch it, Cheehawk!”

“It’s nasty!” Cheehawk sputtered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He leaned over, spat a few times on the dirt floor of the shed, trying to get the taste out of his mouth. “Marco, you liar, that’s the worst taste I ever tasted!” He pushed the drink toward Alejandro. “Here, Alex, you try it!”

Alejandro shook his head vigorously. “No, thanks. I believe you,” he sad, shrinking away from the drink.

Cheehawk changed tactics and pushed the drink into Marco’s hands. Marco accepted the drink wit a confused look on his face. “It was nasty to you?”

“Not cool, Marco!” Cheehaw howled. “You made me drink it even though you knew it was gross. You should drink the rest of it,” he said.

Marco chuckled. “I didn’t make you drink it,” he said. “Plus, it doesn’t taste bad to me. I like it.”

To prove his point, Marco brought the can to his lips and took another long, slow drink. This time, the warm, thick liquid that filled his mouth tasted like pineapple sprinkled with brown sugar. That flavor slowly faded to be replaced by another:  roasted almonds and toffee. And finally, thick, hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and drizzled with hot caramel sauce.

When he sat the can down in front of him, the can was empty, and Marco, unbeknownst to him, was drunk.

“He drank it all,” Cheehawk breathed, incredulous. “He drank the whole thing! Marco just drank a whole can of that nasty alcohol!”

While the boys stared at him in frank disbelief, Marco felt his eyelids grow heavy as a pleasant, warm sensation took over his senses. He felt as though he were floating, and he couldn’t stop the goofy smile that was spreading over his face.

Marco’s transformation did no go unnoticed.  Cheehawk turned to Alejandro, pointed an accusing finger. “You said it didn’t happen right away,” he said. “But check him out. He’s gonna pass out!”

Alejandro, though he would never admit it, was impressed. “It’s not supposed to work right away,” he said. “I don’t know! Maybe that stuff is different from beer. Don’t ask me!”

The two boys watched as Marco gazed off into space, eyes unfocused, grinning like an idiot.

“We should tell on him,” Alejandro said, a wicked smile of his own appearing on his face. “We should go tell Mama and Chucho that Marco drank their pulque. I bet he’ll get in so much trouble!”

Marco was nominally aware of what his brother was saying and what they planned on doing to him. He had a vague sense of their betrayal as they scrambled to their feet, giggling at their own mischievousness.  But as the warm feeling enveloped him, and his eyes began to close and he curled himself into a ball on the ground, he found that he just didn’t care. The sweet, heady flavors of the pulque were still fresh on his tongue, and the fringes of reality began to fade and blur as Marco drifted off into his first alcohol-induced slumber and dreamed his second lucid dream.

Author’s note: Hover your mouse over Spanish phrases for their English translations.

It was the middle of the evening when Diane Azuelo brought Marco home, swaddled in a wool blanket. She pushed the front door open without knocking to find Irma, Chucho and Conchis sitting on the couch drinking beer together. Upon seeing her son’s pale face peeping out from under the folds of cloth, Irma jumped to her feet, pulling the bundle that was Marco into her arms.

“What happened?” Chucho demanded.

“He and Alejandro came to my house,” Mrs. Azuelo explained. “They wanted to know if Junior saw the body. Marco was playing in the street with another boy when he just fainted.”

Irma carried Marco to the couch where she laid him across her lap. She rubbed his cheeks, trying to rouse him. “Wake up, papi,” she cooed. “Por favor, Marquito, wake up, wake up. Wake up!”

Marco only squirmed, a flicker of expression passing over his face. Then his face relaxed again into the sleeping mask he’d worn when she’d first seen him, and real fear settled into her heart.

Irma let out a small scream, shaking her head in disbelief. “Es susto,” It’s susto. (Susto is a Mexican folk sickness caused by fear or surprise.)she cried.

Chucho sucked his teeth, crossed his arms over his chest. “Aw, c’mon, mija, that’s just a lot of superstitious horse shit,” he said.

“Then wake him!” Irma demanded, her eyes blazing fire as she looked her husband in the face. Chucho demurred, and Irma, having won, turned to the other women, eyes wide and pleading. “What can we do?”

“There hasn’t been a curandera Folk healer. Often heals with herbs and rituals.in this town for years,” Mrs. Azuelo said. “Not since la Grande died.”

Irma moaned as she rocked her son, cradling him to her chest. She could feel his warmth radiating against her skin, could feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath the wool.

Conchis sat gently beisde her sister-in-law and took one of her hands in both of hers. “Our grandmother was a curandera,” she said slowly. “When I was a girl, I used to watch her work. I even help her a few times. I help her heal my cousin Matilda when she took ill from mal de ojo, the evil eye remember, Chucho?”

Uncomfortable, Chucho gave a curt nod. “I remember.”

Conchis drew in a slow breath, and squeezed her sister-in-law’s hand. “I know I am not a curandera, but for you, I would try. Do you want me to try to help Marco?”

Curandera or no, Irma did not hesitate. “SíYes.”

The livingroom was vacuumed and the carpet where Marco was to be laid was covered with a clean, white sheet. While Conchis searched the kitchen for the appropriate herbs, Mrs. Azuelo and Irma prepared for the ritual. They laid Marco on the sheet, feet together, arms held out to the sides so that he made the sign of the cross. At his head, hands, and feet the women lit small clusters of white candles. Irma thought he looked beautiful, so peaceful, even through the watery veil of her tears.

When Conchis emerged from the kitchen, she carried with her a small bundle of herbs tied with read thread. “You didn’t have any rue,” she said, “but this is good.”

The women arranged themselves around Marco with Conchis at his feet. With a candle she lit the bundle of herbs, bringing it to a slow smolder. When the thin tendrils of white smoke began to rise, Conchis began sweeping her hands over Marco’s body like a broom. Voice low and calm but with the hard edge of urgency, Conchis began to recite the Apostle’s Creed in Spanish as it was done in the old way, as she had seen her grandmother do many times.

“Creo en Dios, Padre todopoderoso, creador del Cielo y de la tierra, y en Jesucristo, su único Hijo, nuestro Señor…”I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, and in Jesus Christ, his only son, our Lord.

Three times Conchis recited the prayer as she wafted smoke over Marco’s body, coaxing his spirit to return to his flesh. Irma cried as they prayed. When they were done, Conchis hugged her sister-in-law and whispered in her ear, “Marquito is a special boy. Do not be afraid; God has a plan for him.”

While Irma kept vigil at Marco’s side with prayers and tears, Conchis kept the household running: she washed the laundry, fixed meals for Alejandro and Chucho, brought Irma mugs of thick hot chocolate and piping hot chile rellenos that Irma did not eat. She held her son’s hand and whispered tearful prayers, planting kisses on his fingers, his cheeks, his forehead. When Marco did not wake up on Christmas morning, Chucho canceled his upcoming departure to stay home with his fearful wife and to help out with his other stepson, who was fit to be tied after finding that on account of Marco’s death-like sleep, Santa Claus had skipped their home altogether.

While Conchis persuaded Irma to drink a bit of tea and swallow a bit of chorizo to keep her strength up, Marco slept for three days.

And during this time, he dreamed.

On the third day, immediately following the third cleansing ritual to bring Marco back to life, the boy opened his eyes. His mother gasped and began a new round of sobs, these sobs of joy. She gathered Marco into her arms, holding him close and kissing the crown of his head. Conchis looked on, eyes full of happiness and pride, wondering if perhaps she, too, had her grandmother’s gift. When Irma finally released her son, Marco looked up at his with wide, brown eyes and asked, in all earnestness, “Mama, did you see me talking to God?”

**
The rabbit art for this entry’s thumbnail has been generously provided by Kate Knutson.

Author’s note: Hover your mouse over Spanish phrases for their English translations.

Smell doesn’t know how to keep a secret. With unabashed indiscretion, smell discloses everything, whether sacred or profane. The smells of suntan lotion and salt on the skin reveal a day spent at the beach. Pine, cinnamon, and orange together conjure images of jaunty gifts stashed beneath the Christmas tree. And the aromas of ancho chiles, onion, pork, rose water, and burning candle wax meant Chucho had arrived home.

Jesús Esquivel, Marco and Alejandro’s stepfather whom everyone called Chucho, was a long-haul trucker frequently gone for weeks at a time. On the nights he was set to leave, his wife Irma would sit by the altar and pray the rosary, crying and asking San Cristóbal to protect her husband on the road. On the nights that he returned, her ritual was much the same, except that she thanked the saint for bringing her husband safely home. Tonight, she had prepared one of Chucho’s favorite meals and had perfumed her hair with rose water in anticipation of their reunion night together.

As Marco and Alejandro entered their home, the smells that greeted them indicated that their stepfather arrived, but it was sound that alerted them to another presence. That they could hear the soft hiss of corn tortillas frying in the kitchen as well as the whispered, melodious chanting of their mother praying the rosary meant another woman was present, for since Irma was sitting at the altar, someone else must have been making the tortillas.

“Hello?” It was Alejandro who called out, throwing his backpack into the hall closet and making his way to the kitchen.

A head popped out from around the kitchen wall. It was a smiling, round head with fat cheeks and two long, heavy braids. When the boys saw her, they ran to her, laughing, and threw their arms around her.

“¡Tía Conchita!” Aunt Conchita!The boys squeezed their aunt’s ample waist, burying their faces in her flesh. “What are you doing here?”

The woman patted the boys on the back, kissing them on the tops of their heads, on their cheeks rosy from the cold. “Dios mio, how big you’ve grown! You must eat like a goat, ah?” Laughing, Conchis handed each of the boys a hot corn tortilla, which they stuffed dutifully in their mouths. “It’s good? I make special for you.”

“Real good,” Alejandro said from around a mouthful of tortilla. “How long are you staying?”

Conchis wiped her hands on her apron and turned off the fire on the stove. “Coupla days,” she said. “I heard your father was back and I wanted to see him before Christmas. I’m spending the holidays in Mexico with my family. I don’t get to see Chucho often enough,” she lamented, her voice thick with regret.

Irma stood from the altar then, crossed herself a final time, and approached her sons. She bent to kiss them, and Marco breathed in her smell—rose, castille soap, cumin. “Do you boys have homework?” she asked.

Marco shook his head. “It’s vacation,” he reminded her. “Where’s Chucho?”

“Se fue al mercado,”He went to the store Irma said. “Why don’t you go wash up for dinner? And put on a fresh shirt; we don’t get to have dinner with Auntie Conchita every day. I won’t have you looking like a pig,” she said, her voice loving but stern. The twins groaned but obeyed with haste. They flashed Conchis a smile before disappearing into the bathroom.

They heard the front door slam moments later and, dressed in the freshly pressed polo shirts Irma had laid on their beds, emerged to see Chucho standing in the living room carrying a six pack of Bud Light.  Manny Larson, Chucho’s buddy, stood idle near the door, clutching his cowboy hat against his chest. Both men looked upset.

“Something’s going on at the Bautista place,” Chucho was saying. “Bunch of cop cars out there; one of ‘em was taping the place off.”

Marco and Alejandro exchanged curious glances as Irma hurried to pick up the telephone. She dialed quickly, holding her breath. “Ay, ¿qué pasa? ¿Por qué la policía está—” What’s going on? Why are the police at—

The twins watched as their mother covered her mouth with her free hand, eyes wide as tears began to well up in her eyes. “Madre de Dios, Mother of God” she whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. She covered the receiver with her hand as she indicated for Chucho to come closer. “It’s Rubio,” she said, her voice shaking. “He’s dead.”

***

As the women lit candles and prayed at the altar and the men gobbled down Irma’s meal and finished off the beer, Alejandro and Marco pulled on their coats, snuck out the back door, and took off on their bikes for the Bautista place.

Marco pedaled slowly, unsure he wanted to be part of this particular excursion. “We shouldn’t go, Alex,” Marco whined. “We barely know Mr. Bautista. Barely.” Rubio Bautista taught chemistry at the high school in Placerita and had spoken at the twins’ school once or twice for career day. Inés Bautista frequently spent afternoons with their mother at the Laundromat, but as they had no children, the twins had relatively little use for them.

“Don’t worry, we don’t have to bother them,” Alejandro called over his shoulder. “We’re going to Junior’s. To see if he saw the body.”

Junior Azuelo, surly and prone to troublemaking like most of Alejandro’s friends, lived across the street from the Bautistas. They found him sitting on his porch with Cheehawk and a boy from school. They were huddled together, shoulder to shoulder, when Marco and Alejandro rode up, dropped their bikes on the front lawn, and bounded up the steps.

“Junior,” Alejandro said, lifting his chin in greeting. “What did you see?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Alejandro, who was not known for his compassion for others, wished he hadn’t asked the question. Junior, who caught lizards by the tail just to see the tails come off, who asked for a slingshot for Christmas so that he could stone armadillos, and who had once set Blanca Leonard’s hair on fire in art class, was sitting on his hands, his face pale, snot dripping onto his upper lip. He had been crying, though he was trying to wear a brave face for his friends. His eyes were swollen and red. He looked as though he had been crying for a long time.

“He was hanging from the tree in the front yard,” Junior said, his voice hoarse. That the other two boys did not react meant they’d already heard the story. Marco felt his stomach go queasy. “He was hanging from the tree and his face was all messed up. Like the chupacabra got him.” His shoulders were shaking, but no fresh tears fell.

“The chupacabra got him?” Alejandro’s voice was soft with fear. He was twisting the bottom of his shirt into a knot.

Junior threw his shoulders up, his cheeks quivering. “I don’t know!” He was shaking his head, his voice rising high. “I don’t know if the chupacabra got him; how would it get him up in the tree like that? He was hanging up there with a rope…”  He couldn’t finish the thought. The boys followed Junior’s gaze across the street where the police had quarantined the yard with yellow tape, and where neighbors had gathered on the street to rubberneck or console the widow, or to perform the first by way of the second.

“Were you scared?” Marco sat down on the bottom step, looking up at Junior’s face.

Junior nodded, eyes still fixated on some unknown point across the street. “Mom and me were in the kitchen making cookies when we heard screaming,” he said. “So we ran outside to see what was happening. Mrs. Bautista was standing in the front yard screaming, and we could see something hanging from the tree but it didn’t look real. Mom told me to stay put, but I didn’t listen…”

Junior swallowed, and looked down at the hands he hand balled into fists in his lap. “Mr. Bautista was going to hang the Christmas lights on our house.”

Junior stopped talking. He folded himself in half and buried his face in his lap. The screen door pushed open and Mrs. Azuelo stepped out, holding the door, her face also streaked with tears. “Why don’t you boys come in and have some hot chocolate,” she said. “I’ll warm you up some empanadas.” Sniveling, Junior stood and followed his mother into the house with Alejandro and the boy from school close behind.

Marco lagged behind the others until he heard the door swing shut. Across the street he could see Inés Bautista, the newly widowed, huddled in a blanket on the edge of the lawn, the arms of her neighbors wrapped protectively around her. A woman in slacks, an overcoat, and a button down shirt was asking her questions and writing in a notebook. Every once in a while, Mrs. Bautista would shake her head, her shoulders would heave, and she would break out in a fresh run of heart-rending sobs.

Without thinking, Marco began to walk slowly across the street. He was surprised to find Cheehawk keeping step beside him. “Whatcha doing, Marco?”

Marco lifted a shoulder noncommittally. “I didn’t know you were in town,” he said.

Cheehawk nodded. “Just got in. Today was the last day of school, but Ma said I didn’t have to go since it was a half day. We’re spending Christmas break with Aunt Bibi.”

“Yeah? You’re here for two weeks?”

“I guess so.” Cheehawk checked over his shoulder, saw that no one was paying attention to them. “Where we going, Marco?”

Fifteen paces from the edge of the Bautista lawn, Marco stopped, leaned his head back to look up. The desert sky was black and full of stars. The lack of ambient light allowed Marco to see every constellation, to marvel at the pale smudge of stardust across the sky they called the Milky Way. The sky looked so deep, like he could dive into it. He reached into his pocket and took out a square of paper. He unfolded it carefully and handed it to the older boy. “Do you know what this is?”

Cheehawk held the paper up to his nose. It was difficult to see in the darkness. “Looks like a rabbit,” he said.

“Yeah. Does it look familiar?”

Cheehawk handed Marco back the paper, bemused. “It looks like a rabbit,” he repeated. He spoke the words as though he were speaking to the mentally handicapped.

Marco sighed, refolded the paper, and shoved it in his pocket. “Never mind.” He looked over to the Bautista place, to the tree where the body had been found. He pulled up the collar of his coat against the growing cold of the evening, watching as the tree’s limbs swayed in the mounting breeze. As he watched the tree move, throwing shadows across the face of the house, across the lawn, and out onto the street, the rest of the scenery began to melt away. First to go were the police and Cheehawk, then the neighbors, the houses, and finally the terrible sobs of the bereaved. Before long, Marco was alone on the silent street underneath a canopy of stars, in front of that horrible tree. The wind blew harder and the tree shook in kind, and the watery image of Rubio’s body hanging heavy from a bough like a piñata ripe for the smacking slowly faded into view.

He wore a gray, cabled sweater and clean blue jeans. His cordovan loafers were polished to a high shine. His skin was white and smooth as porcelain, curly blonde hair glowing in the starlight. Around his neck, the rope cut into the impossibly white skin; angry red welts reminded Marco of Halloween zombies from a movie poster. His face was destroyed—there was no sign of the bright blue eyes, the slightly crooked nose, the shy smile that sent high school girls tittering down the hallway. Marco couldn’t look at it. It made every hair on his body stand on end.

Nervously, he reached out to touch the corpse, expecting to feel Mr. Bautista’s presence and kindness, but instead his fingers found stone—cold, smooth, and hard.

He pulled away, fear and sadness filling him up like a water pitcher, and as he clutched his hand to his chest, he smelled it in the air — something familiar yet just out of reach, something visceral, metallic. Just as the aroma of ancho chiles and pork had alerted him to Chucho’s safe arrival home, the smell that now tickled his sixth sense alerted him to a presence of something alien, something unnatural, something he alone knew all too well.

Marco’s stomach flipped and flopped. It gurgled in his ears.

The smell dissipated and he heard a tinkling laughter, like silver bells in the snow. Marco spun on his heel, but there was no one there. And then the laughter faded into singing, and to his intense horror, Marco recognized the voice immediately.

“Four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a dead man in a tree.” Her voice felt like oil on Marco’s brain. “You made this possible. Thank you, Marco.”

Marco shook his head, swallowed hard. The words of the Christmas carol echoed in his mind, and Marco felt Rubio Bautista’s death wash freshly over him as he realized with a sick, dawning horror that his man was dead because of him.

This was his fault.

The other houses on the street swam slowly back into view. He blinked, noticed Cheehawk, Mrs. Bautista, and several of the police officers watching him in confusion. His skin felt hot. He tasted something acrid in the back of his throat. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, afraid he was going to be sick.

He felt, in the pit of his stomach, a swirling darkness begin to gnaw. It roiled inside him, rising to press against his lungs. He opened his mouth, greedily sucking down oxygen. He smelled it again—the metallic, burning smell. He squeezed his eyes against it, pushing it away with all his will.

As he opened his eyes, his breath caught in his throat. The houses lining the street ran like watercolor into the night. Cotton filled his ears and Marco stumbled, tried to cling to his waning consciousness before his knees buckled and he fainted dead away onto the dusty road.

They’d seen the pink Mary Kay mobile hauling ass down the road, which meant Mrs. Parker was in town visiting her sister Bibi, which meant that Cheehawk would be showing up at the Flores house any minute.

Cheehawk Parker, World Renowned Maker of Adventure and Mischief, was from Odessa, Texas, which meant he knew a thing or two about the world that the kids of Love & War simply weren’t privy to. He knew, for example, what a carjacking was, how girls got pregnant, and how to trick a gas station attendant into selling cigarettes to a minor. Whenever Cheehawk came to visit, Love & War got a little bit more interesting.

Of course, Cheehawk knew this about himself. Which made him kind of a pain in the ass.

He was also two or three years older than Marco and Alejandro, which, when coupled with his Big City bravado and acumen, made him a force to be reckoned with.

“Is that him, coming up the street?” Marco pointed toward the oncoming apparition.

Alejandro folded his arms across his chest and nodded. “Yup. That’s him. He’s got something with him.”

The boys watched with growing anticipation as Cheehawk marched up the street. As he drew nearer, the twins saw it was a board game he had tucked under his arm. When he was close enough, he raised his free arm in greeting, and the boys returned the wave. Huffing a little, Cheehawk offered the twins a smile, and then spit on the ground, just missing his feet.

“Hey, you got anything to drink? It’s a long walk from Aunt Bibi’s.”

Alejandro made a face. “It’s not that long; you’re just fat. I thought you were gonna play football at your new school.” Alejandro couldn’t keep the sneer out of his voice. He played soccer, and thought it was important for boys to be active in sports. His father had said so. His real father.

“I was gonna,” Cheehawk said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “But those bastards wanted us to pay $200 for uniforms. Ma said she wasn’t gonna pay that kind of money for nothin’ less it was gold plated. I didn’t really want to play football anyway,” Cheehawk said, his tone unconvincing. “Glad you’re here, Alex; I thought you might be with your pop today.” The relief in his voice was evident, and Marco realized with a sick feeling that Cheehawk was worried he’d have to play with just him.

“He’s out of town,” Alejandro muttered. “Marco, go get Cheehawk some Kool Aid, wouldja?”

But Marco didn’t budge. “What you got?” He pointed to the game under Cheehawk’s arm.

Having forgotten his thirst, Cheehawk drew the boys into a tight huddle and lifted the game from underneath his arm. The battered cover read, “OUIJA: Mystifying Oracle. William Fuld Talking Board Set.” It depicted two sets of hands resting on a strange object.

“What’s oo-ee ha?” Marco asked, the word feeling strange and mysterious in his mouth.

“WEE JEE,” Cheehawk corrected, his eyes sparkling. “I found it in Aunt Bibi’s attic. It’s a board that lets you talk to the spirits of dead people.”

“That’s stupid,” Alejandro said, rolling his eyes. “You can’t talk to dead people, because they’re dead.”

“Do you know how to do it?” Marco asked, ignoring his brother. He was still staring at the floating hands on the cover, bewitched.

“Of course,” Cheehawk snapped, puffing out his chest. “It works best if you have a real perfect conditions. And our conditions couldn’t be more perfect.” He’d gotten that gleam in his eye, the gleam the Flores twins knew all too well: it meant Adventure.

“What conditions?” Alejandro asked.

Taking a quick survey of their surroundings to ensure their privacy, Cheehawk lowered his voice. “Do you know what today is?”

“Friday,” Marco said.

Cheehawk sucked his teeth. “No, stupid, I mean, what day it is. Why it’s special.” When neither of the boys said anything, Cheehawk licked his lips and whispered, “It’s Minerva Auckland’s birthday.”

The news didn’t get the reaction Cheehawk hoped for. “Who’s Minerva Auckland?”

Cheehawk’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Who’s Minerva Auckland? Sheez, don’t you guys know anything about your own town? Minerva Auckland is the famous witch who used to live here. You know that terrible magician who lives on the other side of town, Simon St. Laine?”

Marco snorted. “Sure, we know Simon St. Laine. He did a show at our school last year at the PTA meeting. He couldn’t guess what card Maggie was holding, even though he guessed three times, and then he just went on to another trick to try to cover it up, but everybody knew he screwed up. He’s the worst. And–”

“ANYWAY,” Cheehawk interrupted. “She’s his great great great great grandmother.” He looked pleased as punch as he made the announcement. If he was uncertain about how many greats he should have used, it didn’t show on his face.

“Well, what’s she famous for?” Alejandro asked.

At this, Cheehawk dithered a bit, but his bravado didn’t fade. “Well, Aunt Bibi wouldn’t tell me the whole story, so it probably has something to do with sex. Or politics. Or both.” Marco and Alejandro made gross-out faces. “But she did say that she was such an awful witch and did so many bad things, that some of the local people got together and burned her house to the ground with her still in it.”

Marco exclaimed, “That stinks!” at the same time Alejandro cooed, “Cooool!” Now that he had both boys’ rapt attention, Cheehawk’s expression melted into a veritable cat-ate-the-canary grin. He straightened up and slid the ouija board back under his arm. “Yeah,” he said, a fire in his eyes. “So we’re gonna take the ouija board to the cemetery and call up that dead witch. Maybe we can hear the story of her murder from her own mouth!”

Marco wasn’t so sure about that and was about to say so when he caught his brother’s expression. Alejandro was hooked; in fact, he was nearly drooling with excitement. He clapped Marco on the shoulder and squeezed, his eyes dark and narrow. “You’re not gonna chicken out, right, Marco?”

Sighing, Marco looked down at the ground. “No,” he said softly.

“He’s good,” Alejandro announced, turning his attention back to the older boy, who was practically hopping from foot to foot. “We going now? It’s about to get dark. We’re not really supposed to leave the street after dark.”

With no further ado, Cheehawk hooted, punched the air with his fist, and took off running down the street toward the cemetery. “Last one there’s a rotten egg!” he shouted over his shoulder.

The twins darted after him into the dark.

Marco wasn’t so much spying on the Prime of Darkness as he was watching him very closely without the Prime of Darkness knowing about it.

The binoculars he’d gotten from Aunt Iris for his birthday were blue and yellow, and worked surprisingly well for a device purchased from Toys R Us. They hung around his neck from a blue cord when not in use, but right now he had them pressed against his eyes as he peered into the sun, trying to make out exactly what the Prime of Darkness was doing with his motorcycle.

“He’s just doing something to his bike,” Marco said, shrugging one bony shoulder. “Think we should go over there and see if he wants to come play?”

“No way,” Alma said, reaching for the binoculars. Marco scowled and handed them to her, pressing his head against hers. They were, after all, still attached to the cord around his neck. “Didn’t your mom say he was a social degenerate or something?”

Marco hooted. “Yeah, she did. She loves to say stuff like that. She says the same thing about Simon Cowell.”

“Who’s Simon Cowell?”

“You know, that guy on American Idol who says everybody sucks?”

Alma made a face. “You know I don’t watch television. Hey, look, what’s he doing now?”

She handed the binoculars back to Marco, who took a moment to adjust them while he peered across the yard to where the Prime of Darkness  was standing very still, staring up into a tree in front of Gracey’s house.   The only movement was his red cape as a soft breeze rustled by.

“That guy is so weird,” Marco said. “What’s he looking at?”

Alma shook her head. ” I don’t know, I can’t tell. I thought maybe you could see. Maybe there’s birds in that tree. A nest.”

Marco chuckled, shaking his head. “I don’t think anybody who looks like that cares that much about birds.” When Alma didn’t disagree, Marco continued. “What are those things on his shoulders, anyway? Those shiny, pointy things?”

“I think those are his pauldrons,” Alma said, reaching for the binoculars again. “But I don’t know why he’s wearing them. I think they’re for like, ancient warriors or something. Or superheroes.”

Marco whistled. “How do you know about pauldrons?” he asked.

Alma looked sternly matter-of-fact as only an eight year old girl can, even as she peered intently through the binoculars. “I read it in a comic book.”

Marco looked impressed. “Yeah? Which one?”

Alma handed the binoculars back to Marco, bored now of watching the Prime of Darkness stare up into a tree. She rolled over onto her back, folding her hands across her stomach. “I don’t remember,” she said. “I read a lot of comic books.”

Marco took the binoculars off and set them aside. “Which one is your favorite?”

Alma thought a moment, making hrmmming sounds as her mind whirled. “Well, I really like X-Men,” she said, slowly, “but I also really like Steady Beat, but that’s not really a comic, more like a manga. And there’s no superheroes in it.”

“What’s a manga?”

But now Alma was tired of answering questions. Rolling her eyes, she slapped Marco on the knee. “You don’t know anything,” she said, shaking her head. “Hey, where’s your brother?”

Marco shrugged, stung by Alma’s off-hand remark. “He’s at our dad’s place in Odessa.”

Alma cocked her head to the side. “How come you don’t go?”

It was a question Marco had stopped asking himself, because he was confused about the real answer. Their dad liked sports, talking loud, and driving too fast. He thought reading was a waste of time. Alejandro and their father had many of these things in common, but Marco, even though he and Alejandro were twins, couldn’t relate. Still, he wanted to spend time with his dad. He just wasn’t sure his dad wanted to spend time with him. In fact, he got the feeling he kind of creeped his dad out.

But he didn’t want to share any of this with Alma. “I don’t really like Odessa that much,” he said lamely.

Alma let the subject drop, refocusing her attention on the stranger with the tree fascination. She lifted the binoculars and looked across the street again, but the Prime of Darkness was nowhere to be found.