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  Jeff looked away as his eyes watered up, and he clenched his teeth to fight back tears. “I just wanted to help kill crickets.”

  “Go,” Abby yelled, pointing in the direction of their house. “Now.”

  Not wanting to hear another Powell-sibling screaming fight, Cel nudged Abby’s arm down. “It’s okay.” She walked over to Jeff and took his stick. “You followed the instructions, huh?” She met eyes with him. “All of them?”

  He’d been shadowing and questioning and spying on the hunters all week as they’d prepared to craft their sticks. They’d caught him peeking out from behind tree trunks many times while they practiced starting fires. They’d heard him whispering under Cel’s back porch the night she’d taught everyone the bonding spell, repeating it with them over and over. They’d allowed him to look on one afternoon as they sat on Table Rock flipping through a book called Native Trees of Central Texas, studying the differences of the various trees in Hunter’s Haven, discussing which would be best to craft a stick out of. Abby had put up with him hanging around and bombarding them with questions for the most part, but she did occasionally go off on him, telling him more than once that he should “give it up,” that he was “too much of a pussy to ever cut himself anyway.”

  He nodded. “I did it. All by myself. I used rocks under the tree I got the stick from, and I started the fire with one of the matches I stole from Abby.” As Cel examined the stick, tracing the lightning bolt he’d carved into the handle with her finger, he excitedly thrust out his palm, fingers spread wide. He angled his head toward Abby. “I even cut myself. Deep.” He pushed the words at his sister, as though trying to knock her back with them. His cut was still bleeding.

  Omar stepped next to Cel and looked at the carving. “Cool lightning bolt.” He mussed Jeff’s thick hair. As the youngest of seven siblings and often on the butt end of his older brothers’ pranks and disdain, Omar had a soft spot for Jeff.

  Abby rolled her eyes. “He’s not coming with me. I’ll tell you that.”

  “He can search the vacant lot on the north side of the house with Omar,” Parker said. “Cel, you come with me to the south lot. Abby and Natalie, you guys check the front and back yards. We’ll meet back to scan this field when we’re done.” He pulled a flashlight out of his pocket, held it up, and jiggled it. “Everybody got theirs?”

  They all nodded, and Jeff added, “Yep.”

  “Good. Let’s go make some money.”

  Chapter 8 - Yesenia

  Yesenia sat at the kitchen table sipping chamomile tea, waiting for the kids to return. Five ten dollar bills and a plate of pan de polvo were on the table in front of her. The scent of cinnamon and caramelized sugar sweetened the air. The Country Roland Band’s 20 Greatest Hits album spun on the record player in the living room, the Tejano music drowning out the crickets singing in the distance. Her younger sister, Dolores, was sleeping soundly in the bedroom at the end of the hall.

  She and Dolores had been raised in a tiny rural community outside of McAllen, Texas. Their mom, Berta, was born in Mexico and had bounced back and forth across the Rio Grande with her own mom as a child, following men and friends and work opportunities, but she eventually settled in Texas after becoming pregnant with Yesenia at seventeen. Dolores came two years later, and shortly after, Berta relocated the girls north to Oak Mott for reasons she never revealed, where she took a job at Allied Foods and bought a couple of acres of land outside of town using cash she shouldn’t have had.

  She enrolled them in public school so they could learn English, but they spent most of their childhood on the homestead, speaking Spanish, tending to gardens and goats, learning and mimicking their mother’s ways.

  They were both teens and working at Allied Foods, Yesenia a mom to two-year-old Rebecca, when Berta died of a heart attack. Soon after that, the sisters sold the homestead, and Yesenia used her portion of the money to secure a small house on the edge of town, a solid home in a solid middle-class neighborhood, closer to the schools and Allied Foods. Dolores spent her money on frivolous things, booze and smokes and trips to Mexico mostly. She lived with Yesenia and Rebecca for a year before moving into her own apartment on the north side.

  That apartment had served as Dolores’ home until three months ago when a prolonged sickness had forced her to quit her job at Allied Foods, leaving her unable to pay her rent. Over the last half year, she’d lost thirty pounds, suffered regular bouts of weakness, nausea, and headaches, and recently had begun having seizures and periods of disorientation. But despite all that, she refused to visit a doctor. Like Yesenia, she didn’t believe a bacteria or virus was to blame for her sickness. She didn’t believe pills or injections or ointments that catered only to the body would help. No, she believed Maria Lopez was to blame for her sickness and that only her mother’s healing methods could cure her. Methods passed down for hundreds of years. Methods that treated both body and spirit as one. Methods she and Yesenia had successfully used their entire lives.

  Her downward spiral had begun shortly after Maria, a squat, middle-aged bruja with a thick accent and penchant for gaudy jewelry, caught Dolores in bed with her husband, Arturo. Maria and Dolores had been friends for more than two decades, sharing clothes and spells, recipes and remedies, everything except men. They’d often traveled to Mexico together to perform rituals for pay, and had spent many Friday and Saturday nights drinking cheap wine and reading tarot cards for strangers. But as Dolores scooped up her clothes and ran out of Maria’s house that afternoon, Maria hurled curses at her, vowed to make her life “un infierno viviente” for her betrayal. Soon after came the headaches, then the nausea, then the weakness and disorientation, and three weeks ago, the maddening cricket songs. Songs of the “espiritus venganza.” Music meant to fracture her sanity and cripple her spirit. The final nail in the coffin.

  With Yesenia’s help, Dolores had cast countless protection spells and counter curses, performed multiple blocking rituals, and drunk numerous healing, strengthening, and cleansing potions. She’d even made a few animal sacrifices. But with the exception of a good day here and there, she continued to decline. Feeling helpless to stop her sister’s downward spiral, Yesenia had decided to have the kids hunt the crickets in hopes that limiting their noise would at least provide Dolores a little respite. And it had. Dolores had been less anxious and wild at night since the hunting began, sleeping more, writhing and moaning less. She seemed more lucid, more there. More Dolores.

  When the Country Roland album ended, Yesenia turned on the radio and checked on her sister. Dolores was still asleep, balled-up like a caterpillar in a cocoon under a colorful quilt their mother had sewn. Yesenia turned off the bedside lamp, and as she made her way back to the kitchen heard the kids laughing in the backyard, approaching the house. She grabbed the money and pan de polvo off the table and headed outside before they stormed in and woke Dolores.

  The kids hushed when they saw her and stopped in the farthest reaches of the porch light, where the grass met the raised oak porch. She sat in front of them on the top step and held out the plate. As they eagerly grabbed the sweet pastries, thanked her, and began shoveling them into their mouths, she said, “You kids have done good. I don’t hear any crickets nearby.”

  Parker swallowed the partially-chewed glob of dough in his mouth, then gestured at the woods beyond the backyard with his cricket stick. “The only ones left around here are out in Hunter’s Haven.”

  Yesenia smiled and nodded. She understood why Cel, Abby, Natalie, and, if her instincts were right, Omar, all had crushes on him, whether they admitted it to one another or not. He was handsome and polite and funny, and he possessed a sense of charisma and confidence uncommon in most his age. But she also saw something their young eyes couldn’t. Hidden in the depths of his inviting, All-American smile and soft eyes was a streak of selfishness and disregard. A look she’d seen in too many men over the years. Men who thought the world was their oyster. She set the empty plate on her lap and handed each of th
e kids a ten dollar bill, which they accepted with pleased smiles and nods of gratitude. She waited a moment for the kids to examine and pocket the cash, then said, “I’ll give you each five more a week on top of that if you’ll go ahead and hunt the edge of the woods from now on, too.”

  “Sweet.” Parker high-fived Omar. “That’ll give us more to spend at the fair next weekend.” His eyes swept across the girls’. “You guys are game, right?”

  They all nodded enthusiastically.

  “Bueno.” Yesenia stood and brushed the crumbs off the plate. “Now, you kids better go home so you don’t get in trouble. It’s getting late.”

  Cel stepped onto the porch next to Yesenia, and they watched the other hunters cross the backyard. Parker glanced back at Cel and flashed a trace of a smile before he closed the metal gate, crossed the field, and disappeared in the darkness with the others. A few seconds later, a howl of elation followed by a faint chorus of laughter drifted through the night air.

  When Yesenia turned to head inside, Cel continued to stare in the direction her friends had gone. She was biting her bottom lip, fighting back a giddy smile, but her eyes were unable to contain her excitement. Yesenia shook her head, fighting back a smile of her own. She could practically feel the air around Cel tingling with electricity. Young love. Stupid love. She touched Cel’s shoulder. “Come on, mija. You need to wash up.”

  Yesenia checked on Dolores, washed the plate, heated another cup of chamomile tea, and was sitting at the kitchen table when Cel walked into the room in her purple fuzzy robe thirty minutes later. She sat across from Yesenia, patting her wet shoulder-length black hair with a towel. The radio played softly in the background to help drown out any crickets that crept up close to the house.

  “How’s Tia Dillo?” Cel asked. “Is she asleep?”

  Yesenia nodded, sipping her tea. “She’s okay. Been asleep for a while now.” She loved that Cel called Dolores Tia Dillo just like Rebecca, Cel’s mom, had. She also loved how Cel could pass as Rebecca’s clone. It was almost as if Rebecca had been resurrected. They had the same fierce cheekbones, the same comely smile, the same piercing eyes, eyes so dark it was hard to locate a pupil. They even shared a bean-shaped skin blemish below their left eye, and both had a slightly twisted right incisor—the same anomaly obvious in Yesenia’s and Dolores’s smiles, and their mom’s, as well. Yesenia had never met Cel’s father, but she assumed his family’s pedigree must’ve been weak because Cel didn’t appear to carry any traits other than her mother’s.

  Cel set the damp towel on the table. “You think she’s getting better?”

  Yesenia took a sip. “I think you guys help her feel better.” She gazed out the window above the sink for a long moment before looking back at Cel.

  “You think she’ll die?”

  “We’ll all die, mija.”

  Cel pushed out an irritated breath. “I know we’ll all die one day. But…” Her eyes dropped to the towel on the table. She rubbed her hand over it as if it were fragile. “You think she’ll die soon?”

  Yesenia shrugged. “No se.”

  Cel looked up. “There’s nothing else we can do? No stronger healing spells or potions?”

  “We’re doing all we can to help her.”

  “What about doing something to stop Maria then? Can’t we curse her back or something? If she gets sick enough, or weak enough, won’t she stop hurting Tia Dillo?”

  Yesenia set down her tea. “It’s not that simple.” Or safe, she thought but kept to herself. When it came to the craft, vengeance could carry harsh consequences.

  Cel looked away from Yesenia, her eyes fraught with pained frustration. “It sucks watching her hurt.” She shook her head. “I just wish I could do more.”

  “I know, mija.” Yesenia reached across the table and touched Cel’s hand. She didn’t want Cel involved in the feud any more than necessary. “More involved” meant more danger. She had no doubts Maria would attack Cel if needed. “But, by killing those crickets, you are helping her more than you know.” She squeezed Cel’s hand, and Cel made eye contact with her. “This dark stint will pass, I promise.”

  Cel nodded.

  Yesenia scooped up her tea and held it close to her chest with both hands, allowing the steam to warm the underside of her chin as she thought of a way to steer the conversation away from her sister’s troubles and Cel’s emotions away from worry. “So, when did you and Parker become more than friends?”

  The frustration in Cel’s eyes instantly changed to happy shock at hearing the question. A change only possible for the young. She bit at her lip to fight back an explosive grin. “What?”

  Yesenia chuckled. “I see the way you’ve been looking at him this summer when he’s not looking at you.” She took a slow, calm sip. “I saw the way he looked at you when he was leaving tonight.”

  “We’re just friends.”

  Yesenia cocked one eyebrow and flapped a hand at Cel. “Por favor. Have you kissed him?”

  Blushing, Cel buried her face in her hands as though she knew Yesenia could see the answer in her eyes, in her smile, which she did. Any right-minded woman would’ve.

  “Is he a good kisser?”

  Cel looked up sheepishly and nodded, biting her lip again. Just like her mother always had.

  Yesenia could tell Cel was struggling to keep from gushing about the kiss, or kisses, and part of her would’ve loved to listen to her granddaughter relive the pleasures of her ignorant, youthful lust, but her motherly instinct overrode that desire. She knew all too well as a woman who’d become a single mom at sixteen that if fostered, the toxic mixture of teenage hormones and infatuation easily led to kisses, and kisses easily led to touching, and touching easily led to babies. Although she felt blessed that she’d had a second chance at parenting with Cel, she had no desire to raise another child ever again, kin or not. Two was enough. “Just make sure that’s as far as it goes. Muchachos only have one thing on their mind, and you’re too young to let him—”

  Cel jumped up, her chair screeching across the linoleum as it slid back. Her eyes and smile slathered with embarrassment. “Buela! I haven’t even thought…” She picked the towel up off the table and headed down the hallway toward her room. “I’m going to bed now.”

  “Goodnight, mija,” Yesenia called after her in a singsong voice despite being a little concerned about the squeaky tone of Cel’s attempt at a denial. Cel may not have slept with Parker, but the idea wasn’t foreign to her.

  Chapter 9 - Cel

  Cel rode her bike to Abby’s house a little after seven in the evening. The Cricket Hunters had separated an hour earlier after hunting the area around the house, each heading home to touch base with their parents, wash up, and eat. Although they’d accepted Yesenia’s offer the night before to start clearing the edge of Hunter’s Haven, they wanted to wait until Sunday to start. They wanted the last Saturday night of the summer break to be like all the others. Saturday nights were movie nights at the Powell residence. All summer, Abby’s mom had worked the closing shift at Brookshire Grocery on Saturdays, and the Cricket Hunters had taken advantage of the empty house.

  Cel opened the front door and walked into the living room. The TV was off, the dingy couch unoccupied. The scent of cigarettes and Abby’s perfume clung to the air. As Cel made her way through the living room, she heard whispering in the kitchen. She stopped just before the entrance and turned her head sideways, listening, but couldn’t make out what was being said or who was talking. She peeked into the kitchen. Parker and Abby were standing in front of the sink, their backs to her, Abby’s shoulder touching Parker’s chest as she dried a glass. The paperback copy of Ray Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man Parker had been carrying around all summer was shoved into the back pocket of his cargo shorts. They both looked back at Cel when she stepped into the room.

  Parker held eye contact with Cel for a moment before moving away from Abby and greeting her. His hesitation made Cel’s heart hitch. He looked nervous, unsure of what
to say, uncomfortable. He’d never looked at her that way before. He and Abby must’ve been gossiping, talking about her, she just knew it.

  Abby flashed Cel a quick smile of acknowledgement, then started pulling glasses from the cupboard and lining them on the counter next to a three-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper and the five Coors Light beers Parker had lifted from his dad’s garage stash. The speed of her movements along with the way she kept glancing back at Cel spoke to her nervousness—guilt—as well.

  “Will you grab the popcorn bag and put it in the microwave?” Abby asked Parker in a normal volume. No more whispering.

  Parker winked at Cel and mouthed, “I’ll tell you later,” as he made his way to the pantry.

  Cel released a clutched breath, as though a tight corset had been snipped off her chest, freeing her lungs. “How long have you been here?” she asked him.

  “I don’t know. A couple of minutes.”

  More relief. With a spring in her step, she headed toward the cupboards. “You want me to get the bowls out?”

  “Sure,” Abby answered as she filled five glasses with soda.

  They carried the glasses and beers and bowls of popcorn into the living room and set them on the coffee table, then Abby suggested they go out onto the back porch while they waited for Omar and Natalie to arrive with the movie. They always alternated who picked the movie, and this Saturday was Omar’s day. He and Natalie lived next door to one another on Malibu Way, the farthest street on the northern edge of the Gateway neighborhood, and knowing his tendency for indecisiveness, Natalie had offered to ride her bike along with him to Hastings to help him choose a movie.

  On the porch, they lined up three lawn chairs and sat down. Parker pulled out his Bradbury book and began flipping through pages as Abby dug a pink lighter out of her pocket, retrieved one of her mom’s partially-smoked menthols from an ashtray under her chair, and lit up. She took a couple of small puffs, offered the cigarette to Cel who shook her head, then offered it to Parker who took a long puff and handed it back. After she finished the cigarette with a series of delicate puffs and dropped the butt in the ashtray, Parker closed his book and turned his head sideways, aiming his left ear—the ear he claimed was his better cricket ear—at the backyard fence. “Man,” he said. “We should’ve brought our sticks. Sounds like there is a good twenty or thirty horny crickets out in your alley.”