BRIGHTON
I cage myself in the room until I can trust myself not to go off on anyone. The door is locked, and I ignore Ma when she calls me out for breakfast. I’m starving, but I’m done eating toasted tortillas with refried beans and avocado without Dad. It’s an easy enough dish, one that Dad learned to prepare to better connect with Ma’s Puerto Rican side, and his were so crispy. I’m just not ready to pretend Ma’s are the same. I’m especially not ready to have family breakfast in the living room and talk about how this is our first birthday without him. It’s too much.
It’s better in here, anyway. Dad once said our bedroom is just a celestial shrine with beds. Years ago, when the Spell Walkers were more embraced by the public, they licensed their image to help bring in money, and I was lucky enough to get my hands on them before manufacturers stopped making them. By the window is a poster of Maribelle and her parents, Aurora and Lestor Lucero. Limited-edition Funko Pops of the original Spell Walkers—Bautista de León, Sera Córdova, the Luceros, Finola Simone-Chambers, and Konrad Chambers. The playing cards I used to bring to school before we graduated. Key chains with the Spell Walker sigil—a constellation of a being who is taking a step, with the brightest of stars lighting up their fists, feet, and heart. There’s nothing official for the new wave of Spell Walkers, but I do have these framed art prints of them hanging above my desk, one signed by Wesley Young as a perk for donating to a campaign to fund supplies for one of their hidden havens.
I’m the one who should be famous today. Not some twenty-one-year-old who’s probably going to write a memoir about this gap year when she traveled the country taste-testing food.
A few hours later, I drag myself out of bed and get everything ready for the meet-up. I threw down money on custom glow-in-the-dark gel bands for my Brightsiders, notepads with my logo to encourage everyone else to take interest in the celestials around them, and a few T-shirts. There’s this local YouTuber, Lore, who always sells out on their swag whenever they host meet-ups. I told Emil I would call the day a win if I make back at least sixty percent of my money this afternoon, but I’m counting on a stronger profit and will hype myself up hard later when I hit it.
I leave the room so Emil can come in and get dressed. He’s stretched across the couch and reading a graphic novel, and Ma has the news on, but her eyes are distant.
“We got to go soon,” I say.
“You done torturing yourself?” Emil asks.
I scratch my chin, then realize that’s what Dad always did with his beard whenever he was upset. I cut it out. I turn to the news.
“. . . we’re waiting on Senator Iron’s statement on the death of an unidentified specter in the middle of the night,” the Channel One anchorwoman says.
Emil turns away from his book. “She died?”
Viewer discretion is advised before the clip comes on. It’s not the woman from the block party, but instead a man standing on the edge of a roof. This specter also has white phoenix fire, but unlike the woman from last night, both his arms are blazing, and the flames stretch like massive wings—wings that are holding their own against the pummeling winds. The man looks hesitant, but he jumps anyway and takes flight, rising higher and higher until one arm snaps clean off his shoulder. He howls in agony and panic while plummeting like a bird shot out of the sky.
The anchorwoman returns before the station can show the impact. “Medical officials arrived to the scene to find the specter near death, expecting a recovery, as his arm was growing back, but he died minutes later.”
“He regrew his arm?” Emil stares at the ceiling as if answers can be found there. “Song-rooks are the only phoenixes who can regenerate body parts like that, but it takes hours. And their fire is violet, not white.”
“Guess there’s another phoenix out there that can,” I say. I’m not up on phoenixes like Emil is, but he wasn’t exactly acing all his coursework on creatures either. “Not the first time blood alchemy failed someone.”
We’re quiet.
The alchemists who were working on Dad didn’t exactly promise a full recovery, but they sure were arrogant about how brilliant they were for developing a potion with the regenerative properties of a hydra’s blood and introducing it into the systems of sick people. I wonder how much more time we would’ve had with him if we’d let him waste away without their help.
The anchorwoman cuts to Senator Iron, and Ma groans as she raises the volume.
New York’s senior senator, Edward Iron, has a full head of dark hair, pale skin that’s gone a few rounds with Botox, thick glasses, and a suit that probably costs more than our rent. “Last night’s specter incidents, hours apart in our city, are disturbing signals of the crisis our country hasn’t escaped. If elected president, Congresswoman Sunstar will create more opportunities and freedom for her people, when we need stricter regulations to avoid the horrors many woke up to this morning. My opponents campaigned against me, claiming this was only a conflict with specters, not celestials, but the Blackout sadly proved me right about how dangerous the Spell Walkers are. . . .” Senator Iron closes his eyes, takes a moment, and nods. “We’re working around the clock to locate and apprehend the Spell Walkers.”
The station cuts back to the anchorwoman. “As you can see, Senator Iron remains troubled discussing the Blackout after losing his son, Eduardo, who was on a class trip in the Nightlocke Conservatory when the Spell Walkers demolished the building with their powers, taking the lives of six hundred and thirteen people this past January.”
I stand by the theories I voiced on YouTube about how someone else must’ve framed the Spell Walkers for the Blackout to move their own agenda.
But what do I know? Go ask a valedictorian.
As for Eduardo Iron, I’m not dropping tears for him. When he was alive, all he did was bad-mouth and bully celestials and incite more violence. There are better people to mourn.
We get it together and head out. When we reach the park’s entrance, Prudencia is waiting for us. This day has finally brought me something good.
Prudencia Mendez is glowing in a knotted T-shirt, navy shorts, boots that make her look like an archaeologist, and her late mother’s watch, which doesn’t work but never leaves her wrist. Her black hair is pulled up in a long ponytail. When I go in for a hug, her brown eyes narrow and she shoves me.
“I almost didn’t come, but then I wouldn’t be able to hit you,” Prudencia says. “You idiots could’ve died.”
“We were fine,” I say.
“We’re not fireproof,” Emil says.
I glare at that traitor. “Prudencia, even you have to admit I was brave to record that power brawl like a true journalist.”
“Not a journalist. You’re being a fanboy who doesn’t care about his life or his brother’s.” There’s no lightness in her voice. “Your life isn’t worth fifteen minutes of fame, Brighton.”
“Tell me about it. My video hasn’t even reached a hundred thousand views yet.”
“That’s a new record for you,” Emil says. “Wasn’t that long ago when you were celebrating one thousand views.”
“Dreams grow,” I say.
“Last night was a nightmare,” Prudencia says. “One I know well. Losing my parents to wand violence was already too much, and if you can’t promise me that you’ll leave the next time there’s chaos, then I don’t want you in my life.”
I’m not going to be responsible for breaking her heart.
“I promise,” I say.
“Same,” Emil says.
Prudencia lets out a deep breath and hugs Emil, then me. I relax into her hug, which seems longer than the one she shared with Emil—probably something to do with our whole will-we-or-won’t-we thing we’ve had going on since meeting in high school.
The timing has always sucked. I dated my first and only girlfriend, Nina, through freshman and sophomore year, then broke that up after finally admitting to myself I saw Nina more as a friend and Prudencia as more than that. Before I could express anything, Prudencia started flirting with our classmate Dominic. Definitely didn’t help that of all people Prudencia could’ve dated, she linked up with a celestial who could travel through shadows. For weeks after, I was nonstop calling Dominic a snob for not agreeing to be on my series, and I’ll never admit this out loud, not even to Emil, but my recent buzz cut may have had something to do with modeling it after Dominic’s hair. Their downfall was a combo of Prudencia’s aunt being as intolerant as they come, and Dominic’s parents only wanting him dating other celestials to preserve their bloodline, as if he was trying to be some young dad. Secret-keeping got to them, and they broke up.
I’ve still got a few days before I go; maybe Prudencia and I can click into place before then. Find a way to make it work across the country.
We get deeper into Whisper Fields, named so in honor of Gunnar Whisper, a late-bloomer celestial who took charge in the Undying Battle of Fountain Stone against gangs of necromancers. The textbooks of course credit the win to ordinary soldiers who fought off those ghost-raising maniacs with wands, gem-grenades, and gauntlets—all man-made by celestials, though people are quick to forget that—but I’m not shy about making sure anyone and everyone knows about Gunnar’s glory and how proud I am to share Bronx roots with this hero who truly saved the day. The statue is erected by the lake where Gunnar first came into his power of clairvoyance at twenty-three years old, and I always feel this electricity in the air whenever I’m near it, like maybe I’m moments away from discovering I’m a celestial too, who will one day have a park named after me, or that Prudencia and I will take a step into a cooler future together.
But as I approach Gunnar’s bronze monument today, there’s this dread unlike I’ve ever had before. I expected to find dozens of Brightsiders waiting for me underneath the shade provided by Gunnar’s salute, but I can only make out . . . one, two, three, four, five, six . . . seven. Seven people.
“No one showed,” I say.
“There are fans literally waving at you,” Emil says.
“Seven people.”
“It’s still early.”
“And train traffic,” Prudencia says.
“Got any more excuses?” I point at the blue skies. “Should we blame the weather too?” I put on a smile and wave back at my fans. “Let’s knock this out.”
I chat with the six Brightsiders—turns out the seventh person is a friend tagging along—about their favorite videos. I grow more and more self-conscious as Emil films, my original vision for the video with big crowds surrounding me completely collapsing. Someone of Lore’s caliber—a successful YouTuber—would never have to learn their fans’ names or have lengthy conversations outside the comments sections, because of their high demand. I bottle those ugly feelings and put on a grateful face as a couple more people trickle in for quick hellos before the hour is up, and I’m left lounging by the lake with Prudencia and Emil, using the unsold T-shirts as a pillow.
“I know it’s not what you wanted,” Prudencia says, dipping her feet in the water. “But you made their days.”
“I’m a failure on every level. I had the superior video, and it didn’t go viral. I mean, come on, I was deep in the action. And now this meet-up was a bust, and . . . whatever.”
I shut up because complaining isn’t a good look in front of Prudencia; I’ll be a punk in front of Emil later. I gather all the swag and beeline toward the exit. Celestials are bravely playing beam-disc, which is basically Frisbee with someone’s conjured energy, but I’m not in the mood to watch other people show off their powers, so I keep it moving.
Hours pass, and I become more tightly wound, waiting for something extraordinary to happen. During my shower. When I’m changing. While we eat dinner with Ma at Emil’s favorite vegan diner in Brooklyn. After we get home, I spend time alone on the roof, staring up at the faint outline of the Crowned Dreamer, barely noticing when Emil climbs up the fire escape.
“You good?” Emil asks, tossing me my hoodie.
I’m freezing, but I can’t bring myself to put it on. “It’s not going to happen, is it?”
“No, but it’s okay. You’re already a hero because of all the stories you’re telling with Celestials of New York.”
“More like a sidekick,” I say. “Aren’t you bummed we’re not going to be the people’s champions?”
“We don’t have to be chosen ones or whatever to do good.”
We sit in silence as I pray to the Crowned Dreamer to change my life. But when midnight hits, I turn my back on the stars. We go down the fire escape, through our window, and straight into bed, where we fall asleep, as painfully ordinary as we’ve been the last eighteen years.