Before I can question what Fautina told us, before I can let it sink in that the cause of all the terrible things of the past few weeks was a member of my own family, Fautina begins to fade. First, her purple skirt flows in the breeze until only the sidewalk remains. Then the silver bun perched on the top of her head disappears into the orange light of the setting sun. The last thing I see are Fautina’s eyes gazing at me, the golden flecks sparkling until they vanish.
I rummage in my backpack and yank out the diary so I can write down more about her and make her reappear.
But I don’t know anything new to write. My hand shakes over the page as my brain searches for something to say about a relative I never even knew I had.
“I’m sorry—” I stammer. “I don’t know enough to make her come back.”
Stomping her foot on the sidewalk, Keisha grumbles. “No offense, Mari, but your family is annoying.”
I slam the diary shut. “I’m sorry, okay? How many times do I have to say it?”
My cheeks flush, and Keisha narrows her eyes at me. But I don’t stop. What’s been brewing deep in my gut boils over.
“I know this is my fault, and I’m sorry you got wrapped up in it, but I’m trying, okay? I’m trying to fix everything. And it doesn’t help when you keep getting mad at me. Just go complain about me to Syed like I know you want to.”
Keisha crosses her arms and seethes. “Mad at you? I’m more than mad at you. I’m furious! I have my fencing tournament this weekend. Am I just supposed to wait around for this crocodile guy to screw everything up for me? And I knew you were jealous of me and Syed!”
“Hah! Hardly,” I shout, and roll my eyes.
Juan Carlos clears his throat. “Listen, uh—”
Keisha waves him off and points a finger inches from my nose. “Figure this out. The sooner the better, because my tournament is this weekend, and the way things are going now, it’s guaranteed to be a disaster. It’s the least you can do for messing up my life.”
She stomps down the sidewalk before I can say anything else.
I drop my hands in defeat, clutching the diary. “I don’t know what else to do. If I could snap my fingers and make this all go away, I would.”
Juan Carlos pats me on the shoulder. “I know you would. The Super Ojos have been through worse, you know.”
I shake my head. “Worse than being cursed with bad luck? I don’t think so.”
Juan Carlos bites his lip. “Okay, maybe you’re right. But we’ll figure this out.”
He takes my hand and squeezes it.
Just as I’m about to agree with him, a line of fire ants march out of a crack in the sidewalk and make a hypnotic parade toward my ankle. I jump away as their writhing red bodies spell something out on the concrete.
I WIN.
On Saturday, I walk to the Port Ballí Community Center for Keisha’s fencing tournament. Juan Carlos and I usually flood her phone with good luck text messages, but now I’m not sure if she wants us there at all. She’s barely spoken to us since Tuesday.
Every time something went wrong—from her pen exploding in the middle of an English test to her slipping in front of everyone on greasy sloppy joes that had inexplicably spread across the floor, she’d glare at me—I was too busy dealing with ants crawling out of my violin at mariachi practice and biting my fingers to apologize for the hundredth time.
I meet Juan Carlos outside the community center, my eyes darting up and down the sidewalk out of habit. I search for things that may or may not be there, the tingling on the mark on my arm the only hint that El Cocodrilo is messing with my mind.
“I repacked Señor Listopatodo with everything I thought might help Keisha for her tournament,” he says, showing me the backpack slung over his shoulder. I look at the bag’s black fabric and see it covered with safety pins securing pieces of paper that read “Crocodiles Suck,” “At least I can generate my own heat,” and “Hooray for the extinction of El Cocodrilo.”
“I’ve got Por Si Las Moscas ready too,” I say, pointing to my own backpack. “A water bottle, in case hers tastes like pee. An extra towel if hers turns to sandpaper. About fifty extra hair ties.”
“I packed diapers,” Juan Carlos says.
“You can add us to the supplies,” a man’s voice says behind us.
I turn and see Pipo and Fautina standing on the sidewalk. Their shapes are almost entirely solid. Someone would have to stare at them for a long time to see the yellow flowers of the lantana bushes rustling behind them.
“It worked!” I shout, running up to Pipo and Fautina.
“What do you mean?” Juan Carlos asks. “What worked?”
I pull my backpack off my shoulder and open it. Taking out my diary, I flip to a page covered with my bad handwriting and show it to Pipo and Fautina. “I wrote down everything you told me about yourselves. All the stories, everything you said. That way I could call you here.”
Pipo smiles, and Fautina looks over the page. My heart had been beating so fast when Fautina first vanished that I couldn’t think of anything to write to make her come back. But once I got home, I filled a page, describing the way she told her story at the wildlife center and what she looked like sitting with us in front of Dulcita’s Paleta Shop. And I wrote down everything I remembered about Pipo in Zaragosa Park.
“This is wonderful, my dear,” Fautina says, winking.
Juan Carlos steps forward and looks at my notebook. “Um, I’m not sure how permanent a record that is when your handwriting looks like a blindfolded squid wrote it.”
“Hey, don’t hate on the handwriting. It gets the job done.”
Pipo laughs as I shove the diary into my backpack. “So your friend has some sort of sporting event today?” he asks.
“It’s a fencing tournament. A coach from Houston is coming to watch her, and he’ll decide if she can join his team.”
Fautina lowers her head. “This sounds like just the sort of thing El Cocodrilo would love to interfere with.”
Juan Carlos and I nod. “Exactly. So we’ve got to try to stop him,” I say.
We lead Pipo and Fautina to the community center, looking like two kids accompanied by their older brother and grandmother. We find seats on the bleachers behind where Keisha’s team is warming up.
“So I guess we keep an eye out for El Cocodrilo?” Juan Carlos asks.
Fautina shakes her head. “Unfortunately, he can do all the damage he wants without us ever seeing him.”
“That’s so unfair,” Juan Carlos says, hugging his backpack to his chest. He turns to me. “We’re on R, right? What a repulsive radioactive reptile.”
“And he could be anyone in this gym, just like he turned into Dr. Younts at the wildlife center,” I say, rubbing my palms on my jeans.
Pipo grunts. “So no one here is safe? This isn’t going to be easy.”
Keisha sees us in the bleachers, and her eyes grow wide when they fall on Pipo and Fautina. Juan Carlos waves, and I give her a thumbs-up. She smiles half-heartedly and then waves to her moms, who are a few rows down in the bleachers, before sitting next to Syed on the bench.
“Is that the coach? The Houston Daggers guy?” Juan Carlos asks, nudging me and pointing to a mustached man two rows behind us who is sitting with an open notebook.
I shrug. “I think so. He looks serious.”
Pipo leans closer to me. “But is that really the coach? And not the other guy?”
Squinting, I examine the man as he watches the fencers prepare for their bouts. He doesn’t have green nails like the fake Dr. Younts had, but I can’t tell if the tight line on his lips is from concentrating on his evaluations or because he’s plotting ways to make Keisha’s fencing blade turn into a snake.
We turn our attention to Keisha, getting ready on the mat. She puts on a silver bib over her white fencing uniform, pulls a cord from the electronic scoring system, and hooks it to the back of her bib. Her opponent, a ninth-grade boy almost a foot taller than she is, does the same. The bib will register when her opponent makes contact with her torso, scoring a point. Keisha’s opponent tests his blade, pressing the tip to her chest. The scoring system lights up, and a buzzer sounds. Keisha presses her blade to the boy’s scoring bib, but nothing happens. She inspects the metal clip attached to her blade, but it’s fine.
Keisha’s coach runs over to her with another blade, and she quickly plugs it into the cord running from the sleeve of her fencing jacket. When she tests it again on her opponent’s scoring bib, a green light flashes and the buzzer sounds through the gym when she presses her blade to his chest.
“Does that normally happen?” Fautina asks, her eyes still meandering around the gym—to spectators on their cell phones, the electronic scoreboard with flashing lights, and the large speakers blaring music between bouts. I have to remind myself that the family tree in Abuelita’s Bible said that Fautina was born in 1905.
I shake my head. “Not really. Keep an eye out for El Cocodrilo.”
Pipo stands and brushes his hands on his pants. “I think I’ll join that Houston coach as he watches. Just to be sure, you know?”
He walks across the bleachers and sits behind the Houston coach, eyeing the man carefully.
I clench my fists as Keisha’s bout begins, my nails digging into my palms. I focus on the mark on my arm, as if any tingling is a clue that something terrible is about to happen.
Keisha holds her mask to her chest and salutes her opponent, the judge, and the spectators with her blade. She slips on her mask, rolls her shoulders, and, placing one foot in front of the other, lowers herself into a slight lunge.
“En garde. Ready. Fence!” the judge announces.
Keisha’s opponent lunges at her, attacking her left side with his blade, but she blocks him with her own. She takes two quick steps forward, lunges, and stabs her blade into his collarbone. The scoring system buzzes loudly and echoes through the gym.
“Yeah, Keisha!” Syed shouts, clapping loudly.
Juan Carlos grabs my hand and yells a cheer for Keisha.
Keisha and her opponent center themselves on the fencing mats, and the judge again announces, “En garde. Ready. Fence.”
Keisha takes a wide lunge forward with her right foot, aiming directly for her opponent with her blade, but her foot slips, and she loses her balance. She stumbles toward her opponent and into his blade, scoring a point against herself.
“That’s okay. She’ll still win,” Juan Carlos says, squeezing my hand.
Keisha shakes her head and looks at the bottom of her shoe.
“Um, Juanito. Does Señor Listopatodo have anything for slippery shoes?” I ask.
Juan Carlos fumbles in his backpack. “I’ve got this. I totally got this.”
He yanks out a pair of shoes that have sandpaper superglued to the bottom. “I asked Keisha’s moms for some of her old fencing shoes so I could fix this up. They gave me a weird look for that.”
“But how do we get them to her? We can’t exactly walk up in the middle of the bout.” I look at the fencing judge, who never takes his eyes off Keisha and her opponent.
“I believe it’s my turn now to help,” Fautina says. She takes a deep breath and whispers, “There was once a colony of the most beautiful butterflies. Their wings were painted with every shade the human mind had ever concocted. They would flit and fly in swirls, attracting the attention of every eye.”
My mouth drops open as I look toward the ceiling of the gym. Big butterflies with bright blue and orange wings float along the metal rafters with smaller yellow and red butterflies. They’re chased by other butterflies with wings of the deepest purple I’ve ever seen. Every single person in the gym cranes their necks toward the ceiling, watching the butterflies dance and fly around. Several butterflies land directly on the noses of a handful of spectators while everyone else watches to see where the other butterflies will perch.
I nudge Juan Carlos with my elbow. “Now, Juanito. Do it now.”
Juan Carlos grabs the fencing shoes and hurries down to Keisha, past the judge, whose eyes are glued to a bright orange butterfly flying closer and closer to his head. His lip curls and his gaze narrows, completely unamused by the insects. At least he’s distracted.
Kiesha takes the shoes, kicks off her slippery ones, and passes them to Juan Carlos. Securing her feet in the sandpaper shoes, she gives me a thumbs-up.
“And just as quickly as they appeared”—Fautina continues her story—“the butterflies disappeared out the window.”
The swarm of butterflies captivating everyone finds an open window in the far corner of the gym and flies out in a swirling, colorful clump.
Everyone shakes their heads at the sight and murmurs about the butterflies, but the tournament continues as before.
“Let’s hope this works,” I say.
Keisha rolls her shoulders and gets into position again, scuffing her feet on the mat as if to make sure the shoes will stick.
“En garde. Ready. Fence,” the judge calls.
Keisha and her opponent trade barbs, lunging at each other. Keisha keeps advancing, nearly backing her opponent off the mat before thrusting her blade into his chest and scoring a point.
She quickly scores three more points, her opponent shaking his head at her speed. She wins the bout, and Juan Carlos and I clap until our hands hurt.
After saluting her opponent and the judge with her blade, Keisha disconnects herself from the scoring system and gives us a thumbs-up before sitting next to Syed on the bench.
She used to sit with us between bouts.
We watch the next bout as Syed faces a high schooler who has impossibly long arms. Keisha’s feet bounce up and down on the gym floor as she wipes her sweaty palms on her fencing pants, her mask tucked under her arm. She keeps stealing glances at the Houston coach in the stands.
I want to say something to her. I want to say I’m sorry and tell her I hope everything turns out okay. But then I see her fingers meander under her jacket sleeve and scratch the mark on her arm.
“Jeffries! You’re up!” Keisha’s coach calls when Syed’s match ends with his victory.
Keisha trots to the mat and goes through her usual warm-up, but this time she scuffs her sandpaper shoes on the mat as she slips on her fencing glove.
Keisha’s opponent for this bout is a girl much shorter than she is. After testing her blade, which thankfully works, Keisha salutes and pulls her mask over her face.
The judge raises his arm and begins, “En garde. Ready—”
Before he can say “fence,” Keisha pulls off her mask, her eyes wide. She sucks in three large breaths, her hand pressing to her chest.
“Fencer, put your mask back on,” the judge says, a sour look on his face.
I watch as Keisha shakes her head and inspects the inside of her mask. My stomach rolls.
Keisha nods to the judge and puts her mask on. Lowering herself in a lunge, she points her blade at her opponent.
“En garde. Ready. Fence,” the judge says quickly.
Keisha flies at her opponent and strikes her in the chest as she runs past her. The moment the scoring system buzzes and flashes a green light, Keisha yanks off her fencing mask, her chest heaving as she sucks in air.
“He’s here. He has to be,” I mumble as I open my backpack and feel around inside.
Keisha scores two more points in the exact same way, running past her opponent as she stabs her in the chest. Each time, she flings off her mask and gasps for air, as if the mask suffocates her when she has it on.
By the fourth point, her opponent figures out Keisha’s strategy and dodges Keisha’s attack, stabbing her with her blade in the side as Keisha runs past. It’s now 3–1.
Keisha pulls off her mask again, and the judge warns, “Fencer, you will be disqualified if you continue to take off your mask.”
I notice Keisha suck in two huge breaths before pulling her mask on. I lean over to Juan Carlos and whisper, “I’m going to try something.”
Juan Carlos nods, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the bout as Keisha’s opponent scores another point.
I pull out the effigy from my backpack, the moldy fabric and frayed edges staring back at me as the pink flowers shift and swirl, giving the doll a hideous grin.
“What are you going to do with that?” Juan Carlos gasps.
I grip the effigy tightly. “I thought about what Dr. Younts said, how the dead are connected to objects. El Cocodrilo really needs this doll. It’s filled with all our sadness from everything going wrong. The first time he appeared, he went for my backpack with these slimy lizards. I didn’t know why then, but it’s probably because the effigy was inside. He wouldn’t let me destroy it either. So if something were to happen to it . . .”
I stick my finger under the thread of a loose seam and flick. The thread snaps, and part of the filling inside the doll peeks out.
“I just have to distract El Cocodrilo with this long enough so he leaves Keisha alone,” I say, snapping another thread with my finger. I scan the gym for any reaction, but everyone is focused on Keisha’s bout.
Juan Carlos eyes the widening hole in the seam of the effigy. “If only we could suck El Cocodrilo into the doll. He’s miserable enough to qualify.”
Keisha resets quickly and lunges at her opponent the moment the judge announces “Fence,” but she is unsteady on her feet and leans right into her opponent’s blade, scoring a point against herself. The bout is tied 3–3.
I nudge my finger under another thread and pull until it snaps. I glance around the gym to see if anyone reacts. The Houston couch focuses on Keisha’s match, the judge rolls his shoulders, and Syed shouts encouragement to Keisha.
I can’t tell if anyone is reacting.
Soon the scoring system buzzes loudly again throughout the gym, announcing that Keisha’s opponent has scored yet another point. Keisha’s shoulders move up and down as she tries to suck in air. Her opponent needs only one more point to win the bout.
“Señora Crespo, didn’t you say El Cocodrilo was consumed by his sadness and despair?” Juan Carlos asks.
Fautina purses her lips and nods. “Yes, he was. There wasn’t a single drop of happiness in him.”
Juan Carlos squeezes his hands into fists and stares down at Keisha on the mats. “If an effigy absorbs all bad things, wouldn’t it make sense too that it would absorb something completely made up of sadness?”
I bite my lip and snap another thread loose on the effigy, but it’s too late. Keisha stumbles forward after the judge calls “Fence,” her opponent taking advantage of Keisha’s lack of balance and thrusting her blade into her chest. Keisha yanks her mask off as the buzzer announces that she lost the bout.
She stares at the floor as she trudges to the bench where her coach and Syed are sitting. I watch as Keisha shows Syed her fencing mask, shaking her head as her shoulders heave and sweat drips from her forehead.
“It’s okay,” Juan Carlos mutters. “As long as she doesn’t lose her next bout, she can still make it.”
I glance at the Houston coach, his lips in a tight line as he scribbles in his notebook. I nod in agreement, but so far Keisha has fenced against faulty blades, slippery shoes, and suffocating masks. I’m afraid to let my imagination run wild to think about what the next bout might bring.
A loud buzzer sounds in the gym, signaling the beginning of Keisha’s last bout. I break two more threads on the effigy, hoping El Cocodrilo will turn his attention toward me and try to stop me, hoping he’ll leave Keisha alone.
But it doesn’t work.
Keisha’s final bout, and her hope of earning a spot on the Houston Daggers team, ends with the cord from the electronic scoring system yanking her off her feet and pulling her backwards, her opponent running forward and scoring an easy point five times. We sit helpless as Keisha tries to scramble to her feet, only to be pulled back by the cord.
After the bout, Keisha slides her mask off and drops her blade in her bag. She bites her lip, her gaze glued to the gym floor as tears pool in her eyes.
To a casual observer, it looked like Keisha was just unsteady on her feet, a young fencer too inexperienced to be fencing at this level.
I watch the judge approach her as she sits alone on the bench, and I assume he’s going to give her words of encouragement. He leans forward and waves his hands, wafting air to his nostrils. As he breathes in deeply, his eyes glow green. A thin smile breaks out on his scaly face.
El Cocodrilo locks eyes with me and winks. He flicks a long black fingernail three times in my direction, and I hear a sharp rip as all the seams of the effigy completely snap and pull apart. The destroyed pieces fall to the floor.
“Oh, sweet Mari, did you think I still needed that? Why would I when I can just breathe in your misery directly from the source?”