Our plan had been wrong this whole time.
One high-pitched scream from Liset would’ve driven El Cocodrilo away forever.
I explained El Cocodrilo’s curse to her, as well as my ability to call up our ancestors by writing in the diary, but that’s not what set her off. After Pipo and Abuelito had a kicking match in front of her, their legs flying through each other’s shins, and Andaluz made water shoot from my ears, the scream that erupted from Liset’s throat shook every window in the house.
I’d say Peak Cubanity, but I get it.
At least now we’re ready.
When I mentioned that El Cocodrilo lost his scales and seemed to have more humanlike skin when I played “Guantanamera” at my audition, Abuelita suggested that some of our traditions could be used against him. I think she wanted an excuse to have a full-blown party, with all our favorite Cuban food. But she made us wait until Friday, insisting that we weren’t allowed to have a party on a school night. I gave up trying to explain to her that El Cocodrilo’s curse was worse than me falling asleep in math class.
Now, while Abuelita fries up thick slices of plantains to make tostones as Fautina and Migdalia watch, Mami stirs a large pot of garlicky frijoles negros, and I brush egg on the pastelito dough. Papi and Abuelito, under the direction of Pipo, are making lechón in the backyard.
I’m okay with this Peak Cubanity.
Just as I’m helping Mami add golden raisins and green olives to the seasoned ground beef simmering on the stove for picadillo, Keisha arrives, her fencing bag slung over her shoulder.
“Just in case.” She winks. “So, you ready?”
I nod and pick up a large stuffed doll, practically the size of Ladislao, propped at the kitchen table. “Absolutely. Migdalia sewed a new effigy made from things we all gave her. This new one should be strong enough to catch him.”
I hold up the effigy. The fabric on the head is sewn from pieces of my Houston Aeros hoodie, the fighter plane logo making a snarling face. The rest of the effigy is pieced together from the dress Mami wore on her first date with Papi—which she’d saved—as well as the baby dress Liset was baptized in and the tie Abuelito wore when he and Abuelita got married. It’s stuffed with mango and avocado leaves and twigs from the backyard. Keisha glances over to where Migdalia is standing in the corner of the kitchen.
“You made this?” Keisha asks her. “It’s amazing. Neither of my moms can sew at all.”
Migdalia smiles and nods. “Thank you, my sweet. It’s been fun to create for the family again.”
Keisha helps Abuelita and Mami carry all the food out to the patio while I drag the large effigy to the bottom of the steps.
“Oh, that was my idea!” a voice shouts from the patio table. “I said bigger is always better!”
Ladislao jumps up and down, clapping and pointing to the effigy.
Liset sits next to him, her arms crossed, and rolls her eyes. “Why am I in charge of him again?” she asks.
Ladislao raises his hand and waves it furiously. “I know! Because I’m not supposed to get snot on the food!”
Liset huffs and blows her bangs off her forehead.
We all gather around the table, the smell of the food making my stomach growl. Before I can reach for a plate, Papi says, “Kiddo, why don’t you run the plan by us again. Just so we can be sure how this is going to go.”
I push up the sleeves of my hoodie. It doesn’t matter that the mark on my arm shows. All the secrets are out.
“Well, assuming that my diary will conjure up any of our relatives, I’m going to write about El Cocodrilo, to force him to appear. Then I’ll play “Guantanamera” on my violin—because reminding him of his past made him turn more human at my audition. Migdalia will get the effigy near him, so he’ll be sucked into it. It should be strong enough to trap him now, because it’s made of things that mean a lot to us. But y’all need to make sure we can get the effigy close. I know he’ll be up to his usual tricks.”
We dig in to the food, sharing stories and jokes, the sound carrying over the fence to Mykenzye’s window. A light clicks on, and the curtains rustle.
My stomach does a little flop when I think she might be the audience for this showdown with El Cocodrilo, but I’ll have to deal with that later.
“Super Ojos!” Juan Carlos shouts as he walks onto the patio. “Don’t start without me!” He immediately eyes the food on the table and grins.
“This is the best boss battle ever. Guaranteed,” he says, setting an overstuffed Señor Listopatodo next to his feet.
Fautina clears her throat. “I suppose we should begin.”
Sitting next to Fautina, I open my diary. “I’m sorry to ask you to do this, because I know it might be painful. But could you tell me a memory you have of El Coco— . . . of Reinaldo? Your dad?”
Fautina thinks for a moment and sighs. “We remember the good with the bad, the sour with the sweet,” she says, rubbing her temples and closing her eyes. “Reinaldo Crespo—my father—visited the cemetery outside our town every year on July first.”
As I write Fautina’s words, the breeze in the yard picks up, rustling the leaves of the mango and avocado trees. I look up from the diary and squint at the grass.
Something is moving out there.
Fautina takes a deep breath. “I followed him one year and watched him place sprigs of butterfly jasmine on a grave. Did you know that’s Cuba’s national flower? My father would breathe in the scent of the jasmine and place it on the headstone. It was the only kind thing I ever saw him do.”
I grip my pencil hard as three huge brown snakes slither between the blades of grass toward us. They raise their heads and hiss, their tongues flicking in and out. I scoot closer to Fautina as my heart races.
Juan Carlos jumps up behind me. “Keep writing. I’ve got this,” he says, ripping open Señor Listopatodo and taking out a small brown glass bottle. He dumps the liquid in the bottle on a handful of wadded-up napkins.
The smell of spicy cinnamon wafts through the air as the snakes grow closer.
While I write Fautina’s words, Juan Carlos hurls the napkins at the serpents. “Snakes hate certain smells,” he says, “like cinnamon. Mom has a ton of these bottles at home. She thinks they’ll keep me from getting a cold.”
The snakes stop their advance in front of the cinnamon-soaked napkins. Pipo steps forward and wiggles his fingers, the sound of a flute floating on the breeze. The snakes raise their heads at the music. Moving toward the serpents, Pipo continues playing as his notes put them in a trance.
I glance at Mykenzye’s window. Light seeps through a small crack between the curtains.
Pipo walks the hypnotized snakes back to the tree line as he waves his arms. I look around the yard.
“Anyone see him?” I ask.
Papi shakes his head. “Not yet, kiddo. We might need more in the diary.”
Fautina takes a deep breath and continues. “One year, I stayed at the cemetery after he left. I crept up to the grave where he had laid the flowers and I read the headstone. It said Emilio Gonzalez Fabregát. He died on July first, 1898. He was the only person my father ever cared about, and he lost Emilio because he was ashamed of himself.”
I think back to the story Fautina told about El Cocodrilo, about the man who died in his arms. All because he was trying to be someone he wasn’t.
As I copy down what Fautina said, I hear a crack and snap in the yard. A rotten mango flies directly toward us and smashes at our feet, splattering juice on my jeans. Another crack pierces the air, and a blackened avocado rockets toward the patio and smacks the wooden steps next to me.
“Mari, back up!” Mami cries, pulling me off the steps by my arms.
Keisha pushes past me into the yard. “My turn,” she says.
Another mango sails directly at her face, and she swings her fencing blade, knocking the overripe fruit to the ground. Maggots crawl from the splattered flesh. Juan Carlos rushes to her side, fishing rod in hand, and starts slashing at the rotten mangos and avocados hurling toward us.
“How long are we gonna have to do this? My arm is getting tired!” Juan Carlos shouts as he smacks an avocado with the reel of his fishing rod, green, slimy flesh splattering his shirt and glasses.
I glance quickly at Mykenzye’s window and see her standing there, her mouth dropped open at the sight of the Super Ojos battling flying fruit in the yard.
Well, she’s about to get a full show.
“Andaluz,” I say as I huddle next to Mami. “It’s your time to shine.”
Andaluz hops up from her seat next to Liset and brushes her hands along the fabric of her skirt, water droplets falling on the patio.
“I was getting bored anyway,” she says, winking at me.
Keisha grunts as she demolishes another mango right before it can hit Abuelito in the stomach. “Anytime you want to jump in is fine with me,” she says to Andaluz.
The sound of rushing rain fills the yard, but no drops fall. A mango snaps off from the tree, but instead of hurtling toward Abuelita, it’s doused by a sudden waterfall and rolls into a puddle that’s formed in the grass. Andaluz smiles at me before she raises her arms and completely drenches the mango and avocado trees. The fruit falls to the ground, and a small river appears in the yard as she waves her fingers, carrying them away.
“That was awesome,” Juan Carlos says. “I was getting tired of sword fighting guacamole.”
“Me too,” Keisha adds, giving Andaluz a thumbs-up.
Andaluz pushes her soaked hair out of her face and looks at Abuelita. “Don’t forget that, Primita.”
“Do you think I’ve told you enough?” Fautina asks me.
I look down at the diary. The words I’ve written about Reinaldo stretch and spread, thick black worms squirming across the page.
“This is it,” I say. “He has to be coming.”
From behind the dripping mango tree, a figure steps into the grass. His face is thin, cheekbones jutting through his skin. His hands shake as his nails dig into the trunk of the tree.
El Cocodrilo has arrived.