Darkest Fear (23 page)

“Okay,” said Matéo, rubbing his hands. “Let's get started. First, we have to kill a squirrel.”

“What?” I cried, horrified, even as Dana started laughing. “Oh, you butt.”

“No, no squirrel,” Matéo snickered.

“They're delicious!” Dana said brightly.

I groaned and covered my face. “I can't do this.”

“Okay, kidding aside,” said Matéo. “Now, how often have you changed?”

“In my whole life? Four times.”

“Four!” Dana was even more surprised than Matéo.

I ticked them off on my fingers: “My thirteenth birthday, then the day my parents . . . then that night the jaguar attacked Tink, and then the very next night when I chased the muggers.”

“Wait—you chased muggers? In New Orleans?” Dana shook her head at my idiocy.

“It's been pointed out that that was a bad idea,” I acknowledged. “Anyway, it seems that ever since my parents . . . died, extreme emotion seems to make me change, whether I want to or not. Like the Hulk. I need to learn how to not do that.”

“You can learn that,” said Matéo. “Do you remember how you changed, the very first time?”

“No. I have no idea. Is it like a genetic-timer kind of thing, where we're programmed to change when we're thirteen years old? Like thirteen full moons a year, times thirteen years . . .”

“That's an interesting theory,” said Matéo seriously. “But no, that's not it. Do you remember what you did right before you changed?”

“Had birthday cake.” The last one my mom had made for me.

“What else?”

“What do you mean, what else?”

“Something to drink?”

“Oh, yeah. Punch. Red punch.” I stared at him. “Oh jeez, was there some of that stuff in there?”

“Cuvaje rojo,” Matéo confirmed. “The same species of plant, but different. Cuvaje rojo causes haguari to become their jaguar selves.
Cuva rojo causes haguari to become their human selves. Almost all parents help their kids change the first time that way. It's easier and faster. Then you learn how to do it on your own.”

“So they drugged me.”

“Or . . . they shared with you some of our culture's natural and traditional medicine,” Dana said pointedly. “Like matzo-ball soup, or boiled willow bark.”

“Those don't make people undergo a profound cellular metamorphosis,” I felt compelled to point out.

“Moving on,” said Matéo. “The way my parents taught me is to start with meditation.”

“Mine too,” said Dana. “Basically concentrating intently on everything your body is feeling. When you can isolate certain feelings, you can increase them, or call on them at will.”

That was all we did that day: meditate, focus on our bodies, isolate muscles, control our breathing. I listened to my heart beat, my lungs fill with air, my stomach gurgle from breakfast. I saw the weird little lights behind my eyelids when I closed my eyes. When it was over, I felt very relaxed and calm, but not any closer to learning what I needed to know.

But it was a start. I had started.

• • •

I had the next two days off from work, which I was glad about. It would give me some time to get a grip on my emotions. When I finally had to go back, I dressed with extra care. I didn't know what to expect from Rafael—would he be standoffish? Mean? Ignore
me? Lead me on again? In any case, I would feel less vulnerable if I looked okay.

As it turned out, my awesome fifties-housewife dress was wasted: Rafael wasn't standoffish or mean or anything, because he wasn't there—and neither was my portrait. Despite everything, I had looked forward to seeing it join the others on the wall. To know that Rafael didn't want to put it up hurt—like maybe he thought I would read too much into it or something.

Talia and I worked till midnight and the evening passed quietly, with no one kissing me and nothing happening that would cause me to accidentally turn into a jaguar.

Rafael came back the next day, and I was glad I'd made the effort to wear a short, pine-green fluffy skirt and a slim-fitting black T-shirt cut for a girl. I was getting more used to how I looked in clothes that fit me, but I pretended to ignore how Rafael's eyes seemed to linger on my legs and my face. Actually, his eyes lingered on the middle parts too. Since I was at about an eighth-grade level of dating experience, I went with my eighth-grade instinct of acting distant.

When Hayley, Talia, and I were all there, Rafael told us that he'd hired two new people, who would start the next day: Kathy, working on the day shift with Hayley, and a guy named Joey who would pinch-hit for whoever needed a sub.

“Yay!” said Hayley. “I mean, I miss Annie, but I'm so glad to have someone to help me full-time. Annie used to work here,” she added for my benefit.

“I think they'll work out,” said Rafael. “Vivi, could I see you in the office for a sec?”

Here we go.
I followed him stiffly back to the manager's office and was bummed when he shut the door. If he tried to fire me because of that kiss, I was going to break something over his head. And then sue his ass.

In this small room I was even more aware of his scent, the freshness of sandalwood and cypress. Was it maybe his shampoo? Today he was wearing a pale gray linen button-down shirt that had been washed so many times it was about the thickness and strength of Kleenex. I wanted to bury my face against his chest and inhale deeply.

“I wanted to tell you again that I'm sorry,” he said.

“I told you, it was no big deal.” I tried to look bored.

“It was a big deal to me. I don't go around kissing everyone. Or anyone, really.”

Hm.
I bit the inside of my cheek so I couldn't blurt, “Me either!”

Rafael let out a breath. “If things were different—I mean—” He stopped, looking frustrated. “Anyway. I didn't want you to think I was playing you, and I wanted to apologize. I wish things were different.” He paused, looking at the floor, and muttered, “Really do wish.”

“You're not firing me?” I asked meanly.

His head jerked up. “Oh, no. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Just making sure.” In truth, his apology had been good. It helped to know that it wasn't me. But I was still irritated.

“No. Obviously.” Now he looked irritated too. “Unless you don't want to work here anymore, because of me.”

“No, I'm okay,” I said coolly. “Are we done here?”

“Vivi, don't—” he began, then just nodded. I opened the door and left, feeling a little better somehow.

The new people worked out well. I didn't see much of Kathy—she worked days with Hayley. Joey worked with Talia on my nights off, and then with me on Talia's nights off. He was a couple of inches shorter than me and totally muscle-bound. He was another student at Tulane, studying law with an art history minor, which was how Rafael had met him. His hobby was bodybuilding, and he competed in amateur events all over the U.S. He was dark and intense, with a strong New York accent. He thought the heat in New Orleans was going to kill him. He had been here three years. In his own way he was as gossipy as Talia, so it was fun to work with him. I wondered how well he knew Rafael but didn't want to ask.

And about Rafael: We were both acting like nothing had happened. He was in the coffee shop almost every day, reservedly friendly with everyone. Usually he spent at least an hour working on the huge mural, which was becoming more mesmerizing by the day. I still thought he was one of the most gorgeous guys I'd ever met, but he was making it easy to let go of the crush I'd had on him.

In the afternoons I looked forward to going to work, and in the early morning I looked forward to going home. Matéo's house felt a lot like my home now—not like my house in Florida, but like I was home when I was there. We hadn't had any more weird
incidents, and without speaking about it had adjusted our schedules so no one was ever home alone. Around one in the morning I'd turn in off the side street and would breathe a sigh of relief when I saw Tink's SUV, Coco's van, Aly's Camry.

Matéo had finally gotten around to showing me his family's book. It was a lot like a scrapbook. Like a cross between a scrapbook and an illuminated manuscript.

“Jeez, how old is it?” I asked.

“Well, my pages are only three years old,” he said. “But this stuff here in the beginning . . . look, there's a date.” He pointed at a date written in faded purple ink on the corner of a page that was brown with age.

“Oh, my gods,” I said. “Sixteen sixty-seven.”

“Everything's in Gaelic until the early nineteen hundreds, of course. My father's father went back and translated it all, writing a modern version of these pages so we'd be able to read them without all the old-fashioned stuff.”

“Cool.”

“So here's our family tree. Most of it.” Matéo unfolded a sheet until it was about two feet by three feet. “This branch is my father's family, my parents, and me. Then you can see my mom's side—all our relatives.”

“Yeah,” I murmured, scanning names that I remembered. But everything earlier than my great-grandparents was new to me. Matéo had more information about my family than I did.

“And then when Aly and I get married, I'll have to copy her
history onto new pages.” Like Aly, Matéo spoke casually about their future, taking it for granted that he'd found his life partner. I was envious, but couldn't begin to imagine settling down with someone this young.

It was fascinating, seeing Matéo's family's book, and it made me more determined to find mine the next time I went back to Florida. Matéo's was thick—it would take hours to go through the whole thing. It had some general haguari history, sections on our religion—even a code of conduct written in 1811. (Basically, don't kill your neighbors or their children or their animals or servants.) What I found really interesting were the very old descriptions of haguari clans: the Far clans,  Asians, and the Sun clan,  Africans, were seen as fascinatingly foreign, back in the sixteen hundreds. Then there was the North Clan, which encompassed all haguari from North America and the middle countries down to Panama. The South Clan, which Aly and I both belonged to, was all of South America. Patrick Garrison had belonged to what he called the Patch Clan.

“What does that mean?” I asked. “His family was from Ireland, right?”

“Yeah,” said Matéo. “So, European. He explained that Europe was seen as a bunch of little patches of clans, compared to the larger clans of North America and South America, China, and Russia. Europe is a bunch of smaller countries all jammed together, but really different from each other. Like a patchwork quilt. So they called it the Patch Clan. But I've also seen really old books that called it something like
the Puzzle Clan, because it was like a puzzle, made up of smaller pieces.”

“Did each European country have its own clan? How did they get lumped together?” I asked.

“It was more like, in the very beginning, the haguari spread, starting in South America,” Matéo explained. “First they were one clan, then two or three, then more and more as we expanded across the globe. I'm sure within the Patch Clan, or South Clan, or any other clan, there are smaller subclans. My dad always thought that the tradition of claiming a larger group was designed to help stop infighting. More to build a sense of community and brotherhood, so that we didn't kill each other off.”

“Could it be a rival clan trying to kill us?” I asked.

Matéo looked thoughtful. “It could be. But if it is, why don't they just kill us? Why take our hearts?”

I had no idea. The idea of all of our separate clans was something I needed to explore—my parents hadn't told me about it. Most of their friends had been Brazilian, but I didn't know if that was coincidence or a deliberate choice to associate only with what I now knew were South Clan members. I wished I knew more, but I had only myself to blame. Still, a whole world of knowledge was opening up for me, and it was fascinating, weird, and a little scary.

“You know, look here.” Matéo pressed the book open wider. “I never noticed it before, but this should be much more filled in, with my mom's family history. Instead there are just a few lines, and
then boom, she married my dad. It was like she didn't even have a family when they got married.” Matéo said.

“That's, weird. I'll definitely look for my book, next time I go home,” I said. “But I bet there isn't any more information there about your mom and my dad ever being together. The whole thing is so strange—but I remember my friend Jennifer telling me about two of her aunts who didn't speak to each other for over twenty years because one of them kept their dad's prayer shawl and the other one wanted it. That was just a shawl. Not a fiancé. So who knows?”

I had hoped that Matéo and Aly would forget about having an equinox party, but they didn't. One day I found them in the kitchen, making lists of party food and discussing how much ice to get.

“Let me know what I can do to help,” I said, trying to sound sincere. My love/revulsion relationship with haguariness was ongoing. I was making so little progress with my changing lessons that Matéo was mystified. I accepted and liked all my housemates, and was growing to truly love my cousin and Aly as family. But the idea of the rest of the haguari world still upset me, and the thought of being surrounded by a bunch of them at a party was stomach-churning. At the same time, I wanted to be a good cousin and a good friend, and I wouldn't walk out on Matéo and Aly when they were looking forward to this.

“Oh, we will,” Aly assured me. “You're going to be chopping, decorating, you name it.”

I couldn't help grinning. “You got it.”

The day before the party, my tia Juliana called to wish me a
Feliz Fécinte
, a happy equinox. She asked if I was going to observe it in any way and was surprised when I said yes. I still hadn't told her that I was living in a completely different state with a cousin I'd never known about, and the more time that passed, the more I had no idea how to tell her. She knew I was working in a coffee shop, but she thought it was in Sugar Beach.