A Watty Award Winner, Trailblazer Category 2016
In 1896, dinosaurs started the infection that ended the world.
Carmen has lived her entire life in New York City, a city of opium and invention, of rotting tenements and marble mansions; a divided metr...
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CRYSTAL SHOOK, ice on ice, prickling my half-sleep. For a moment, I thought I was somewhere else, laced in a fancy dress that wasn't mine, suffocating under the fizz of Abuela's new electric lights.
There, Marcos stood beside me, like he always did, tipping his champagne flute at all the right people, greeting the gentleman and ladies with clinking glass and a broad grin. He was practiced at playing the dutiful grandchild. Charming. Polite. Things I made hash of, even when I tried. He had one grand smile and one fancy suit, and neither ever seemed to wear out.
My best dress was back home in my closet, forgotten. I'd left it behind on purpose—subterfuge, maybe. Revenge?—hoping to be excused from the party. But, as God would have it, my cousin Maricruz always brought a spare everything to Abuela's fiestas. That night, I wore her dress: rose-pink silk beaded in gold, a square lace neckline and short lace sleeves. Elegant. Noticeable in a sea of dark reds.
The ballroom doors were open. So many bodies in so little space—the house was over-warm. A cold breeze peeked in, carrying the scent of apple spice and soot from the yard. Teasing.
"I can't breathe, Marcos," I said, waving Maricruz's fan in my face. "Air. I need air. I'm going to the garden."
Marcos shook his head and reached for another drink as the waiter passed. Guests filled Abuela's ballroom in shades of maroon and black, interlaced with busy servants in shiny shoes.
"You can't leave, she'll ask."
"So?"
"So—?" he paused to swap a handshake—"Ah, hola, Don Diego. Yes, fine weather. No, I'm still single. Yes, a shame"—before turning back to me. "You want to go to school, yes?"
I nodded at whoever said my name. "Of course," I hissed behind the fan. "You know I do."
"Then, smile for grandma, mi hermana, she's got the money." He took his own advice, again, and bowed to kiss Isabella Soto's hand when she appeared. His lips grazed her gently—it almost made her look dainty. Almost. Isabella had knuckles that could knock out a heavyweight before the first bell. Nothing about her was dainty. I curtsied.
"Marcos, please," I said, hoping he understood my tone. November broke at dawn. These days were meant for celebration, but my head was too full of black drapes and penny nails and the wood shavings we'd left on our parent's shop floor, to be anything at all. I was lifeless. Crisscrossed into a silk cocoon. My smiles meant nada—they were as dim as candle flames, and everywhere I looked, the whole world pulsed bright like a newfangled light bulb.
We were an island, Marcos and me, lost together beside a banquet table spotted with silver plates. Candy calaveras shaped like pale faces and golden brown pan de muertos arranged in swirls and pyramids, shedding sugar and broken bits of colored confectionery on the good linen.
