How Moon Fuentez Fell in Love with the Universe Read online

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  To the Vasquez, Villanueva, Tristán, Fernandez, and Mendosa women and girls:

  Katarina, Rosa, Maria Raquel, Ofelia (Nana),

  Margaret, Maria Elena (Mom), Jessica,

  Aries, Sophia, Daniella, Aria,

  and all the ones who came before

  and all the ones who will arrive.

  May we always recognize our miracles.

  My art is grounded in the belief of one universal energy which runs through everything: from insect to man, from man to spectre, from spectre to plant, from plant to galaxy.

  —Ana Mendieta

  1. The Wild, Cosmic Beginning of All Beginnings

  EVERYTHING HAS A beginning. And I’m not just talking about things like the shop I ordered my moonstone necklace from, or where it was made, or where the stone itself was quarried. Though that is lovely to think about, isn’t it? Perhaps it’s from some deep, wild cave pebbled with lakelike stones of moons.… But no, that’s not what I mean.

  I’m not even talking about me, or my twin sister, or yuck, the birds and the bees. What I am talking about is everything. I mean, everything in this whole wide, wild universe has one beginning. One place where everything, all of matter, converged into a speck one trillionth the size of a period. Let me repeat that, because I can scarcely fathom it myself.

  Everything that exists in all the billions of galaxies, including Earth, with our salty, whale-skimmed seas and herds of elephants strewn on the horizon like gray beads and piles of electronic junk gathering here and there since, what, the eighties? And blue-trimmed plates of arroz con pollo and the nearly fuchsia slices of smoked salmon over a bagel and all the smooth and metallic skyscrapers and the billions of microscopic organisms in a teaspoon of dirt, everything—every last atom and electron and scoop of strawberry cheesecake ice cream—was once a fraction of a fraction of a period. I don’t know how scientists have figured something like that out with any certainty, but they have. I mean, if I’d kept reading Astrophysics for People in a Hurry, I might know, but I couldn’t, not after that sentence. I had to put the book away, and then next thing you know, my library loan was up, and I can’t bring myself to touch it again. It’s so overwhelming.

  I mean, a period! A period! Probably font size ten, too, or something. Can you imagine how heavy that thing was? How, if you’d picked it up, it would’ve cut a hole right through you? Your mom might have been like, “Oh, Moon, what have you done now?” You know, if she’d cared. And you’d say, “Oh, yeah, just tried to see if I could lift this speck of All-That-Is. I’ll be okay.” You know, as if she’d care.

  Sometimes I think, what if I could go back to the beginning? What would I do? I could try to touch it, that molten-hot little speck, just to say I’d tried. Or maybe I’d look at it, at this beginning of all beginnings, and ask it, Why the heck do the women in our family still have La Raíz? You know, the whole reason why I’m the unwanted, ugly sister. I may allow myself another related question: Why, why, why didn’t I leave La Raíz in the carved milk jar, right where Mom banished it, on the windowsill in her bathroom?

  I can still picture the moment. Despite Mom warning us, with one hand on her Bible and the other basically on the graves of all our ancestors, to never, ever, ever touch the milk jar, I got on my tiptoes, grabbed the white bottle, and pulled the top off. And released all the yuck back into our bloodline, apparently. Like a little Pandora-in-training. Of course, nothing happened at first. I spent years thinking Mom outright lied to us.

  And then I had sex for the first time.

  But that’s another beginning for another time.

  You know what, though? This whole beginning is super important in the context of, like, my whole freaking life. So…

  2. In the Beginning, There Was La Raíz

  ACCORDING TO MY mother’s brand of Catholicism, at least. When Eve ate the fruit from that one forbidden tree, it cursed all women. One gender being held responsible for humankind’s fall from grace apparently wasn’t enough of a punishment, so God made sure we were slapped with this wild, uncontrollable penchant for miracles. Not just any miracles. Weird ones. Bad ones, Mom says.

  La Raíz, or The Curse as Mom sometimes calls it, was bred out of just about all families. All except ours.

  When we were twelve or thirteen, Mom told us some more details on it. “La Raíz comes at first sex,” she whispered. The word “sex” was even lower than a whisper, like she basically mouthed it, like saying it aloud would’ve had the Lord our Father smiting her with lightning strikes or stale café con leche for the rest of her days.

  “What happens? Like, what do you mean, bad miracles?” I asked her.

  “It doesn’t matter. I stopped it myself.” Mom was so freaking proud. Her eyes twinkled, her skin smooth with this warm glow, making me think of faraway beach sand picking up the last sunset light. It was the last time I saw her as beautiful. “I took it out of me,” she said. “I put it in this.”

  She lifted the milk jar. Tall, skinny, porcelain, with a tree engraved on it. There were drips of pale gray on the edges of the oak. The artist carved it right down to its roots, serpent-like, coiling into the core of the earth. It was breathtaking.

  That was the moment we got the warning, me and Star, with pointer fingers in our faces. “Never touch this jar. It is exactly like the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. And we all know what happened when Eve disobeyed our Holy Father.”

  Star was absolutely fine leaving it at that. No matter how much I tried to convince her to join me for just a little-tiny-baby peek, she’d shake her head and say, “No, Moon. We’re better than that. We’re better than Eve.”

  It wasn’t until years later, not till after Dad left, not till after that one glorious and free summer at Tía’s in New Orleans, that I opened it. I couldn’t help it, which sums up a lot of my very bad decisions. I’m just like Eve. I knew the fruit would be delicious. It would be better than anything I’d ever tasted before, better than sweet plantains fried up until the edges are black and caramelized. Somehow I knew it’d be worth the trouble.

  And you know what? That beautiful milk jar? It was empty. So empty, I could’ve fit a whole new universe inside it, blackberry bushes and singing blue whales and all.

  All that fuss for nothing but empty, empty, empty.

  Or so I thought.

  3. Moonflowers Are Considered Weeds in Some Parts of the Country

  TÍA ESPERANZA SAYS the reason I’m not assimilated into the family has nothing to do with La Raíz; it’s that I’m still wild is all. And apparently that’s why I’m not a weed, doomed to be ignored like an endless pattern of flat, dull dandelions. No. I’m the wild, viny moonflower that somehow got sorted into the round red roses, so thick with petals they could be mistaken for orbs. Which sounds nice and all until you realize the rose tender of my life—Mom—is waiting for the right moment when she can pluck me from the bulbous bouquet and give me a good crumple before depositing me in the trash.

  That’s how it feels about half the time, anyway. In the other half, I’m just Moon Fuentez, twin sister to Star, daughter of Celestina and William (who, in terms of flowers, may as well be literal dirt).


  The only thing my sister and I have in common besides our ridiculous names is our love of flowers. Star receives them—thick, color-coordinated bouquets that make the classic dozen roses look like cat litter—from her many, many (many) suitors. I’m talking waxy lilies that look like they’ve been dipped in literal stardust, rare succulents that probably sell for thousands at plant auctions, and irises, bearded and blue and nearly blasphemous with their beauty.

  And I, Moon, as far as flowers go, I collect them.

  In fact, that’s what I’m doing right now, a fistful of daisies in my hand. These are the sort that grow in sidewalk cracks, bursting into dozens of tiny, translucent pink blooms. Their petals are long and thin like hair, or feather strands, even, like little miracles. The good kinds of miracles, I think, though I doubt my mother would agree. She’s the sort of lady who pours hot vinegar over anything that might look like a weed.

  4. The Kind of News Banshees Appreciate

  “MOON!” STAR YELLS. At least, that’s what I think she says. The wind by the beach right now is so loud, I can only think of it as the most outraged ghost of all time, howling its undead complaints directly into my eardrums.

  “Yeah?” I yell back.

  “One more!” She walks a little closer. “This time without the cloak.” Even this close, about nine feet away, she has to scream.

  “But it’s so cold.”

  “Just one.” She’s already dropped the cloak on the sand, heading back toward the water. I glance down at the pile of pink silk and velvet. I looked it up when the clothing company, Madam Le Blanc, sent it to Star. It costs $12,000, that pile of fabric right there. More than my life.

  “Just one,” I repeat, thinking if I had a fraction of a period of a penny every time I’d heard that, I’d be able to buy myself a thousand priceless fairy cloaks.

  I grab my camera and adjust the settings once more, letting all the light in. The sun has almost set, and I know Star’s not asking for a silhouette shot.

  She’s already posing, which probably isn’t obvious to anyone else but me. Her white-blond hair picks up the peach of the sky, and she closes her eyes and lifts her head, smiling against the bitchy ghost wind. Only I can tell she’s pushing out her top lip and sucking in her already concave stomach. Even in the dimming light, I can see her ribs. I haven’t seen my ribs in so long, they could be swimming around like jellyfish in there for all I know. Exactly like what bright men who fancied themselves doctors thought uteruses did back in the day.

  A few people stop and stare at Star, and it’s not just because she’s the only person out in basically subzero degrees in a swimsuit. It’s because she’s breathtaking. Even someone like me, who’s known her all my life, can’t stop looking. Also, they might recognize her. At my last count, Star had nine hundred thousand Fotogram followers. Can you imagine? I couldn’t even wrap my brains around it when she hit two thousand. And now, one year later, she’s got more people interested in her feta dinner omelet than I will ever have glance at me in my whole pathetic life.

  I’m not bitter. I know that’s exactly what it sounds like, but I swear, I’m not. I had to let go of feelings like envy and bitter and murder a long time ago to survive under Star’s glare. These sorts of thoughts are unavoidable, as though a scientist were observing the scene and listing the facts. Fact: Star is objectively beautiful. Fact: I am not. Fact: I’ve been reminded of these facts for as long as I can remember. They’re invisible tattoos stretching across my jiggly brown body, permanent because no one—not Mom nor Star nor any random stranger on the street—will let me forget them.

  Star makes me take about twenty-four photos, even as she starts to shiver and shake, before she finally grabs the keys and runs to the car. I pick up the cloak and, balancing everything in my hands, I follow her.

  In the car, I turn on Cardi B loud enough to make Star bristle. “What the heck,” she says, lowering it. But before I can protest, she opens her phone and begins texting—probably Chamomila, her FG BFF. And now she won’t hear a word I say, so I hit the gas and get us going.

  It’s been kind of a shitty week, if I’m going to be honest. Or month. Or life, even. That’s why I don’t even look at my phone when it starts buzzing in my purse. I don’t feel like talking to anyone except a bag of hot Cheetos tonight, thank you very much.

  But then Star’s ringer goes off and I know it’s Mom. “Hey,” Star says, picking up right away. “Uh-huh.” She snaps her fingers to tell me to turn the volume down even more. “Sure thing, Mom. See you.” As soon as she clicks the end-call button, she turns to me. “Mom wants us to come home for dinner. She says she has a big announcement.”

  I swallow my groan. Mom works as Star’s publicist and manager. Any and all announcements are related to… that. Last time Mom had a huge announcement, we discovered Fendi wanted Star to model for their new junior line of… God, what was it? Dalmatian puppy coats, maybe? Anyway, I think my ears are still bleeding from Star’s shrieks that night. The last thing I want this evening is for my entire face to hemorrhage. Then how would I eat my Cheetos, huh?

  “Is she cooking dinner? To celebrate?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

  “She ordered pizza. And before you say anything, Moon, she said she got a ton of different toppings this time. It’ll last the week with variety.”

  I just keep my mouth shut and mentally burn some words on the inside of my skull: Be grateful. Be grateful. There they join my invisible tattoos of You’re ugly, You’re loud, and You’re a bad, bad daughter. Unlike the tattoos, Be grateful has pretty much lost all meaning through repetition. I should switch it up.

  We live in a tall, too-big town house on the edge of some woods I like to call the Forbidden Woodland, even though I’m not sure Mom’s ever thought about forbidding me from anything with regard to it. The house is nice, but fancy. Star bought it for us—for Mom, really—and it was Mom’s rich white people’s dream come true: central air-conditioning; French doors that open to bedrooms our old house could fit into; a dishwasher, sleek and steel and so soundless, I never can tell if it’s on or not. I’m grateful for the house, I am. But my favorite part of living there is the Forbidden Woodland, hands down. I glance at its tree-lined entrance as I pull into my spot, all green and full and alive, and Star’s out the door before I can even finish parking.

  Six pizza boxes pile up on the dining room table. At first glance, it’s become sentient, growing eyes and a long lizard-like tail, sharp teeth dripping with marinara sauce. Eat me? it screams. No! I eat you! And then it attacks, Mom first, then Star. After which I give it a high-ass-five.

  Unluckily for me, in real life, the pizza is still crappy pizza. Though I honestly wish I’d never see pizza again in my life, my stomach grumbles at the smell of gooey, warm cheese. Traitor.

  “In here, girls!” Mom says. She’s got a bottle of sparkling cider in her hands, and I freeze.

  “Let me guess,” I say as she messes with the cork. “Diego Luna wants to marry Star.”

  “No.” Mom grins. “Though I wish Diego Luna would marry me.”

  I grimace. “So Diego Luna wants to be her driver, then? Clean her toilets? Lick the sidewalk after her footsteps?”

  “Dios,” Mom says, crossing herself. “You’ve been here less than a minute and you’re already starting with the vulgarity. I taught you better.”

  “Mom!” Star’s jumping up and down as she walks in, changed into pajamas. They’re made of such soft satin, the material floats over her body like pink fog. “Who called this time? Was it Michael Kors? Oh, gosh, was it Chanel?”

  Mom’s eyes light up when she sees Star. “Let’s sit down first.”

  The way Mom is drawing this out is nuts. “Jesus, Mom—”

  “Moon!” Mom yells. More crossing and glares. Next step is a blessing with holy water and then a dusting of ground-up saints’ bones, and after that, a kick straight into the cleansing fires of hell at knifepoint, so I put a lid on it and pull a plate.

/>   Jesus, though. Mom wasn’t kidding about getting all different pizzas. Each one is covered in toppings I barely recognize. I pick a couple of slices of feta and black olive and what I hope to God are caramelized onions and set them down. After grabbing honey from the cabinet, I drizzle some on my food while Star and Mom sit down with theirs.

  Star folds her hands, smiling serenely. She won’t eat until Mom spills the beans. Meanwhile, I’m devouring two slices at the same time, layered like a mini lasagna.

  “I’ve been on the phone”—Mom pauses dramatically—“with Andro Philips.”

  Star screams, predictably. Unpredictably, however, I drop my pizza lasagna and about spit my mouthful out.

  Andro Philips is the most beautiful man I’ve laid eyes on through a touch screen. And I swear to Jesus’s chest hair that I am not the kind of chick who loses my marbles every time some dude walks by with his pecs hanging out. It’s something about Andro’s sun-copper skin, chestnut hair, thick, curly eyelashes, and yeah, okay, a built surfer’s bod that makes me all completely breathless. And he’s really good with words. I’m serious. His posts make him sexier, if you can believe that. I barely can myself.

  Oh, and he’s also the founder of Fotogram. He’s got three hundred MILLION followers, surpassed only by Beyoncé and Lady Gaga. I’m almost embarrassed to admit—okay, I am embarrassed to admit—that I first joined Fotogram with my own account solely to add one more to that gargantuan number.

  And now he wants my sister for something. Not a surprise in any capacity, if I had let myself think instead of react for more than half a second. Almost wasted a good bite of pizza there.

  “Andro wants Star Fuentez to join…” A pause so long, I nearly grind my teeth into chips. “The Summer Fotogram Influencers for Charity Tour!”