“You think your stepmother is an evil witch?”
“Yup.”
“Like in fairy tales?”
“What do you mean?”
“‘Snow White’ … stuff like that.”
“I haven’t read it.”
“Well, neither have I, not actually read it. But you’ve seen the Disney movie, right?”
“What’s ‘Disney’?”
“Unreal.”
“What is?”
“That you’ve never heard of Disney. What did you do for fun growing up?”
“Play, swim, learn to cook, and read and study … play piano, and … I don’t know, the usual things. What’s ‘Disney’?”
I shake my head in wonder. “Man! We really don’t have much in common, do we?”
She gives me a sad smile. “That’s right. You see my problem with this whole arranged-marriage thing?”
“Can I ask you … is there a boy you like in Ek Naab?”
“You think I’d leave Ek Naab if there was some boy I liked?”
“I don’t know. If you weren’t allowed to go out with him, maybe.”
“I don’t like having my life controlled, okay? That’s it. This Disney movie, for example. Maybe I’d have liked to see it, you know? Maybe it’s good, maybe not. But I’d like the choice. I’d like to live in the real world. Not locked away—like in a convent.”
“You know what a convent is, though?”
“Of course! They made me learn all about the history of Mexico. Didn’t they think that one day I’d want to see all these places for myself? It’s a crazy way to live.”
“You should definitely see a Disney movie,” I tell her. “At least, you’ve got to see Toy Story 2.”
“Toy Story 2,” she repeats thoughtfully. “I’ll add that to my list.”
I turn away and look through the bus window. The road is narrow, with sugarcane growing right to the edge of the asphalt. A faint morning mist floats above the surface of the road, barely a yard thick. The sky is gray, but the clouds look wispy, as if the sun could burn them away by lunchtime. I watch as a falcon—or some other bird of prey—hovers high above the reeds for a moment and then plummets into the cane field.
Ixchel may be pretty different from me, but we have at least one thing in common.
We’ve both lost a parent.
Like me, Ixchel goes quiet. She finishes off the crumbs from her Gansito, licks melted chocolate from her fingers.
Not long afterward, we arrive in Tlacotalpan. I’ve been trying to avoid Ixchel’s question, but she has a point.
We’ve followed the instructions in the postcard message.
So—what now?
33
The dozen or so passengers empty out at the bus station, Ixchel and I among them. Everyone else seems to know where they’re going, with their chickens in cages, but Ixchel and I just mill around.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Give me a few minutes,” I say, staring hard at a street map on the wall of the bus station. The truth is that I’ve got no idea.
I squint as I gaze around, use my hand to shade my eyes against the sharp white light. I’ve never seen a Mexican town that looks quite like this. Wide, potholed avenues, no cars; neat grass lawns and old buildings with colonnades. The walls are brightly colored—ice-cream pink, butter yellow, peppermint green, candy-apple red.
But where are the shops, the traffic, the bustling tourists, the townsfolk? It’s only noon, yet it feels like everyone’s gone home for a siesta. It’s like a ghost town—if ghosts lived in ramshackle, quaint-old-town splendor.
We turn in to the fanciest town plaza I’ve ever seen. Apart from us, there are a couple of backpackers taking photos of the Asian-looking gazebo in the middle of tall palms, hibiscus bushes, and smaller trees. Behind the central garden is a church, painted in gleaming white and gray, with a picture-postcard bell tower. A Dominican priest wearing sunglasses and a white habit with a black cloak makes his way, head bowed, toward the church.
A middle-aged guy in an apron opens up a café on one corner of the square. He drags white plastic tables onto the marble tiles outside. He must have turned on some music, because out of the blue, the square echoes with the tinny noise of an old-fashioned bolero: a romantic singer crooning over woodwinds, scratchy brass, and bongo drums. It’s like we’ve stepped back in time—I don’t even know how long—fifty years?
“So … ,” Ixchel says, turning to me.
I keep my eyes on the café, trying to ignore her. She’s dying to hear me admit that I don’t have a clue what to do. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.