Signal to Noise(9)

“Macbeth’s witches,” Sebastian said, frowning. “Hey, I’m not a girl. Does that matter?”

“I don’t think it does. You can be a warlock, can’t you?”

“I suppose. We don’t have to wear capes, do we? I don’t think I’d look good in one.”

She felt like telling him that, yeah, they most definitely had to use capes and pointy hats, and then watching what face he made at that, but Meche decided to spare him the unnecessary cruelty.

“No.”

“Good. Do you have any food? I didn’t eat breakfast.”

He never ate breakfast. He also tended to eat Meche or Daniela’s lunch. Meche’s, usually, because Daniela was less generous with her food allocations. Meche figured that if half a cheese and ham sandwich was what it took to convince Sebastian to join her cause, it would be a small price.

She took out her battered tin lunchbox and scooped the sandwich, giving him half. Sebastian munched on it and grabbed her thermos without even asking for permission, taking a big gulp.

“What are Macbeth witches?” she asked, punching one of the lumpy cushions and putting it behind her head.

“I really can’t believe you are like half-illiterate.”

“I’m not half-illiterate.”

“You are clueless when it comes to books. Rodriguez is so going to fail you in Spanish and World Literature.”

“You are going to fail all the sciences, so who’s talking?”

“Blah blah,” he said, opening and closing his left hand. “That’s what remedials were made for.”

“What are Macbeth witches?”

“Macbeth is a play by Shakespeare,” Sebastian said, grabbing the sandwich crumbs that were left and stuffing them into his mouth. “It’s about this guy who meets with these three witches and they prophesize that he’ll be king. So he begins to think about it all the time and then ends up killing the guy in charge and becomes king. It’s a tragedy.”

“It doesn’t sound too tragic to become king.”

“Obviously things don’t go as planned. You should read that book I gave you.”

Meche had read some of the books Sebastian had given her. Correction. Probably some of the only books she read were the ones he gave her, but she hadn’t read this particular one because she was still a little pissed off that he’d only given her a book for her birthday instead of the album she had wanted. Getting Shakespeare’s sonnets and complete works for your fifteenth birthday was like getting a sweater from your mom for Christmas: bullshit.

“I’m working on it,” she said. “Slowly working on it.”

“Illiterate.”

“Ass,” she said tossing her backpack at his face.

Sebastian dodged it and shrugged. “Better an ass than to be illiterate.”

“I can’t hear you,” Meche said, sliding to the floor and pressing the play button on her Walkman.

“What are you listening to?” Sebastian said, sliding down next to her.

Meche pulled out her extra pair of headphone and plugged it into one of the jacks. Sebastian put on the headphones. Meche pressed the rewind button. They tilted their head backs and Soda Stereo began to sing Persiana Americana from the very beginning.





MECHE TIPTOED INTO the apartment, trying to sneak into her bedroom. She was half an hour early and needed to hide for a bit. Grandmother Dolores was in the kitchen, humming. She spent most of her time there, looking after a boiling pot or frying onions and chillis, always on her feet and always ready to make a meal. She’d been a maid for many years before old age made her unemployable. Cooking had been her favourite task during that time.

“Meche, did you skip school today?”

Meche stopped in her tracks and cursed inwardly. Mama Dolores had an internal lie detector, so there was no sense in trying to fool her.

“Yeah.”

“You shouldn’t miss classes. Come, sit down. You can peel some potatoes. I’m making picadillo the way your mom likes it.”

“What’s the point? Mom and dad both eat outside.”

“Well, maybe one day your mother will come home early.”

Meche walked into the kitchen, dumping her backpack on one of the two plastic chairs and sitting at the table. She grabbed a peeler and began slicing the skins off the potatoes.

Mama Dolores turned on the little radio sitting next to the narrow kitchen windows and Pedro Infante began singing Amorcito Corazón while the old woman hummed and poured some oil into a frying pan. She swished the onions to the tune of the love song.

“Mama Dolores, can you tell me something and tell me the truth?”

“What, baby?”

“Were there really witches in your town?”

“Of course there were. They’d fly off at nights in the shape of great balls of fire, nestling in the trees and cackling.”

“And they did magic and it worked?”

“It did. They cast all sorts of spells.”

“If they were so powerful why didn’t they leave the town and become billionaires?”

“Oh, magic is more complex than that. You have to give as much as you take. There’s a price to everything.”

“What about music? Could there be magic in music?”