Cemetery Boys(39)

“We’ll be right back!” Yadriel repeated as he shoved Maritza toward the house.

“I’m home!” she shouted once they got inside, chucking her backpack onto the couch.

“In here!” Maritza’s mother called.

Yadriel followed Maritza into the kitchen. Tía Sofia stood at the stove over a pot of brown syrup that smelled sticky and sweet. Another large metal pot sat covered next to it, spilling steam from its sides.

Maritza’s older sister, Paola, sat at the kitchen table. She had two huge textbooks opened up, along with a notebook. Paola was a med student at the nearby university. No matter how much of a rush she was in, Paola’s hair was always styled into a flawless wash-and-go. Black curls fell across her face as she bent over a notebook. She furiously took notes in between highlighting and placing color-coded Post-its.

The other half of the table was filled with portajes Tío Isaac was either repairing or building for various brujos. There were simple daggers scattered among the more elaborate choices of the younger brujos. Loud, rhythmic clanging cut through the air. The open door to the backyard revealed Tío Isaac, standing at his workbench as he hammered out a blade.

“How was school?” Tía Sofia asked, sparing them a glance as she grated piloncillo into the syrup. On tin foil next to her sat orange cubes of calabaza en tacha—candied pumpkin.

“Lame, as usual,” Maritza said, making a beeline for the tray. She snatched up a piece of pumpkin and tossed it into her mouth.

“?Ay, ten cuidado!” Tía Sofia warned, but it was too late.

Maritza danced in place, waving at her mouth. “Ah, hot!” She spat the scalding pumpkin out, and it fell, with a wet plop, onto one of Paola’s textbooks.

Paola gasped, her pretty face twisting into a snarl. “Seriously, Maritza?!” She smacked Maritza on the butt before scooping off the offending pumpkin and throwing it in the sink.

“Ow! I didn’t mean to!” Maritza scowled.

“Yeah, sure you didn’t!” Paola brushed the glob of syrup off the page.

“You are taking this way too seriously.”

“You don’t take school seriously enough!” Paola shot back. “What exactly do you plan on doing after you graduate if you can’t even heal?”

“Take up forging portajes, like Dad,” Maritza replied, as if it were obvious.

Paola rolled her eyes. “Of course.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“Would you like a piece, Yadriel?” Tía Sofia asked, turning to Yadriel with a smile, holding up a piece of candied pumpkin on her slotted spoon. Her daughters bickered ferociously behind her.

“No, gracias,” Yadriel said with a small smile. His tongue had been bugging him all day and the pain was only now starting to fade. He didn’t want to aggravate it again.

“Of course you do!” She laughed warmly. “Here!”

Yadriel knew better than to decline an offer of food from a Latinx mom more than once. Carefully, he took a bite, shifting it to his cheek to avoid the cut.

Tía Sofia waited expectantly. “Good?”

Yadriel nodded and smiled, because of course it was. The pumpkin was tender, and the syrup had just the right amount of brown sugar and the faint zest of orange.

“Good!” Tía Sofia give him a pat on the cheek before going back to her cooking. “Are you excited for Día de Muertos? Ay, of course you are! Tu mamá will be there!”

Yadriel tried to return her bright smile, but it was difficult to muster her level of enthusiasm.

“Yes, it’ll be a good year, indeed—”

“No fighting by the portajes!” Tío Isaac called, pausing for a moment on his work. He’d learned the trade from his own father back in Haiti. Tío Isaac scratched at his bushy beard, sweat glistening on his earth-rich brown skin. He huffed a big sigh, his broad chest heaving.

“One of these times their bickering is going to turn into a knife fight, I tell you,” Tío Isaac told Yadriel in conspiratorial exasperation. In a house full of hardheaded boricuas, he was vastly outnumbered but never complained about it. Even when all three Santima women broke into a fight, Tío Isaac would just sigh and shake his head. He was a kind man with a deep well of patience.

“You’re probably right,” Yadriel agreed, eyeing the portajes carefully laid out. He used to watch Tío Isaac work all the time, staring at the portajes with longing, wishing he had one of his own.

Now, he didn’t have to wish anymore.

“Are you staying for dinner, Yads?” Tío Isaac asked. The blade he was hammering sizzled as he dropped it into a bucket of water.

“I’m making ta-ma-leees!” Tía Sofia sang, gesturing to the steaming pot.

“No, actually—”

“I made you some rajas con queso ones, Itza,” her mom said, lifting the lid off the large pot. The smell of sweet masa filled the room. “Hopefully that vegan cheese melts this time,” she added, poking at the wrapped corn husks with a doubtful expression.

Tamales were a staple for Día de Muertos and prepared in obscenely large batches. In ancient times, they were soaked in blood and presented as offerings to Bahlam, the jaguar god of Xibalba. Luckily for Maritza—and everyone else, really—there was no longer a blood sacrifice involved.