Labyrinth Lost (Brooklyn Brujas #1)(3)

When I try to flip my first pancake, it sticks on the pan. My calling is not making pancakes. Unless it’s making bad pancakes, in which case, I’m on the right track.

Rose is already dressed and sitting at the kitchen table. “I want that one.”

“The burned one?” I flip it onto a blue plate and set it in front of her.

“It tastes good with syrup and butter.”

“You’re so odd.”

“That’s why you love me.”

“Who told you that?” I say, adding a smile and a wink.

Rose pulls her staticky, brown hair into a ponytail, but no matter how much we spray it or cover it in gel, little strands threaten to fly away. It comes with her powers—something about being extra charged with other worlds—but it sucks when you’re a poor girl from Brooklyn going to a super-ritzy junior high in Manhattan. Rose even gets a proper uniform. Lula and I never got uniforms. Then again, Rose is a genius, even compared to us. Lula barely passes, and even though I’m at the top of my class, I still got left back a year after—well, after my dad. I have high hopes for Rose to do more with herself. When I went to sleep, she was still awake and reading a textbook that is as incomprehensible to me as our family Book of Cantos.

Just then, Lula comes bouncing down the steps, a pop song belting out of her perfectly glossy, pink mouth. Her curls bounce as if her enthusiasm reaches right to her hair follicles. Her honey-brown skin looks gold in the soft morning light. Her gray eyes are filled with mischief just waiting to get out. Her smile is so bright and dazzling that I forget I’m mad at her for hogging the bathroom. Then I see she’s wearing my favorite sweater. It’s the color of eggnog and so soft it feels like wearing a cloud.

“I want funny shapes.” She pecks a kiss on my cheek.

“You’re a funny shape,” I tell her.

I make Lula’s pancakes, this time too mushy in the center. I throw the plate in front of her and leave a stack for myself.

“I thought you were starting on the ambrosia,” Lula says, annoyed.

She has zero right to be annoyed right now.

“Someone has to feed Rose,” I say matter-of-factly.

Lula shakes her head. “Ma works really hard. You know that.”

“I didn’t say she doesn’t work hard,” I say defensively.

“Whatever, let’s just get this done before Maks gets here.” Lula walks down the hall to the closet where we keep our family altar and grabs our Book of Cantos. It has every spell, prayer, and piece of information that our ancestors have collected from the beginning of our family line. Even when the Book falls apart after a few decades, it gets mended, and we just keep adding to it.

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to keep Captain Hair Gel waiting,” I say.

Rose snickers but quiets down with a stern look from Lula.

“You can walk to school if you hate him so much.” Lula sucks her teeth and purses her lips. Maks, Lula’s boyfriend, drives us to school every day. He wears too much cologne, and I’m pretty sure his rock-solid hair is a soccer violation, but as long as he keeps saving goals, no one seems to mind.

Lula slams the Book on kitchen table and flips through the pages. I wonder what it’s like in other households during breakfast. Do their condiment shelves share space with jars of consecrated cemetery dirt and blue chicken feet? Do their mothers pray to ancient gods before they leave for work every morning? Do they keep the index finger bones of their ancestors in red velvet pouches to ward off thieves?

I already know the answer is no. This is my world. Sometimes I wish it weren’t.

Lula rinses the metal bowl I used to make the pancake batter and sets it beside the Book.

“Can I help?” Rose asks.

“It’s okay, Rosie,” Lula says. “We got this.”

Rose nods once but stays put to watch.

“Alex,” Lula says, “boil pink rose petals in water, and I’ll get started on the base.”

I do as I’m told even though I know my sister’s efforts are wasted. But that’s a secret I’m keeping to myself for now.

Lula empties a container of agave syrup into the bowl followed by raspberry jam and half a can of sweetened milk. When she’s done whipping it into fluffy peaks, she moves onto the next item of the canto. She takes a white taper candle and a peacock feather. With the hard tip of the feather, she carves our intention into the wax. “Wake Alejandra Mortiz’s power.”

This is Lula’s fourth attempt to “wake” my power. Ambrosia is the food of the Deos, and Lula seems to think it’ll be a nice incentive to get them to give us answers. I doubt the gods are interested in bribes made of sugar, but she’ll try anything. Lula believes in ways that I don’t.

“There,” Lula says. “Now when we get home from school, we have to light the candle at sunset and do the chanting half of the canto.”

“I’m not sure about this, Lula,” I say. “Maybe we should save the spells for a day I’m not so busy.”

Lula reaches over and slaps the back of my head. “Spells are for witches. Brujas do cantos.”

“Semantics,” I say. “All brujas are witches but not all witches are brujas.”

“You’re impossible,” Lula mutters, returning the Book to the family altar.