Because It Is My Blood (Birthright #2)(30)



I wanted to cry, but I feared appearing unmanly to the sailor. Though I had not yet seen myself in a mirror, I could sense how awful I looked. I could see (and smell) the flecks of vomit on my one suit of clothes. My hair I did not wish to consider. I did feel my much abused mustache slipping off my face. I would discard it as soon as the sailor and I parted company. If I were to pass as a boy—I didn’t yet know what story had been told Sophia’s relations—it would have to be one without facial hair.

We were nearly to the shore when the sailor said to me, “They say the oldest tree in the world’s here.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s … interesting.”

“I mention it because Captain said you were a student botanist.”

Right. That whole lie. “Yeah, I’m going to try to see it.”

The sailor studied me curiously, then nodded. We had reached the beach of Puerto Escondido, and I was glad to be quit of that boat and of boats in general.

“You got someone meeting you?” the sailor asked.

I nodded. I was supposed to meet Sophia’s cousin, a woman named Theobroma Marquez, in the Hotel Camino, which was supposedly in a shopping area called El Adoquin. I was unsure of how to pronounce any of this, of course.

I thanked him for the ride.

“You’re very welcome. Word of advice?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Keep your hands in your pockets,” the sailor said.

“Why?”

“Boys’ hands don’t look like that.”

Well, this boy’s do, I wanted to say. I mean, what if I really had been a boy? What business was it of his? I felt outraged on slightly effeminate student botanist Adam Barnum’s behalf. “Which way to El Adoquin?” I asked in my most imperious voice.

“You’re almost there. El Adoquin runs parallel to Playa Principal.” He pointed me in a direction, then rowed away. As soon as he was gone, I ripped off my mustache and stuffed my incriminatingly girly hands into my pockets.

I walked toward the town square. My clothes were heavy, appropriate for autumn in New York, and I began to feel light-headed from the humidity. The fact that I hadn’t eaten anything aside from a past-prime apple in several days may also have contributed to my light-headedness. My stomach was acidic and hollow, and my head throbbed.

It was Wednesday morning, and despite my disheveled appearance, no one much noticed me.

A funeral procession traveled down the street. The coffin was covered in red roses, and a puppet skeleton controlled by sticks was held in the air. The women wore black lace dresses to their ankles. An accordion was wailing, and everyone sang a discordant song that sounded like musical weeping.

I crossed myself and kept walking. I passed, of all things, a chocolate store! I had never seen one out in the open like that. In the window were stacks of small, puck-like disks of chocolate wrapped in waxy papers. The exterior was paneled in rich mahogany, and inside were red stools and a bar. Of course, it made sense. Chocolate was legal here. As I was looking in the window, I caught sight of my own reflection in the glass. I pulled my hat farther down over my head and resumed looking for the hotel.

I quickly identified the Hotel Camino, as it was the only hotel in the area, and went inside. At this point, I could tell that if I didn’t sit down, I was going to pass out. I went into the hotel bar and scanned the room for Theobroma Marquez. I looked for a girl who resembled Sophia, though aside from her height, I found I could barely remember anything about her. The bartender had not yet come on duty. The only one there was a boy around my age.

“Buenos días,” he said to me.

I really was on the verge of fainting—rather Victorian of me, I know—and so I sat down at one of the tables. I took off my hat and ran my fingers through my hair.

I became aware that the boy was staring at me. It made me self-conscious so I put my hat back on.

The boy came over to my table. He was grinning, and I felt as if I were the punch line to some great joke. “Anya Barnum?” That settled it. I was relieved to know that I was a girl, but not a Balanchine. This seemed a fine compromise. He offered me his hand. “Theobroma Marquez, but everyone calls me Theo.” The name was pronounced Tay-oh. I was also relieved that Theo spoke English.

“Theo,” I repeated. Though he was short, Theo looked sturdy and strong. He had eyes so brown they were almost black, and dark eyelashes like a horse’s. He had stubble that indicated the beginnings of a beard and mustache. It was sacrilegious to say it, but he looked a bit like a Spanish Jesus to me.

“Lo siento, lo siento. I did not recognize you at first,” he said. “They said you would be pretty.” He laughed as he said this, not in a mean way, and I didn’t feel all that offended that I’d just been called ugly.

“They told me you were going to be a girl,” I replied.

Theo laughed at that, too. “It’s this estúpido name of mine. A family name, though, so what can I do? Are you hungry? It’s a long drive to Chiapas.”

“Chiapas? I thought I was staying at a cacao farm in Oaxaca.”

“You cannot grow cacao in the state of Oaxaca, Anya Barnum.” He said this in a patient voice that indicated he was dealing with someone impossibly ignorant. “Granja Mañana is in Ixtapa, Chiapas. My family supplies to and has chocolate factories in Oaxaca, which is why I am the one who has to get you today.”

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