1955- December

Alondra's heart had shattered nearly a week ago, and now, her Titi was breaking it all over again.

She missed Mama, and she would miss home, too.

"We really have to move?" she asked for what had to be the seventh time.

"Si, si," Titi Genea answered steadily.

Her patience was seemingly endless. The woman was strong, and Alondra didn't even think her capable of crying, until she'd walked in on her bawling like a baby two days ago. Unsure of how to handle an adult falling to pieces, Alondra had backed out of her Titi's bedroom.

In preparation for their move to Puerto Rico, Genea helped everyone pack, even Luto. He complained about leaving, same as Alondra. He had boasted that being the man of the family, he should decide when and where they go.

Genea poked at his chest. "Such a big man, eh? Then live on your own, brujo."

Alondra gaped. Genea had never spoken to her son so plainly. She usually left that up to Carmen.

Luto looked ready to retaliate, but Alondra's face blew the bluster from him.

"I'll pack," he said.

There was no more discussion. Of course, Camila had nothing to offer, although, Alondra caught her crying on her bed on several occasions. It's not that she didn't want to rush in and offer a shoulder or two to fall apart on. Her discomfort overrode her sense of decency. Like when she had seen Genea crying, she hadn't known what to do.

Mama had been fair, but tough, and had never really taught them affection. It was easy to comfort Luto; he was a boy, and it came naturally to her. Though, he didn't really need the comfort like she did. She wanted someone to hold her, rock her, sing to her like she assumed Mama had when she was a baby. Alondra settled for comforting Luto instead, even if it sometimes devolved into make-out sessions.

Comforting Camila was...different. So, Alondra stood at the door of the bedroom, faltering. Then she tip-toed away before she could be seen.

After another night of packing, she came upon Camila staring at the corner of the bed, nodding her head. It was like she was communicating but, no one else was in the room.

In fact, the only people who interacted with Camila had been Mama, and sometimes Genea. She felt like a bad sibling and decided to try comforting her sister. Alondra carefully approached, remembering Mama's warnings not to come at Camila suddenly and risk startling her. A leather-bound notebook sat sprawled on the bed, and Alondra moved it out of the way so she could sit.

Once in her sister's eyesight, she attempted to sign, but couldn't remember how to form "what's wrong?" Camila wasn't focusing on her anyway, which gave her time to remember "what?"

Alondra waved the question in Camila's face. Her sister barely registered her presence. After a few stilted moments, Camila slowly appraised Alondra.

"Nothing," she signed.

Alondra tried a different approach. It took her a minute to string the words together with her fingers, but she mostly got out: "Who were you talking to?"

With a sardonic expression, Camila signed, "Talking?"

Alondra hid her annoyance. Here she was, trying to communicate, and all she received were clipped hand motions.

She shook her head and signed "Nevermind."

Alondra stood, and again noticed the leather notebook. It had opened to a random page, and slew of words and drawings beckoned to her. Despite the staid sibling rule against reading one another's diary, she snatched up the book. Camila didn't protest, and didn't even seem to notice the theft.

Before exiting the bedroom, Alondra gave one last glance at Camila.

She was staring at the empty corner of the bed again, nodding as though someone was there.

~*~

That night, like most nights in recent days, Alondra couldn't sleep.

She kept thinking about Camila, and the staring. What had she been looking at?

Something drew her eyes to her desk. Even in the dark, she could make out the shadow of the notebook.

A nagging voice convinced her that the answer to Camila's staring might be in her diary.

Alondra padded out of bed, swiping the notebook from the desk. In a drawer, she carefully took out a flashlight.

Under the safety of her blanket, she dared to click the flashlight on and crack open the notebook.

Camila's handwriting was neat, and nothing like Alondra's own scribbles. Ornate drawings graced the margins, reminding Alondra of mythology. Fairies darted from behind flowers and leaves, and sparrows flew over a few of the diary entries.

The first few were pretty boring, just about school and complaints about Sister Margaret. On occasion, she mentioned a boy named Pedro, and how he whispered ideas in her ear. He sounded like strange friend to Alondra.

She flushed with heat as her eyes roamed over the next entry, especially at the words:

"Brendita's lips parted, and my tongue slipped inside like she taught me."

She dropped the book, breathless.

Alondra's heart pounded as though it needed to escape her chest.

This isn't right.

With trembling hands, she picked up the book, repositioned the flashlight, and turned the page.

The latest entry, dated today, started out on a far different note than the kissing stuff:

"Why couldn't Pedro help Mama? He says he knows things, and he's always doing things, and I begged him to fix her, but he wouldn't. Then today, I begged him to let me talk to Mama, and he said he couldn't do that, either. I'm not talking to him ever again. He never helps me when I really need him.

I don't know what to do now that Mama's gone. She was the only one that cared about me, the only one who could hear me talk."

Confused at what that meant, Alondra shook her head and read on:

"Now, I won't even have Brendita. She really understood me, like Mama.

I have no one.

Nothing.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing."

The word "nothing" filled up the rest of the page. Disturbing as that was, when Alondra turned to the next page, she wished she hadn't.

Camila had continued writing "nothing," but it had eventually resulted in angry, large, looping scrawling lines. The lines were different from the drawings in the earlier entries, and Alondra wasn't sure she could categorize them as drawings. They were scored deeply into the paper, as though the pen had been pressed down very hard, with deliberate slowness.

She turned the page, expecting it to be blank. Instead, the scrawling filled up the next page. And the next. And the next. With each flip of the page, Alondra's eyes widened as she realized the rest of the notebook, at least fifty pages, was etched through with the mad scribbles.

Suddenly, she wanted the mindless pages away from her.

She tossed the book, and it skidded under her dresser.

And there it remained, even after they moved away.

~*~