8. Katrina

CHAPTER 8

KATRINA

T hree Weeks Ago

The boy spoke Spanish with a thick Guatemalan accent, but I was able to pick up on enough words to understand the gist of what he was saying. He was a teenager from the English class I taught the summer before, and it was no secret that he had a crush on me. While taking my class, he would often bring me presents, and he blushed every time I said something to him directly. He lived with his mom in a small house a few blocks from the one I was sharing with my family, and even after he left my class, he would find excuses to walk by the school sometimes and wave.

Only this time, he didn’t come visit me at the school.

I had run into him on my way out of town. It was late at night, and I’d been working so hard to ensure that nobody in my family caught me leaving that I didn’t even think about staying hidden from the locals. None of them really paid me much mind anyway.

Well—besides Santos.

He spotted me walking down the path towards the bus station and pulled over in his dad’s old pickup truck. He asked if I was okay, and I told him I was fine—that I had just gone out for a walk to clear my head.

Santos pointed to my duffle bag. “?Qué es eso?”

“Es nada,” I said, but he clearly didn’t believe me.

He asked if I was leaving town, and since lying in a language I didn’t speak fluently was very hard, I ended up just coming clean. I told him that I was leaving the country and begged him not to say anything until the next day. At that point, I would be far enough away that neither the rumors nor my family could catch up with me. Santos argued with me at first but then must’ve realized he wasn’t getting anywhere because he changed his tactic. He said he would come with me, that he would protect me on my way out of the country. There was a gleam in his eye that told me he was hungry for adventure, but I couldn’t possibly do that to Santos’s mother. He was her only child and the love of her life.

“That’s very sweet,” I said in Spanish. “But you’re still just a kid. Your place is here. At home with your loved ones.”

He opened his mouth to say something else, but then his cell phone rang. He answered it and spoke in such quick and slangy Spanish that I wasn’t able to follow along in the slightest. He hung up a few seconds later with a huff and announced that he had to go.

“Go ahead. Está bien.”

“No.” He shook his head. He didn’t want to leave me there on the side of the road in the middle of the night. We were at a standstill, and the kid’s eyes were filling up with tears. After some more back and forth, I finally agreed to let him drive me to the bus station. He had one little errand he had to run on the way, which I said was fine, and I climbed into the passenger seat. We drove in silence until he pulled off on a side road, and I asked where we were going.

“Vamos a la casa de mi abuela,” he said. “Ella necesita ayuda.”

“?Ella está bien?”

“Sí. Todo está bien.”

But something about how his knuckles turned white from his tight grip on the steering wheel told me all was not well . I tried not to panic, reminding myself that Santos was a sweet kid who wouldn’t do anything to hurt me, and we drove on. When we came to a house in the clearing of some trees, he put the car in park and told me to stay there. The house had strange symbols painted on the brick and there were metal sculptures arranged in a circular pattern on the front lawn. I stifled a laugh.

“?De verdad? ?Tu abuela es una bruja, sí?” I asked him if his grandmother was a witch.

Santos eyed me suspiciously and said nothing as he got out of the car.

“Espera aquí por favor,” he asked me to wait, and I nodded in response.

As he walked away, I recalled some of the rumors I’d heard around town about Santos’s family. He wasn’t very popular at school, partially because some of the families in the area believed he and his kin were cursed. Apparently, Santos’s ancestors used to be incredibly wealthy farmers who had better luck than many thought possible. Then, one day, all their fields were burnt, and they lost everything. Ever since then, there had been an air of suspicion surrounding them, which even poor, young Santos couldn’t escape. The most popular rumor was that Santos’s abuela was a witch who would cast a nasty spell on you if you crossed her.

Not that I believed in any of it. Curses weren’t real, neither were witches, and luck didn’t come and go like some fickle lover. Now that I was sitting in front of Santos’s abuela’s house, however, I was starting to wonder whether or not she was playing into the rumors a little with her decor. Maybe it was her way of keeping people off her lawn—which I could respect.

An hour passed, during which time I heard a lot of strange noises coming from inside the house. I’d thought about going to investigate multiple times, but Santos’s plea echoed in my mind, so I stayed put. When I heard what sounded like a scream, however, I knew I had to go check on my old student. I took my pocket knife off my key ring and got out of the car. My weapon of choice wasn’t much, but it made me feel marginally safer. As I approached the house, I heard another scream. This one was louder and more desperate. I started running and burst through the door just in time to see a flash of light that nearly blinded me.

I put my hand up to block the brightness and ended up stumbling backward down the patio steps. I barely managed to keep my footing when something hit me in the chest. It felt as powerful as a brick but also as narrow as a dart. The air left my lungs all at once, and I collapsed to my knees. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, and now a warmth was spreading across my ribs. I clawed at my shirt, worried I’d been shot, but felt no blood.

Bracing myself with my hands, I was finally able to fill my lungs. My stomach muscles clenched and I knew I was going to throw up, but I didn’t want to get caught snooping around the house. I had this sickening feeling that whatever I’d just interrupted was not meant to be seen by anyone besides those involved. I knew Santos would never hurt me, but I’d never met his abuela before. If she was as scary as everyone said—if she could really put a spell on me…

I crawled to the nearest tree and retched behind it, then sat back on my heels and took a few labored breaths. Once I was feeling better, I wiped my mouth off with the back of my sleeve and used the tree to help me up to my feet. A cool breeze rushed past and brought with it even more sensations of relief. Eventually, I was able to walk back to the truck, sliding inside right before Santos appeared once more in the doorway. He ran to it and got inside without a word.

“?Estás lista?” he asked.

“Sí,” I croaked. I was ready. “Estoy lista.”

He put the car in drive and took me to the bus station. Because I still had no idea what had happened inside the house, I had no way of asking Santos for any information. Plus, I feared I might get him in trouble if it was discovered I had seen something I shouldn’t have. Instead, when he dropped me off, I simply thanked him and told him to take care of himself.

He looked sad as he drove away, but I felt nothing but relief. The pain in my chest was gone, and I felt a newfound vigor.

Whatever happened at that creepy house that night was over, and now I was on my way back home to the States. The hard part—getting away from my family—was accomplished.

Everything was going to be smooth sailing from here on.