On the Wings of la Noche

I Am

I’ve never been afraid of the dark. Not even when I was little. I guess this should have been a sign of things to come—­the fact that my favorite part of the day has always been the night. I’d beg Papa and Ma to turn out the lights, bringing to life the shadows dancing across the walls and in my mind.

I’ve never told them about the whispers inside my head that used to tingle the tips of my tiny fingers, urging my hands to reach for the stars speckling the sky outside my window. If I let myself think about it, I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t reaching—­and waiting, for that epic moment I have to believe is out there, the moment I will finally feel right in my skin. But like my affinity for the night, patience is something I’ve come to embrace. Especially now. Because as usual, I am enveloped by shadows, waiting for her.

Tonight there is only a sliver of a moon, a thin fingernail scarring the winter constellations. My gaze rests on Orion in the north, his belt signaling winter is coming. I exhale a quick puff of air, the warm fog transforming to delicate crystals the moment it leaves my mouth. Winter is here, Orion—­it has been for months now in Duluth, Minnesota.

I settle onto my spot, a flat section of a rigid downed tree. This is how our meetups always begin, with me so desperate to see her, all my well-­practiced patience flying out the window.

Lake Superior’s frozen edges are suspended in winter a few feet from my perch; the long swath of ice looks deceptively solid. I let my gaze settle on the place where the frosted crust transitions to the liquid fresh water. Thick, lazy waves lap at the edge of the freeze, a contrast to the sharp storm brewing inside my gut. This crescent of secluded shoreline surrounded by evergreens imprisons my grieving heart, and yet I come here every night, because I know she’ll be here too.

Just as I’m about to call for her, she emerges from the cover of the tree trunks, my Dante Fuentes in her winter running tights and sunrise-­orange jacket.

When she sits next to me, breathing is overrated. My lungs take a second to relax; then I manage to draw in a slow inhale, wishing the cold wouldn’t rob me of her scent. Thankfully, her aroma is stamped on my memory—­rosemary and mint, and sometimes sweet sweat.

“How’s my girl?” she asks, as if she can’t tell I’m irritated she made me wait.

“Your girl was on time,” I answer.

Dante runs her hand along the cold wood between us. “Hey, sometimes it’s me doing the waiting, remember? I’m here now. Let’s not waste time, huh?”

Time. There will never be enough.

Her soft grin works its charm. My shoulders ease up, and I melt against her aura.

“What did you do today?” I ask, forever curious because I can’t see her during the day.

She crosses her legs, folding her hands in her lap. “Oh, you know, the usual.”

Nothing about this is usual, the two of us meeting in secret by Superior’s shore in the middle of the night. But this is all we have now, and like so many other things, I must accept it and move on.

I swivel to face her, my feet buzzing like live wires because I’m nervous to tell her what’s bogging down my brain.

“What is it, Estrella?” Dante asks, her gaze probing deeper, as if to say, Please don’t shut me out.

I meet her stare with a slow blink. Dante calling me by my birth name, and the way she rolls her R’s, makes me want to hold her voice in my heart forever. To most everyone else, I am Noche, a nickname that has stuck with me since Ma gave it to me when I was little. 

“I’m going back to school tomorrow,” I blurt, my skin popping with goose bumps.

Dante leans closer, as if she’s having trouble reading my face. “Okay. That’s good, yeah?”

“I guess. Maybe. . . . I don’t know. It’ll be so different without you there. It’s been three months of homeschooling. Everyone’s going to make a big deal of it, I’m sure.”

“I’m really proud of you, Estrella,” she says, though I’m not sure why. I’ve done absolutely nothing to deserve it. “I’d go with you if I could,” she adds, and for a second I perk up at the impossible possibility.

“That would be interesting,” I say, smiling inside.

“It would.” Dante giggles, and I’m positive I’ll never tire of hearing her laugh like this.

I scoot closer, our near touch sending another wave of chills across my frigid body. “Whoa, you feel that?” I ask.

She nods, giving the ground her attention. “Umm, yeah. Of course I do.”

I blink again, willing Dante to look at me. The back of my tongue pricks, as if there’s a pebble stuck in my throat. Lying is not her thing.

We both fix our attention on the inky horizon.

Dante sits up, then hugs her knees. “Don’t stress about school. January’s a midseason whirlwind. Everyone will have hockey on the brain.”

My heart stings for her. Dante’s got to miss playing and being captain of the girls’ team. I about say as much, but I’m compelled to correct her instead.

“It’s the end of February, not January, sweetie,” I say.

“Oh, yeah,” she says, with a wobbly giggle. “I—­I knew that.”

My stomach tenses when she rests her chin on her knees.

Again, she’s not being truthful. Every part of me wants to let it go and pull her into my arms. But I can’t do either of these things, so her dishonesty stews inside my chest.

I shudder. Superior’s waters flatten to a sheet of ebony glass in the distance. The lake won’t stay this way for long. I watch the calm like a hawk, waiting for the waves to build their strength from beneath. Dante straightens her legs, then flexes her toes in the running shoes I gave her for her birthday last year. She shoots an imaginary arrow at a spot in the middle of the ice—­the spot. Yes, we are keeping our enemy close. Whether we like it or not, the lake has become part of us.

My head rotates left, then right, because I’m sensing a shift in the weather. As if on cue, the wind picks up. The very ends of my feet vibrate with warmth, which means that soon I will have to go.

“Julien will have your back,” Dante says, an anxious tinge to her words. She’s been here with me enough to know when our time is slipping. “He’ll always be there for you, you know?”

I do know this, so I tilt my head in agreement, though Julien and I haven’t been hanging out much. He’s been busy with his own things, being named captain of the boys’ varsity hockey team and all.

Dante’s sigh flows from her lips, absent of the fog that comes with mine. I’m only inches away but suddenly feel apart from her too.

“No rink can compete with what the two of you have,” she says, drawing me back in. “I’m pretty sure you’re locked in as besties. I mean the guy’s stuck with you since kindergarten, even though your taste in music sucks and you can’t skate to save your life. That says it all in my book.”

She smiles wide, her sparkling golden eyes stirring my insides—­the reason I’ll never stop meeting her here, no matter how many rules we’re breaking.

I duck as if trying to head-­butt her arm. “Goals for both of us. Because I’ve stuck with you even though the sappy stuff you listen to fried your reasoning and you can’t pull off a chemistry equation to save your li—­” My sentence flatlines and I turn away.

“Don’t you mean emotional, heartfelt, and longing sappy stuff?”

When I turn back, Dante’s so close to me I can imagine her rosemary smell. My chest tumbles.

She hovers her hand just above my shoulder. “I can’t go to school with you on Monday. We know this, right?”

I nod, my body tensing.

“But I’ll be here. As long as you need me.”

“What if that’s forever?” I ask.

“Para siempre, entonces.”

My breath stutters.

Three things about Dante.

I love her because she speaks Spanish to me, even though she knows I’ll have to google most of what she says.

I love her because she never makes me feel weird about this, or less than.

And her aura. I love her violet-­with-­pink-­around-­the-­edges aura, something I swear was present when she was among the living.

A dark sheet drifts across the sky, obscuring the canvas of celestial hydrogen and helium.

The distant caw of a raven perks my plumicorns. I spot him just as Dante does.

“There.” She points as the bird soars over the water. He dips down, making a show of it, then lands on a nearby branch. “Duty calls,” she says with a sigh.

Duty. She’s totally right. I am tethered to an endless task, a responsibility I never asked for. My nights don’t solely belong to Dante. They also belong to the rest of the dead.