American Bruja: The Los Angeles Cauldron

Chapter 8. Amber McBride

Saturday, August 6, 2011, 9:30 a.m. Los Angeles, California

Moving day. Our house–sold to another family. Mom? Who knows where she is. Didn't bother to come say goodbye.

I really wish Dad's realtor, Mrs. Lobata, hadn't picked us up from the airport, or dragged her son Seth along. He's to my left in the backseat, wearing a Laker's jersey and basketball shorts. Kibbles, my dog, sits in the middle.

We're packed in this Prius so tight I can hear everyone breathing. Yuck. Even the smallest sounds scrape against my ears since I stopped taking my psych meds two months ago. Dad doesn't know. I cheek the pills, then spit them out when he's not looking.

First chance I get, I'm sneaking away to call Dr. Morton. Texted her as soon as the plane landed. Haven't heard from her.

Cool nose leather brushes my ear. Jerking at this unexpected touch, I bang my elbow into the car door handle.

"Cripity-crap!"

Kibbles pokes my cheek with his muzzle.

Seth erupts in laughter.

What's so funny?

I wish Shelby was here. I clutch the twinsie shirt bought earlier this summer. She's wearing hers today in solidarity. My bestie will know if he's mean.

I side-eye Seth. Shoulder-length blond hair frames a tanned, freckled face.

"Cripity-crap? Is that how the cool kids talk in Seattle?"

The thought of home makes my heart hurt. I want to scream. People think that kids with Asperger's are rocks, that I don't have emotions. Soooo not true. I just don't know how to show emotion. Under my stony-faced mask is a bubbling cauldron.

With a shake of my head, I turn away to tilt my head against the window. Blocky sandstone mountains stretch east and west. Fairy chimneys stretch skyward in cathedral spires against the blue sky.

As I blink under the sun's glare, buzzing fills my ears.

Stone and Light!

From the front passenger seat, Dad asks, "You okay, honey?"

I release the breath I'm holding. Conlan must be here! He said to find him in "The House of Stone and Light."

From behind the wheel, Mrs. Lobata announces, "We'll be at Peppergate Ranch in a few minutes."

Our eyes meet in the rear view mirror.

Hers are blue, framed by thick, shoulder-length blonde hair.

Stomach churning, I jerk away.

Was I staring? Remember the rules, McBride! "One-one thousand, two-one thousand" before breaking eye contact.

The car passes under an oak canopy. The forest is dense, screening out the sun.

In my right ear, the buzzing grows louder. My vision blurs as the trees morph into one massive oak. The girnormous oak splits. From the trunk steps a twenty-something Latino. He walks in front of the Prius.

From the opposite lane, a truck speeds toward us.

I scream, "Watch out!"

Mrs. Lobata jerks the steering wheel to the right, throwing me against the door. The Prius lurches to a stop in a ditch, kicking up a dust cloud. She sputters, "Good God in heaven, was that Ken Salvia?"

The young Latino keeps walking. It's like 100 degrees outside, and he's wearing a long leather coat.

Unbuckling his seat belt, Dad turns to examine us. "Everyone okay?"