Where We Go

Chapter 1: Prayers

Nova

I'm on my knees, praying. Merciful God in Heaven, please welcome my parents through the gates of Heaven. Please watch over me and Noah, and keep us from harm. Gracias. Amen.

I repeat this, muttering it over and over, praying that God above will save us, deliver us from harm, and protect me and Noah. My hands are clasped, my eyes are closed, and I'm so caught up in my prayer that I don't notice someone is standing behind me until her hand is on my shoulder.

"Nova. It's time to leave." says Mrs. Morgan.

Mrs. Morgan is a kind old lady who often visits the church. She makes the potato salad for the dinners, and teaches Sunday School sometimes. She used to be good friends with Mama.

Used to be. The words bring the taste of ash to my mouth.

"May I have a few more minutes?" I ask.

"I'm sorry, Nova, but the church is closing down. You can come back tomorrow." 

"But tomorrow is a school day."

"You can skip if you want to. No one would blame you after..."

She trails off, but she doesn't need to finish. The accident that killed my parents has made me a celebrity is this small seaside town.

"I can't do that, Mrs. Morgan," I say. "I need to go to school."

She looks puzzled. She doesn't understand that I need to hold on to what little normalcy I have left. It's the only way to keep from losing my sanity entirely. 

She plays along despite her obvious confusion. "Well, then, I can take you in next weekend."

It's the best compromise I can hope for. I sigh. "Thank you, Mrs. Morgan."

"Let's go, dear." 

As we walk out, I put a few coins in the offering box and say a quick prayer to the stained-glass portrait of Our Lord. The sun shines through it, lighting up the crown of light around His head. 

The light turns harsh and bright as we step outside, and I put up a hand to shield my eyes as we walk across the lot to Mrs. Morgan's beat-up BMW. In the backseat, through the window, I can just make out the silhouette of my twin brother's profile.

Me and Noah don't look all that alike. He looks like a trustworthy, all-American boy (despite our shared Colombian heritage), all chiseled jaw and blond hair and pale-but-tan skin. I've seen straight girls genuinely swoon at seeing him.

On the other hand, my dark brown skin and hair speaks of more exotic background(or so I like to think), and with my hooded eyes and full lips and long nose, we look almost nothing alike. However, both me and Noah share a common trait, more than enough to single us out as siblings. Both of our eyes are heterochromatic. Our right eyes are an unnerving shade of bright green, and our left eyes are stormy gray.

And we look fucking weird standing next to each other.

As I climb into the backseat, I can feel that two-toned gaze bore into me. I ignore it primly while I take my sweet time buckling up, setting down my bag, closing the door, and rolling down the window. Finally, I turn to him.

"Hola, Noah. ¿Cómo estás?"

"Why were you praying? Church ended about 5 hours ago. I was all the way home before I realized you were still there."

"I figured you could use the help, little brother."

"By five minutes and forty-two seconds!" is his argument.

It's always bothered Noah when I mention our age gap. Not much else does, strangely enough. He's always been cool-headed and calm, whereas I can't seem to go a day without getting cussed out by some old lady angry at my rude demeanor and vulgar language.

Fuck you, old ladies. I don't care.

I live out my life in a haze of homework, school, sleep, and old ladies. At least, I used to.

Now I'm just... not dying. There is no haze, no homework (the teachers all pity me), little school, no sleep, and the old ladies have all died.

The rest of the drive is silent.

At home, I open the door. I feel the ghost of Mama's voice - "Mija! Put down your things! I made you some food!"

Colombians live for the food. 

But this time, the house is cold and empty. We live with our oldest brother, Daniel, who, thankfully, was old enough to have custody and the house when... 

The Accident happened.

It is how it is, I suppose. 

Anyway, we live with Daniel, who has a boyfriend named Josh (I know, Daniel and Josh, too adorable) and dimples and brown hair. He's like the poster boy for puppies. 

When we get home, Josh has already cooked dinner. Josh is like a mom in all the best ways. He cooks, he cleans, he lectures (in moderation) and he makes lunch. In Daniel's own words, he's our own personal housewife.

Mama was never a housewife.

So I sit down, Noah next to me, Daniel in his room, as Josh serves up some empanadas. Josh is Mexican.

"How was your day?" He asks.

"Good." Me and Noah reply simultaneously. We do that sometimes. It spooks me. 

"Eat up."

They both watch as the fork floats down to the plate to grab a bite, then to my lips. 

Author's Note: I am not personally Christian, so please inform me if I got any of the terminology or anything wrong, and I'll see if I can fix the problem.