Echo Soul Seekers

now, before it’s too late.”
    She regards me sagely. Relaying so much emotion in one single look: Her regret that my life requires so much sacrifice—her pride that I’m embracing the challenge despite all the dangers—her fears for my safety, the very real possibility that I won’t live to see twenty.
    “It’s not enough just to have a goal, nieta . You need to have a plan to see it through.”
    I consider her words for a moment, knowing there is no strategy, no plan, and no time to come up with one. Then I look at her and say, “I don’t have a strategy. So, I guess I’ll just do as you taught me and think from the end.”
    Her fingers fidget with the buttons running the length of her cardigan. Taking a moment to consider, she nods her assent and says, “Well, first you’ll have to do something about this room. Your friends are waiting in the den. I doubt you want them to see you like this.” She gestures at the mess, her grin growing wider when I set my room into a frenzy of motion. Straightening my bedspread, restacking the pillows, and returning all of the random, loose objects into the trunk where they originated. Everything tucked neatly away, despite the fact that I haven’t so much as lifted a finger.
    “Do not underestimate your abilities or your readiness, nieta . Especially not after such an impressive display. Your telekinesis has come a long way.” Her voice grows hoarse with emotion. “It’s really quite remarkable.” She pulls her sweater tightly around her, observing me for a long quiet moment, before she swipes a hand across her cheek and goes to summon my friends.
    *   *   *
    By the time my friends reach my room, I’m lounging on my bed with my back against the headboard and my legs stretched before me. Running a quick hand through my hair, as Lita saunters in first, saying, “So this is your room?” She tosses her hair over her shoulder and takes a good look around. Surveying the space through squinted eyes and lashes caked with a liberal use of mascara. “I have to be honest, Daire—it’s not at all what I expected.”
    “What were you expecting?” Xotichl navigates her way to my bed, where she sits at the end.
    Lita shakes off her jacket, drapes it over the back of my chair, and drums her fingers hard against her hip. Inspecting my desk, the dream catcher hanging over the window, the tall dresser with the picture of Django displayed on its top. “I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been here before, though I never made it past the den. I guess I didn’t expect it to be so much like the rest of the house. I thought it’d be more stylish. More fashionable. Maybe even—dare I say—glamorous. I thought there’d be at least some small smidgen of something, anything, that might hint at your former Hollywood past. But, nope. The only word to describe this four-walled box is efficient . Your room is clean, tidy, and efficient . It does what a room is supposed to do and no more.”
    “Sorry to disappoint. Guess my Vane Wick poster got lost in the move.” I push deeper into the row of pillows at my back, reminding myself that this is just Lita being Lita, there’s no use taking offense. And when she turns to me with flashing eyes and curving lips, I brace for whatever comes next.
    “Speaking of…” She pauses dramatically. “You never want to talk about it. But since it’s Christmas and all, I was hoping you might relent and toss a little Tinseltown morsel my way.”
    She steeples her hands under her chin, striving for a hopeful, angelic expression, which only makes me laugh. “I knew it!” I shake my head, pretending to be far more upset than I am.
    “Knew what?” Her eyes grow alarmed, though she keeps her hands firmly in place.
    “I knew that’s why you befriended me. I’m just surprised you held back for so long.”
    Her hands drop to her hips, as the look of feigned innocence fades. “Not only is that not fair, but it’s also not true, and you know it. I mean, how about showing a little mercy for the less privileged among us? This is the only place I’ve ever lived. I grew up in Enchantment and I’ll probably die here as well. The most I can hope for is the occasional shopping trip to Albuquerque. I’ll never have the opportunities you’ve had, so the least you can do is throw me a bone.”
    “You have to admit, it’s a pretty good argument,” Xotichl says. “Besides, we’re your friends, and that’s what friends do. They dish about