Fated

stuff—it’s the grease in their wheels. And now, because of my freak-out, Vane’s own personal star meter shines even brighter.
    “Listen—you want that or not? I don’t got all day!” The cashier glares, even though from what I can see, the exact opposite is true. I’m the only one in here, and before I appeared, she was reading a book.
    I’m tempted to drop the magazine on the rack. Wipe the image clean from my mind and act as though I never saw it in the first place. But there’s no going back. No way to un-see what’s now seared on my brain.
    I waver. Wanting nothing more than to be rid of the thing, yet all too aware that it was my sweaty hands that caused the cover to run until it’s all smeary and drippy.
    “Add it,” I say, hating to have to pay for it but unwilling to leave her with damaged goods.
    I dig through my wallet, fingers trembling as I hand over a crumpled wad of cash and reject the change she tries to give back. Running smack into Chay as I push through the door, my eyes so unfocused, everything appears before me in big, wavering splotches.
    Chay steadies me, placing a hand on each arm when he says, “Everything okay? Do you need to take your herbs?” He looks at me in a way that can only be described as tempered alarm.
    I shake my head. Slip out of his grip. Unwilling to confide the truth—unwilling to tell him that the vision that haunts me is not just confined to my head—that it’s out there for the whole world to see. Probably already gone viral—smeared across the Internet—awaiting its own extended segment on some cheesy gossip show on network TV.
    My fingernails slash at the cover, shredding it to tiny, unrecognizable bits. Then after dumping the mess in the trash, I find my way to Chay’s truck where he waits with a look of grave concern on his face.
    “I’m fine,” I tell him, handing over one of the Cokes and settling in for the ride. “Just eager to get there, that’s all,” I add, realizing it’s true the moment the words are out.

seven
    When Chay first mentioned that Paloma lived in a small adobe home, I guess it was one of those details I chose not to focus on. But after traveling the paved highway for over an hour of seriously bumpy dirt roads that offer little to no light other than that supplied by the moon, my eyes start to burn from all the squinting I’ve been doing in an effort to guess which adobe is hers.
    They’re everywhere.
    I mean, there are other types of homes too, and plenty of trailer homes as well, but this particular area features mostly adobes, making pueblo style the overriding look of the place.
    New York City has high-rises and brownstones; the Pacific Northwest has clapboard façades; Southern California has, well, a little bit of everything, but Mediterranean seems to reign supreme. And from what I can see, this part of New Mexico boasts a proliferation of rectangular homes with flat roofs and smooth rounded walls that look like baked earth.
    Which means every time we approach a new one I can’t help but think: Is this it? Is this the house where Paloma lives?
    Only to sigh in defeat when Chay drives right past it and then past the one after that.
    So by the time he stops before a tall blue gate surrounded by smooth, curving walls, I’m so jacked up on junk food and nerves, I’m too nauseated to react in any meaningful way.
    “This is it,” Chay says, his smile as good-natured now as it was at the start of this journey. Appearing as though the last ten hours of chauffeuring a sullen teen was not only a pleasure but also a breeze.
    He heaves my bag from the small space in back where it’s wedged behind the seats, slings it over his shoulder, and motions for me to follow. Reminding himself to oil the gate after it greets him with a loud squeal of protest, he ushers me through and steps in behind me.
    The moment I’m past the threshold, I freeze. My feet planted on the stone and gravel pathway that leads to the door, unwilling to go any farther—unwilling to be the first to approach it.
    I have no idea what Paloma looks like—what she’ll be like.
    I have no idea what to expect.
    I should’ve asked more questions.
    I should’ve used the last ten hours to grill Chay until he broke—until he confided every dark and dirty secret Paloma is hiding.
    Instead, I chose to eat. And read. And dream about some phantom boy with smooth brown skin, icy-blue eyes, and long glossy black hair—a boy I’ve never even met in real