Witch of Wild Things by Raquel Vasquez Gilliland

Author:Raquel Vasquez Gilliland [Vasquez Gilliland, Raquel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2023-09-12T00:00:00+00:00

lives by (or used to live by) a streetlamp

went to St. Theresa’s (?)

one year younger than me (c/o ’04)

snorts when she laughs

“A ton of brothers and sisters?” I sound incredulous. I know I never told Tenn I had imaginary brothers back in the day.

He shrugs. “She said ‘siblings’ a lot, so I assumed. And she took care of them, like, all the time. It sounded like there were a thousand of them by how busy she was.”

Well, that sounds about right. And now I do remember saying “siblings” a lot, because I was terrified if I revealed I had two little sisters he’d somehow figure out it was me. “Okay.” I glance back down at the card. “And she lived by a streetlamp. This is really narrowing it down, Tenn.”

He snorts. “I just wrote all I could think of. I’ll add more as they come.”

“She went to St. Theresa’s?”

“Once she let me call her while she was there.”

“Yeah?” It was when I had rejected his offer to meet in person and I knew he’d be super disappointed. And I wanted to offer some part of me, even if that part was a phone number to church, and a time I’d be there, so I wouldn’t have to give my real landline.

In an instant, I’m transported there. The walls around me wood paneling, the carpet might’ve once been blue or violet but over time has faded to a mud gray. The books on the shelves are titled things like Jesus Takes the Wheel: Twenty-One Stories of Catholic Compassion in Modern Times. His voice, so deep on the phone that it vibrates. Is this my Silvergurl? he asks. I’m the Silvergurl, I say in return, giggling. The sound of him makes me even more nervous than I am, sneaking a call from a boy in the religious education director’s office.

“Yeah. We talked for, like, five minutes before she had to go. But she laughed a lot. And in one of her laughs, she—”

“Snorted.”

He laughs now. “It was cute.”

Was not. I went home and cried; I was so embarrassed. “So what would you like me to do with this?”

“Well, you’re class of ’04, too, right? Can you just think about it and see who might fit these criteria? Or look at a yearbook? I’ve looked myself, but I really didn’t know a lot of people in the year behind me.”

I nod slowly. “I could do that.”

“Here.” He pulls out a thick navy book embossed in gold letters. Cranberry High School, 2003, his senior year. “I brought one of mine just in case you didn’t have it.”

“Thanks. I honestly couldn’t tell you where any of my yearbooks are.” Knowing Nadia, they’re tossed on some bookshelf or another, under a hundred other books and candles and stones. I flip through it after he hands it to me, not really looking or reading anything. “Tenn, can I ask you something?”

“Anything.” His gaze flits to my lips so fast, if I’d blinked I’d have missed it.

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