Because It Is My Blood

  “I didn’t say that. It’s, um, unexpected.”

  He said that his old tux jacket had gotten misplaced at the hospital the year before. I told him I was pretty sure it had been cut off him. “That explains that then,” Win said. “This jacket’s my dad’s. He had white-tie and black-tie options. I picked white so no one will mistake me for anyone else.”

  At prom, my classmates seemed pleased to see me and the administration tolerated me. The theme was “The Future,” but the organizing committee’s world-building skills were lacking, and they hadn’t really come up with a way to depict said theme in decorative terms. There was a handful of decorations with reflective surfaces and clocks, and a large digital banner that said WHERE WILL YOU BE IN 2104? Their vision of the future was vague at best, and I found the whole thing rather anxiety-producing. I had no idea where I’d be next year, let alone twenty years from now. Truthfully, the first answer to occur to me upon reading that banner was, Dead. In 2104, I’ll probably be dead.

  I was interrupted from my morbid thoughts by Scarlet. She was nearing eight months pregnant, and she looked pretty and miserable in her huge pink dress. She had come alone. Keeping her company was another tactic Win had used to convince me to go to this ridiculous dance in the first place.

  “Annie, I love the dress!” Of course she did. Scarlet and Noriko would probably get along famously once I introduced them. Scarlet kissed me, and Win went to get us drinks. “I’m so glad you made it. Did Leo get to Albany all right?”

  I nodded. “How are you?” I asked.

  “Awful,” she said. “I probably shouldn’t have come. There’s nothing sadder than a massive pregnant girl at prom. I hate what I’m wearing, and I’m too unwieldy to dance.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  “Well, no one wants to dance with me except Arsley anyway.”

  I told her that I would dance with her, but Scarlet shook her head. “We aren’t twelve anymore, Anya.”

  “Don’t feel too sorry for yourself. Headmaster keeps shooting me awful looks, and this ‘future’ theme is making me nervous,” I said.

  Scarlet laughed halfheartedly.

  Win returned with drinks. “I’ll dance with you,” Win said to Scarlet.

  “What am I? That spinster aunt everyone takes pity on?” Scarlet asked in mock horror.

  “No. She hates dancing.” Win indicated me. “And you’re the knocked-up girl I’m taking pity on. Come on.” Win offered Scarlet his hand. “Seriously, it would be nice to dance with someone I don’t have to cajole.”

  “I should throw this at you,” Scarlet said to Win as she handed me her drink. I watched them make their way out to the dance floor.

  Even as pregnant as she was, Scarlet still moved pretty well. I watched them with some degree of amusement though I could not help but feel wistful. I looked at Scarlet, and the size of her belly reminded me of the whole year I’d missed while I’d been … Well, you know what I’d been doing. Let’s just say, the year I’d missed while I’d been otherwise engaged. I was still marveling at the bittersweetness of it all when Gable Arsley sat down in the chair next to me.

  “Anya,” Gable greeted me.

  I nodded and tried not to look at him. As with animals in the wild, I hoped that if I didn’t make eye contact, Gable would go away.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” Gable said.

  “I was invited,” I said.

  “I didn’t mean any offense,” Gable said. “I … You have to talk to Scarlet for me.”

  I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, then raised my eyebrow. “Why in the world would I ever do that?”

  “Because she’s carrying my baby! Because she is being unreasonable.” He paused. “I know if she thought you approved she might forgive me.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t approve, Arsley. You sold pictures of me. And that was just your latest move in a long line of offenses.”

  “I only did that because I needed the money,” Gable protested.

  “As if that makes it okay.”

  Gable grabbed my hand.

  “Don’t touch me,” I said as I wrested my hand from his. “Seriously, don’t.”

  Gable took my hand again. I could feel his metal fingertips through his glove.

  “I don’t want a scene here.” I took my hand back again.

  “You have to make Scarlet marry me,” Gable said insanely.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Tell her you’ve forgiven me!”

  “But I haven’t, Arsley.”

  Arsley slumped back into his chair. He crossed his arms. “I could still sue you, you know. I wish I had. Then I’d never have to work again. And I’d have loads of money to take care of Scarlet and the baby.”

  “How noble of you. Listen, Gable. If you really want to sue someone, you should sue Sophia Bitter. She was the one responsible for the poisonings.”

  “Sophia Bitter?” Gable asked. “Who’s that?”

  Win and Scarlet returned to the table. “Hello, Arsley,” Win said in a hard voice.

  “Is he bothering you?” Scarlet asked me.

  It was adorable the way my friends thought that Gable Arsley could be anything other than an annoyance to me now. Strapped to my thigh, under Noriko’s outrageous dress, was my favorite souvenir of Mexico.

  Gable got up and limped back to whatever corner he had come from.

  A slower song came on, and Scarlet insisted that Win and I dance at least once. “It’s senior prom, you guys!”

  On the dance floor, Win pulled me close to him and briefly, I could imagine what this whole year might have been like if everything had been different.

  I felt him stiffen as his thigh pressed into my machete.

  “Do you always have to have that with you?” Win asked.

  I felt myself blush. “I’m sorry. But this is me, Win.”

  Win nodded. “I was only teasing. I know that.” He brushed a curl off my forehead.

  “It was the machete or Daisy Gogol,” I joked. “No one is shooting my boyfriend at this year’s prom.”

  Win tapped the machete through my dress. “I wondered why you were so insistent that we come in through the back.”

  “Metal detector,” I said.

  “Well, I do appreciate this. I’d like to be in your life a very long time and that’ll be somewhat easier to do if I’m alive.”

  The song dissolved into a faster song, at which point Win agreed that we had both suffered through enough of prom. Scarlet was planning to spend the night at my place so we went to fetch her before going outside to catch the crosstown bus home.

  Outside, there were many boys in black jackets, but mine was the only one in white.

  XIX

  I GRADUATE; YET ANOTHER PROPOSAL

  EARLY IN MAY, while Natty was studying for finals and my ex-peers were being fitted for caps and gowns, I took the New York State GED. The test was administered at the New York City Department of Education on West Fifty-Second Street. Out of sentimentality, I wore my old Trinity uniform. In the windowless testing room, I snuck glances at the faces of the other test-takers. They didn’t look particularly stupid or downtrodden or even old, so I could not help but wonder what in their lives had led them to this room. What mistakes had they made? Who had they trusted that they shouldn’t have? Or had they just been born to the wrong parents at the wrong time? Maybe I was being negative though. Maybe finishing high school in a classroom with no windows and a broken-down air conditioner wasn’t such a bad thing. At the very least, these people had survived whatever missteps they had taken and come out the other side.

  Mr. Kipling had hired me a tutor, and though I’d only been semiconsistent in my studies, the test was easy enough. I wouldn’t find out for another three to four weeks if I had passed, but effectually and if all went well, this marked the end of high school for me. A bit anticlimactic, no? Then again … I had had plenty of climax in the past year and certainly more than my share of conflict and ri
sing action. I could stand for a bit of denouement. No one tended to get shot during the denouement. (The GED had a section on literary terms, if you were wondering.)

  At home, an e-mail was waiting for me. When I saw the domain mark was Mexico, I felt ashamed. As I was at least partially responsible for Theo’s injuries, I’d been too embarrassed to call or write the Marquezes. Still, a good person would have found some way to send word.

  Dear Anya,

  Hello. I hope you have not forgotten your very best pal, Theo. I am writing to you because you have not written to me. Why do you stand on circumstance? Do you not know that your good friend Theo misses you? Do you not care at all about him?

  You will like to know how I am faring, I think. But maybe you are too ashamed to ask. Well, you should feel very guilty, Anya, because I have been very sick. I did almost die. And I was not allowed to go back to the orchards until just last week. I am almost better now. My sister and my mother and the abuelas are being unbearable as you can imagine. We did here learn that Cousin Sophia was responsible for the attempt on your and my lives. She has always been a strange woman and never a favorite in our family for a variety of reasons that I would be glad to detail for you in person. (This is an invitation if you choose to take it as one.) But the reason I am writing you today is because the abuelas feel responsible for the attempts on your life. They think that they did not love Sophia enough. (But then they do think that all the problems in the world can be attributed to lack of love.) To make amends, they have asked me to pass on the recipe for Casa Marquez Hot Chocolate. I translated it for you, but it is not a literal translation. I embellished it where I thought it might amuse you (see attachment). Abuela wants me to remind you that it is a very powerful and ancient recipe with many, many health and spiritual benefits. “Please, Theo,” she begs, “make sure she knows not to let it fall into the wrong hands.”

  Anya, when we were together, I know I spent much time complaining about my responsibilities to the farm and the factories. How I longed for my freedom. It is strange because in all the months I was sick, the only thing I wanted was to get back to the factories and the farm. So, maybe it is a good thing that I was nearly fatally shot. (This is me, joking. I am still the funniest person you know, I bet.)

  I hope you will come back to Chiapas someday. You’re a natural at cacao production, but I still have much I can teach you.

  Besos,

  Theobroma Marquez

  I read the recipe, then I went into the kitchen. We didn’t have rose petals or chili pepper but it was Saturday market, so I decided to take the bus down to Union Square to shop for the ingredients. It was Daisy’s morning off, and Natty was occupied with her studies, so I decided to go by myself.

  The roses were easy enough to come by, but I had trouble finding the chili pepper and I had just about given up when I spotted a stand selling, according to its sign: MEDICINAL HERBS, SPICES, TINCTURES, & MISCELLANY. I pulled back a striped curtain and went inside. The air smelled of incense. Rolling wooden shelves were lined with rows of hand-labeled glass jars.

  The proprietor quickly located a small glass jar of chili peppers. “Is that all you need, girl?” the proprietor asked. “Have a look around. I have many other enticing products, and if you buy two, the third is free.” The proprietor had a glass eye and a velvet cloak and a walking stick, and he looked rather like a wizard. The glass eye was a very good one. The only hint that it wasn’t a real eye was that it didn’t track me around the store like the other eye did.

  On the lowest shelf sat a small jar with cacao nibs. As I took the jar in my hand, I felt a rush of nostalgia for Granja Mañana. I held it up to the stall-keeper. “How are you able to sell these? Without getting arrested, I mean?”

  “It’s perfectly legal, I assure you.” He paused to give me the evil eye. (Literally, just the one.) “Do you work for the authorities?”

  I shook my head. “The opposite.”

  He looked at me questioningly but I didn’t feel like telling him my entire life story. Instead, I told him I was a chocolate enthusiast, and he seemed to take me at my word.

  The stall-keeper used his walking stick to point to the word medicinal on his sign. “Even in this corrupt country of ours, you can sell all the cacao you want as long as it’s for medicinal purposes.” He snatched the little glass jar from me. “But I’m afraid I can’t sell that particular product to you unless you have a prescription.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Of course.” Out of curiosity, I asked him what kind of condition would get me a prescription.

  The stall-keeper shrugged. “Depression, I suppose. Cacao is a mood enhancer. Osteoporosis. Anemia. I’m not a doctor, miss. I do have an acquaintance who uses it to make skin creams.”

  I stood up from the squatting position I’d been in, and handed him the glass jar of chili peppers. “I guess I’ll just take this then.”

  The stall-keeper nodded. As I was paying him, he said, “You’re the Balanchine girl, aren’t you?”

  Paranoid mobster daughter that I was, I made sure to scan the store before answering. “I am.”

  “Yes, I thought so. I’ve been following your case closely. It’s all been very unfair to you, hasn’t it?”

  I told him that I tried not to dwell on it.

  On the bus back home, the aroma of roses was pervasive. I looked in my bag and found that the not-a-wizard had slipped the cacao nibs in with the chili peppers.

  Since the crash, I was still a bit on edge during bus rides, but the rose-scented air suffused me with a sense of calm and—dare I say—clarity. My mind relaxed. My brain became soft and empty and then it began to fill with a picture. First, I saw Our Lady of Guadalupe, and I knew it was her because of the roses that haloed around her and because her image had featured so prominently at Granja Mañana. But then I saw that she wasn’t a real person, but a painting on a wall and underneath the painting were the words, Do not fear any illness or vexation, anxiety or pain. Am I not your Mother? Are you not under my shadow and protection? Am I not the fountain of life? Is there anything else you need? And the wall was the back wall of a smallish store. And Balanchine chocolate was stacked on the dark-stained mahogany shelves. And the chocolate was right out in the open, even in the front display windows. And the sign on the store said:

  Balanchine’s Medicinal Cacao Bar

  Chocolate For Your Health—By Rx Only—Doctor On Premises

  I sat up in my seat.

  I was not my sister. No one had ever suggested sending me to genius camp nor should they have, and I was not given to brilliant ideas. If I had a genius, I’d say it was probably one for survival, nothing more. But this seemed like it could almost work. Cacao might never be legal, but what if there were legal ways around that? Things Daddy and Uncle Yuri and now Fats had never even considered.

  The bus was about a block away from Win’s house. I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to know what he would think. I pushed the tape to indicate that I wanted the bus to stop, and I got out.

  Outside Win’s apartment, I rang the bell. Charles Delacroix answered. Win and Mrs. Delacroix were still out, but he expected them back any minute if I wanted to wait. Mr. Delacroix hadn’t shaved but at least he had dressed for the day.

  Charles Delacroix led me into the living room. I was still thinking about my vision.

  “How are you?” Charles Delacroix asked me.

  “Mr. Delacroix, you’re a lawyer.”

  “You’re very businesslike today, Anya. Yes, I am a lawyer. An unemployed one at present.”

  “Have you ever heard of anyone selling medicinal cacao?” I asked.

  Charles Delacroix laughed at me. “Anya Balanchine, what have you gotten yourself into now?”

  “Nothing,” I insisted. I could feel myself blushing. “I only wondered if a person could sell medicinal cacao legally in the city. I’d heard that you could sell it with a prescription.”

  Charles Delacroix studied me for a moment. “Yes, I suppose a theoretical person
could.”

  “And if that were true, could a proprietor sell a customer a chocolate health bar or, say, a hot-chocolate vitamin shake as long as there was a prescription?”

  Mr. Delacroix nodded. “Yes. Though I’d have to research the matter in greater detail.”

  “And if you were still acting as district attorney, would you have gone after a person who was selling medicinal cacao at a store in Manhattan?”

  “I … Such a person might have aroused my interest, yes, but if they had a good lawyer who made sure everything was in order, and all the prescriptions were legitimate, I doubt we would have bothered with them. Anya, you’re looking terrifyingly bright-eyed at the moment. Don’t tell me you know such a hypothetical proprietor.”

  “Mr. Delacroix…”

  Win and his mother got home. “Aren’t you two looking chummy,” Mrs. Delacroix said.

  Win kissed me. “Were we supposed to meet? I thought you’d still be at the GEDs.”

  “I was at the market, and I thought I’d stop by to see if you were home.” I was still carrying my roses and the bag with the chili peppers and cacao nibs. I told him how my friend from Mexico had sent me a recipe that I’d been planning to try. Win’s mother wanted to know what it was. While it was one thing to pose hypothetical legal questions to Win’s father, it was another thing to admit to recreational cacao consumption in front of him. “An ancient family health drink from Chiapas,” I said.

  Charles Delacroix raised an eyebrow. I wasn’t fooling him.

  “It’s almost dark,” Win said. “I’ll walk you the rest of the way uptown.”

  “Goodbye, Anya,” Charles Delacroix said.

  Once we were outdoors, Win took my bag in one hand and I linked my arm through his.

  “What were you and my father talking about?” Win asked.

  I had stopped by Win’s house with the full intention of telling him my idea, but now that he was standing next to me, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t want to see his eyebrows furrow and his lips purse if he thought it was pure folly. I’d only been thinking of this for the last hour or so, but in that brief span, I’d already grown incredibly attached to the concept. It felt big to me, the kind of idea that might just change my life. I felt, for the first time in a very long time, hopeful.