The wind whipped her black hair, beating it over and over again. The stars lit the night sky and the ice traced the edge of the trees. Winter in Mexico was not forgiving, and the dress that barely skimmed Anita’s knee didn’t do much to shield her from the cold.
Her hands wrapped around her three-year brother while he nuzzled in her chest. His fingers gripped her frail fingers and held on.
“Is papa going to be ok?”
Anita’s eyes looked into those of her brothers- the pain was evident in his tears, and the boy failed to look strong.
“Yes, baby. Papa will be with you always.” She whispered in his ear. He came even closer, and his fingers constricted the blood flow in Anita’s finger.
She folded her knees into criss-cross apple cross and baby Marco laid his head on the hem of her skirt. Her eyes closed as the lyrics of Estrellita escaped her lips, floating towards the stars in the sparkling night sky.
She wished she could be confident in her answer. Is papa going to be ok? No. She didn’t know.
All she knew was that mama had led them to the edge of the cornfield and told them to silencio. Mama harbored the “Watch out or I will spank you” expression held in her frown–lines, so the siblings made sure not to utter a word.
She knew it was the white powder that got papa in trouble. Whenever he got more powder, the men with the tattoos came in, the men who mama said to stay away from because they were trouble.
She glanced down at Marco’s cocoon. She fiddled with the tree branch above his head. Leaves rustled as she tried to enshroud Marco under the hounds of branches.
His eyes fluttered open at the blatant sound of the crunching. He lifted his maraca-like head from Anita’s yellow, cotton skirt and sat in her lap.
“Cuéntame un cuento hermana.” Tell me a story, sister. “Por favor?” Please?
She held Marco closer, her arms morphing into a rubber band as she held him tighter and tighter.
“One day there were two kids- a little girl and a pequito boy. They had a mama and papa. Their papa took them fishing every weekend and while their mama baked them churros so when they came back the whole family would sit at the patio and tell stories. Their papa loved them very much, very, very much. He would always buy the nina new dolls and the little boy new bright red airplanes.” Anita glanced down at Marco and saw him fall into the land of dreams. “One day the little girl and the boy were helping their mama sprinkle the cinnamon on the churros. Papa came down the stairs and threw the blue vase at mama. He yelled at mama in Spanish. She put her hand on his arm and talked to him. He slapped her across the face. The little girl got mad. She got really mad.” Anita laid her back on the tree, letting the skin by her shoulder bleed from the clawing of the tree barks. She held Marco’s head in her hand and focused her eyes on the stars above her head. “She clenched her fists and slammed her hand into her papa, and he flew through the wall and landed on his back. The little girl walked to him and grabbed the baggy with the white powder. She grew taller, until she hit the ceiling. Her arms got bigger, and bulks of muscle began to grow on her biceps. She looked at the midget that stood at her feet, and shut the door. She wasn’t the little girl anymore, she was a big girl. She was colossus.”
Anita swiped away the tears dripping down her cheeks. She took of her jacket and placed it over Marco. Her head landed on top of Marco’s as she lulled to sleep.
Except this time when her eyes closed she wasn’t a little girl.
She was a star.