her gaze falls to the fruit. Her smile disappears.
I study her reaction. There’s no doubt—something strange is going on. Quickly, she hands us the heavy bags and bids us farewell, avoiding eye contact. Her parting words are
“Tengan cuidado.”
On the way home, Wendell and I are dripping with sweat and weighed down with bags of food. The odors of raw chicken and fish mix in the heat. Ahead of us, farther uphill on the dirt road, an old barefoot woman is shuffling along at a slug’s pace.
Now that we’re alone, Wendell asks, “Okay, Z, what the hell’s going on in this town? Why does the mention of Punta Cometa set people on edge? And what’s the deal with everyone warning us to be careful?”
I hesitate, adjusting the bags in my hands. I have the same questions, naturally. I just don’t want to think about them. I want our new home to be as perfect as it looks on the surface.
“Who knows,” I reply with a shrug. Thankfully, I don’t have to say anything else because we’ve nearly overtaken the old woman, who clearly needs assistance.
She’s hunched over, nearly buried under the heap of woven hammocks on her shoulders. Her mouth is open and she’s gasping for breath, her face damp with exertion. Up close, I realize she was one of the vendors zigzagging the beach.
“Señora,”
Wendell says, “let me help you.”
Before she can refuse, he’s moved the hammocks onto his own broad shoulders.
I take the grocery bags from him and offer the woman my water bottle.
She sips, pouring the water delicately into her shriveled mouth without touching the rim. “Thank you,
muchachos
,” she says, rubbing her shoulders. After she catches her breath, she eyes us carefully. “You live up there on the hill, don’t you?”
I nod. At least she already knows. I don’t have to break the news that would surely freak her out too. “My mom’s the new manager of Cabañas Magia del Mar.”
The old lady frowns. “Good luck to you, then. And be careful.”
This last warning has pushed me over the edge. “Why?” I nearly explode. “Why do people keep saying that?”
She states, as if it’s a well-known fact, “
Pues
, that place is cursed.”
“Cursed?” I refrain from laughing. “Cursed?”
This
is the cause of all the warnings? Some local superstition? I look at Wendell, barely suppressing my relief.
He’s watching her intently, waiting for more. Is he taking her seriously?
She clucks. “No manager lasts there more than a few months.”
I stare at her, absorbing this new information. A few months? “Well,” I say, almost defensively, “they probably didn’t have a good business plan.” I start spinning explanations, as much for myself and Wendell as for the woman. “We know what we’re doing. We’re working hard, being innovative, and we’ve got this amazing website.…”
She shakes her head as I babble on.
Wendell, breathless now under the weight of the hammocks, interrupts. “Why exactly do you think it’s cursed,
señora
?”
“How long have you been there,
muchachos
?”
“Two weeks.”
“And nothing strange has happened?”
I think of the creepy noise, the poaching, the threatening signs. But I shake my head.
She shrugs. “You’ll find out soon enough,” she says. “Soon enough.”
I glance at Wendell, but I can’t read his expression.
“Here’s my turnoff.” She makes the sign of the cross over each of us, murmuring prayers. “May God bless you. Be careful,
muchachos
, be careful.”
Wendell places the bundle of hammocks gently on her shoulders. We watch her go, and then I turn to Wendell. “She’s a wee bit superstitious, huh?” I give him a sidelong look. “What do you think?”
He says nothing, staring straight ahead with an oddexpression. His eyebrows are deeply furrowed, his eyes unfocused. He’s lost in his thoughts, in a memory of something.
I know this look. He’s connecting this old woman’s words with a vision he’s had. I bite the inside of
I study her reaction. There’s no doubt—something strange is going on. Quickly, she hands us the heavy bags and bids us farewell, avoiding eye contact. Her parting words are
“Tengan cuidado.”
On the way home, Wendell and I are dripping with sweat and weighed down with bags of food. The odors of raw chicken and fish mix in the heat. Ahead of us, farther uphill on the dirt road, an old barefoot woman is shuffling along at a slug’s pace.
Now that we’re alone, Wendell asks, “Okay, Z, what the hell’s going on in this town? Why does the mention of Punta Cometa set people on edge? And what’s the deal with everyone warning us to be careful?”
I hesitate, adjusting the bags in my hands. I have the same questions, naturally. I just don’t want to think about them. I want our new home to be as perfect as it looks on the surface.
“Who knows,” I reply with a shrug. Thankfully, I don’t have to say anything else because we’ve nearly overtaken the old woman, who clearly needs assistance.
She’s hunched over, nearly buried under the heap of woven hammocks on her shoulders. Her mouth is open and she’s gasping for breath, her face damp with exertion. Up close, I realize she was one of the vendors zigzagging the beach.
“Señora,”
Wendell says, “let me help you.”
Before she can refuse, he’s moved the hammocks onto his own broad shoulders.
I take the grocery bags from him and offer the woman my water bottle.
She sips, pouring the water delicately into her shriveled mouth without touching the rim. “Thank you,
muchachos
,” she says, rubbing her shoulders. After she catches her breath, she eyes us carefully. “You live up there on the hill, don’t you?”
I nod. At least she already knows. I don’t have to break the news that would surely freak her out too. “My mom’s the new manager of Cabañas Magia del Mar.”
The old lady frowns. “Good luck to you, then. And be careful.”
This last warning has pushed me over the edge. “Why?” I nearly explode. “Why do people keep saying that?”
She states, as if it’s a well-known fact, “
Pues
, that place is cursed.”
“Cursed?” I refrain from laughing. “Cursed?”
This
is the cause of all the warnings? Some local superstition? I look at Wendell, barely suppressing my relief.
He’s watching her intently, waiting for more. Is he taking her seriously?
She clucks. “No manager lasts there more than a few months.”
I stare at her, absorbing this new information. A few months? “Well,” I say, almost defensively, “they probably didn’t have a good business plan.” I start spinning explanations, as much for myself and Wendell as for the woman. “We know what we’re doing. We’re working hard, being innovative, and we’ve got this amazing website.…”
She shakes her head as I babble on.
Wendell, breathless now under the weight of the hammocks, interrupts. “Why exactly do you think it’s cursed,
señora
?”
“How long have you been there,
muchachos
?”
“Two weeks.”
“And nothing strange has happened?”
I think of the creepy noise, the poaching, the threatening signs. But I shake my head.
She shrugs. “You’ll find out soon enough,” she says. “Soon enough.”
I glance at Wendell, but I can’t read his expression.
“Here’s my turnoff.” She makes the sign of the cross over each of us, murmuring prayers. “May God bless you. Be careful,
muchachos
, be careful.”
Wendell places the bundle of hammocks gently on her shoulders. We watch her go, and then I turn to Wendell. “She’s a wee bit superstitious, huh?” I give him a sidelong look. “What do you think?”
He says nothing, staring straight ahead with an oddexpression. His eyebrows are deeply furrowed, his eyes unfocused. He’s lost in his thoughts, in a memory of something.
I know this look. He’s connecting this old woman’s words with a vision he’s had. I bite the inside of
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