LITMIR.BIZ

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intended. Sometimes, my resentment toward Esperanza, for her glamour and closeness to Abuela, slipped through before I could stop it. It wore me down being so ordinary next to Esperanza’s elegance.

      She smoothed her dress. “It’s a bit short.”

      “Come on, a joke,” I said. “Even the best comedians can fall flat.”

      “Ignore her, Esperanza. You look gorgeous,” Frank said.

      “I love the dress,” I added in a rush. “I don’t remember you knitting it.”

      “Oh, something I whipped together.” Esperanza tossed me a package of red licorice, my favorite, the bad joke forgiven.

      She’d only been angry with me once, when I threw out a plastic bag of hair. She rummaged through the garbage until she found it and told me never to touch her stuff again, something to do with knitting.

      “Speaking of jokes, we met this crazy guy dressed up like a giant candy corn today,” Frank said. “You know, orange skin, yellow scarf, white cap. He was looking for someone named Hope and asked about your grandmother.”

      Esperanza ducked her head and fiddled with the bowl of licorice.

      “It was far from funny. He actually got pretty pushy. Do you know him?” I’d planned to ask her about Mr. C when we were alone, hoping she might confide in me without Frank around.

      “Never heard of him.” Esperanza hurried toward the kitchen. “Now take off those wet jackets before you drip all over the floor, and I’ll make hot chocolate.”

      “I’ll start a fire,” I said to her back.

      Esperanza, heels clicking faster and faster, bumped into a basket overflowing with Halloween treats. Packets of candy corns spilled to the floor.

      I shivered. “That’s a coincidence I could have done without.”

      “Me too.” Frank scooped up the candy and swished them into the trash.

      Chapter 3

      Quake Stitch

      “What’s going on with Esperanza?” Frank asked. “She sure seemed in a hurry to get away.”

      “My sister is the queen of evasion. I mean, it’s obvious she knows more about Mr. C than she’s telling us.”

      Frank and I hung our coats on pegs in the hallway and headed to the living room. Shadows draped themselves across the furniture. I switched on a lamp as Frank flung his backpack next to the sofa.

      “How long do you think she’ll keep us in suspense?” Frank plopped in front of the fireplace and tossed his fedora across the room. It landed on top of the TV.

      “Maybe forever. She’s good at keeping secrets, but I’ll try to ease Mr. C into the conversation later tonight.”

      Frank placed several split logs and kindling, along with crumpled newspaper, in the fireplace. On the mantel sat a family of four miniature dolls, knitted by Abuela and dressed in the traditional costume of Pueblo Hunab, her Mexican birthplace. A knitted tapestry of the Tree of Life stretched its branches and gnarled roots across the wall. Abuela had called it the soul of Mayan mythology, where heaven and hell intersected.

      More knitted tapestries, all Esperanza’s and in every color imaginable, decorated the rest of the walls. One held a bird’s nest, feathers, and dragonfly wings, as if it were an opening to a mysterious land like Narnia or Middle-earth. Esperanza’s work hung in galleries from Albania to Zaire, but not a single gallery in Seattle carried her pieces. When asked why, she said, “My work is too folksy for Seattleites,” and changed the subject.

      Frank rummaged through the knitted dolls. “Matches?”

      I tossed him a box of matches sitting next to a pile of stationary on Esperanza’s writing desk and wandered to the window. Rain battered the streets. A little ghost, accompanied by two adults holding umbrellas, tottered down the sidewalk. He’d never make it to our house before his parents talked him into going home.

      Halloween in Seattle. What could you do? Nothing, just like you couldn’t control an earthquake.

      The memory of that night ten years ago came to me in streaky blurs. The earth yawned open. The second floor collapsed. Mamá and Papá disappeared. My world jumbled into a collage of broken house and shattered furniture with Esperanza, Abuela, and I wedged between ceiling and wall.

      “Esperanza and I knit a story about light and fresh air,” Abuela said. “First we add special yarn.” She plucked strands of our hair and wrapped it around yarn.

      I dozed to the music of needles clicking together as Esperanza and Abuela continued knitting afghans they’d managed to hold, as if by magic, throughout the quake. Firefighters discovered us two days later among the ruins and cut away the blankets forming skin-like cocoons around us. Abuela and Esperanza had knitted us to safety, weaving us into a story of survival.

      Their fingers, though, hadn’t reached Mamá and Papá.

      Of course, I asked tons of questions. Where had the yarn come from? Why hadn’t I felt thirsty or hungry? Esperanza and Abuela claimed I was delirious from a bump on my head. Over time, I let it drop. None of us wanted a reminder of losing Mamá and Papá.

      Now Abuela was gone too, a stroke taking her a year ago.

      The fire crackled, and Frank joined me at the window. Lamplight pooled around my socks, and rain rat-a-tatted on the roof.

      “Rain, rain, go away. Come again, another day,” Frank said.

      “You go from Lester Ruben to Mother Goose. I guess Shakespeare’s a stretch.”

      “Oh yeah? ‘Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire?’”

      “English 101, right? One of the sonnets?”

      “Sonnet 57, to be precise.”

      “I’m impressed.”

      “Never underestimate me.” His hand brushed mine, and a charge ran up my arm. “You know, you don’t need to be jealous of Esperanza. You’re as pretty as she is.” He stammered over the last few words.

      My cheeks grew hot. No guy had ever called me pretty.

      Frank put his arm around my waist.

      Surprising myself, I leaned against him. Frank understood my complicated feelings for Esperanza and Abuela, how they shut me out and acted like nothing mattered except knitting. Our friendship went back forever. Words were unnecessary.

      “What are you two doing over there?” Esperanza said from behind us.

      Frank and I disentangled and whirled.

      Esperanza, balancing a tray holding three steaming mugs, winked at me. She placed the drinks on the coffee table and handed Frank a mug. Eyes downcast, he sipped the drink, fire flickering behind him.

      Esperanza kicked off her heels and curled up on the sofa. She pulled a triangular shawl, knitted with blood-red yarn, out of a basket. Candy wrappers, tissue paper, and toothpicks poked out of her work. Rows of bobbles protruded from the material like scabs.

      “What gallery is that for? The pattern’s amazing.” I almost added disturbing but didn’t want to say anything negative after my bad joke earlier. I sat cross-legged on the floor and took my calculus homework from my backpack. I caught Frank’s eye. “Think you could help me with this?”

      “If you’ll proof my Ruben essay.”

      “It’s a deal.”

      He stretched out next to me, our awkward moment at the window forgotten.

      Esperanza rummaged through a paper bag and selected a handful of eggshells. She held them next to the shawl.

      “Well?” Frank asked. “Who’s taking it?

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