As much as I love the old army jacket I always wear—given to me by the wardrobe stylist on a hit movie Jennika worked on a few years ago—it’s no match for a New Mexico winter. I need something heavier, thicker, something that might actually defend against the harsh wintry chill.
I stare at my meager belongings, consisting of jeans, tank tops, slouchy boots, and not much else. The warmest thing I own being the black V-neck sweater I picked up in a duty-free store in the Charles de Gaulle Airport on my way to Morocco, so I’d have something cozy to wear on the plane.
If nothing else, living life out of a suitcase has taught me to keep my belongings pared to a minimum. Books, clothes, shoes, jewelry—anything that no longer serves me is either given away or left behind. And since my last stop was LA, I’m a little deficient when it comes to winter wear.
I drum my fingers against my hip, screw my mouth to the side, and stare as though I’m expecting something new to appear. Wondering if I could maybe borrow something from Paloma until I can get to a decent clothing store, though doubting she has anything that would work. No matter how low the temperature dips, I’ve yet to see her wear anything heavier than a cotton housedress and cardigan.
I shift my gaze higher and scrutinize the still unexplored brown cardboard box on the closet’s top shelf. While I’ve lived in this room for the past several months, I still have a hard time thinking of it as mine. I guess I’m not used to claiming a space, any space.
Ever since I was a kid, all of my homes have been temporary at best. And despite Paloma giving me free rein to do whatever it takes to make it my own, the only signs of my existence are the few items of clothing occupying the closet, the small stash of socks and underwear in the tall chest of drawers, and the laptop I’ve set up on the old wooden desk—all of which can easily fit into a duffle bag when it’s time to move on.
This room is still very much Django’s, and that’s how I like it. Makes me feel close to my father in a way I’ve never experienced until now.
There’s a picture of him in a pretty silver frame that sits on the dresser—taken when he was sixteen, same age as me. And his initials are carved into the desk in the space next to my computer—the jagged D
.S. half the size of my hand. Even the dream catcher that hangs above the windowsill belongs to him, so I guess I always assumed the contents in the box on the top shelf belonged to him too. And up until now, I didn’t feel I had the right to go snooping.
Although my five-foot-six-inch frame isn’t exactly what I’d call short, the shelf is still just a little too high for me to grab hold of the box without risking it crashing onto my head. I consider dragging the elaborately painted trunk that holds my Seeker tools over to the closet so I can climb on top and retrieve the box, but then I think better.
Deciding to use some of the magick I’ve been practicing, the telekinesis I’ve been working to hone, I focus hard on the box. Employing Paloma’s advice to think from the end, claiming it’s magick’s second most important ingredient, coming just after intent.
“The universe will work out the details,” she’d said. “The most important thing you can do is to state your intention, then envision the result as though it’s already done.”
So instead of imaging the box lifting from the shelf and drifting lightly to the floor as I used to, I imagine it already secured at my feet. Only to watch as it launches itself from the shelf and crashes hard to the ground. Guess I still have a few telekinetic kinks to work out.
I glance toward the door, hoping Paloma didn’t hear the commotion and won’t choose to investigate. Then I drop beside the old box and open the flaps. Instantly overcome by a whiff of dust, must, and a deeper earthier aroma of spice, mesquite, and a few other unnamed scents I’ve come to associate with this place.
I riffle through the contents. Skimming past an old hand-knit sweater I reject at first sight, an old flannel shirt worn nearly to death, a pile of yellowing T-shirts that used to be white … until I come across a black down jacket that might be a bit on the big side but will definitely serve the purpose I need.
About to close the box back up and return it to its place, I notice a pile of papers lining the bottom and decide to go through those too. Finding an old report card of Django’s, with A’s in Spanish and PE, a B+ in English, and C’s in both history and science, I rock back on my heels and smooth my fingers across the crinkled page. Shuttering my eyes as I try to picture how he was back then—a good-looking guy with a nose like mine—an average student headed for a-not-so average destiny he just couldn’t face.
I set the report card aside and dig a little deeper. Feeling oddly guilty for prying but equally eager for anything I can get, I read everything. More report cards, class schedules, a folded-up note from a girl named Maria, who was obviously into him if the string of small hearts lining the edges are anything to go by. Eventually coming to the note he left for Paloma the day he ran away, having no idea his journey would be both tragic and short. That not long after arriving in California, he’d fall hard for my mom and impregnate her, only to end up decapitated on a busy LA freeway well before she could break the news.
I take a deep breath, unable to keep my hands from shaking when I read:
Mama,
By the time you read this, I will be well on my way, and though you’ll be tempted to come after me, I’m begging you to please let me be.
I’m sorry for any disappointment and pain that I’ve caused. It was never my intention to hurt you. I am lucky to have such a kind, loving, and supportive mother, and I hope you’ll understand that my leaving has nothing to do with you as a person.
This place is closing in on me. I can’t take it anymore. I need to get far away—go to a place where nobody knows me.
Where the visions can’t find me.
You speak of destiny and fate—but I believe in free will. The destiny I choose is one that happens in a place far from here.
I’ll be in touch when I settle.
Love,
Your Django
I read the note again.
And then again.
And after reading it so many times I’ve lost count, I fold it up neatly, slip it back toward the bottom, and return the box to its place.