The words were a mumble, barely audible, but there. Fernanda released my sweaty grip. She unfolded her legs to adopt a squatting position. Both her arms extended to the ceiling as if she held onto a branch, readying her body for birth in the wild. Her chanting increased in volume as she stared at nothing, her wide eyes reflecting the flames. In the darkness, it appeared as if the fire was inside her skull. The rest of the circle watched in fear as a husky breathless voice filled the room, sounding less and less like Fernanda’s.
“Stop it, Fernanda! That isn’t funny!” shouted Pauline, trying to avoid looking between Fernanda’s legs as her skirt hitched up to reveal bloodstained panties. Our cycles were always in sync, and it wasn’t time. Cramps that usually signalled the beginning of my period caused me to wince in pain and clutch my belly. I looked around to see if this was just me. I couldn’t tell through the expressions of terror on their faces.
Perla crept over to Fernanda and gave her a gentle shove, trying to topple her over. I hoped Fernanda would burst into laughter, that the joke was on us. But she was not the joking type. Fernanda’s feet remained firmly planted on the ground, arms still spread to the atmosphere, blood dripping from between her legs like rainwater falling from a leaf.
Ana recoiled to the far side of my room against the window with the Jesus-printed candle. “My mother said no one can hear you when the devil is near. Is she possessed? We shouldn’t have done this!”
Fernanda dropped to her hands and knees. The sound of the slap against the tiles made us all jump. She moaned, grunted, and hissed. Then silence, and she raised her head to look at us. The expression on her face through parted hair was ecstasy and pain. Her lips became thinner, her teeth larger, as she opened her mouth like a bottomless, black cenote. She spoke again, only louder this time so we could hear.
“Naqui.Naqui.Naqui. Niyoli.Niyoli.Niyoli.” Her eyeballs shook with sporadic tremors, her pupils those of someone rolling on ecstasy. I was closest to her and probably the only one to notice that they were changing in shape and color. Suddenly the air-conditioning was too cold on my skin. There was no way I could be seeing what I was seeing.
Pauline’s voice cracked in panic as she stammered. “Is she speaking Latin . . . or, or Aramaic? Like, you know, in the movies. The language of Jesus.”
“It’s not fucking Aramaic,” I snapped as I shot her a mean, uncalled-for look. I moved closer to Fernanda to get a better understanding of what she was saying. She would never hurt me. It was another language, and it was old, yet still spoken. It was Nahuatl. I knew because I had seen a documentary about the indigenous people of Mexico in AP History. When I could afford classes at the community college, I wanted to study history, my history. As much pride as I took in my mestiza roots, I knew very little of it. Another source of anger for me, as if I needed more.
“Make her stop, Lourdes!” cried Perla, curling her arms tightly around Pauline and Ana. They were huddled together looking at me for answers. I was never top of the class or best dressed, but I always knew how to take control.
Fernanda crawled toward us like a creature without a face, her hair now fallen over the top half of her body which moved in a contorted, disjointed manner. Umbilical cord-length, black streaks ran down her legs, dripping onto the tiles of my bedroom floor. Ana, Perla, and Pauline were crying and screaming, clutching the candle with La Virgen like it would save them.
I ran to the door and flipped on the light switch. The candles extinguished on their own, and Fernanda collapsed. Her body looked like a discarded, crumpled piece of clothing. Ana screamed at the sight of blood smeared across the floor and across our friend’s face. The air had the faint scent of sea mist and extinguished flames.
“Is she dead? Oh my God! Lourdes! Do something!”
Perla and Pauline looked around the room in desperation, their bodies trembling, not knowing what to do. I knew none of us wanted to tell our parents there was trouble because we had stolen beer and booze from all our homes. Most of our parents wouldn’t care, but Fernanda’s mother would have a fit of apocalypse-telenovela dramatics, probably banning us from seeing her daughter until she left for college. I bent down to place my head against her chest and a hand over her nose. The rhythm of breathing and beating seemed normal.
“She’s just out cold.” A slight sense of relief eased the tension on their faces. Ana helped me lay Fernanda in a comfortable position on the floor with a pillow beneath her head.
“What do we do now, Lourdes?” Ana whimpered.
We all looked down at our friend. The last thing I needed was questions and wailing. I got enough of that with my little sisters.
“I want you all to go home. Let me stay. If nothing changes by sunrise, I’ll call an ambulance.”
“What? Why? We can’t leave you alone,” said Pauline.
“Why not? There’s nothing you can do. If something is wrong, better one of us in trouble than all of us.”
“I don’t like it.” Perla shook her head, fighting back tears.
“No offense, Perla, but this is why. Don’t go crying. It will be fine.”
Pauline pulled her lips into a tight knot and bent down to touch Fernanda’s forehead with a shaky palm. She moved to Fernanda’s chest, watching her hand rise and fall.
“She is right. We all know Fernanda. She might be embarrassed
