sweet? No way.
Frank stood behind me, so tall he could rest his chin on top of my head. “What’s going on?”
Mr. Candy Corn shifted his attention to Frank. “No trouble, my friend.”
“I’m not your friend, and who said anything about trouble? Aren’t you a bit old for trick or treating?”
Mr. Candy Corn threw back his head, shaking in soundless laughter.
“Let’s go.” Frank took my arm.
“Whoa, I can handle this.” I moved out of Frank’s shadow.
Protective Frank had arrived a few years ago as a package deal with his growth spurt and deepening voice. The knight-in-shining-armor routine irritated me, but I kinda liked it, complicating my already complicated feelings for Frank. “Nice costume and everything, Mr. Candy Corn, but we need to get go—”
“Wait, wait. Call me Mr. C.” He took a business card from his pocket and shoved it at me. “Here, take my card. I’m looking for this broad named Hope. One of her neighbors thought I’d find her here, and you match Hope’s description, sort of.”
“Hope?” Frank said. “Your sister’s name in English?”
I elbowed Frank in the ribs.
He clamped his lips together.
Mr. C must have spoken to our neighborhood chatterbox, Mrs. McGlinty. She called both Esperanza and me Hope and talked to anything and anybody, strangers, flowers, mailboxes, brooms. Luckily, she sometimes forgot which house we lived in, so maybe Mr. C didn’t know, either.
“Sister, eh?” Mr. C flicked his business card in my direction.
I caught it in my fist and nodded at Frank. “Ignore him. He likes to babble nonsense.” The card weighed heavy in my hand and glinted with golden specks. Alux Corn was engraved across it and nothing else, no phone number, e-mail, Web site, or address.
“What do you want with this Hope?” I asked.
“A business proposition.” Mr. C snatched the card from me and crammed it into his coat, pulling up his sleeve in the process. His wrists glowed as orange as his face.
“Um, I don’t know any Hope.” I turned to Frank. “Shall we?”
“What about Manuela?” Mr. C asked.
“Abuela? How do you know my grandmother?” Stunned, I spoke without thinking and wanted to yank back my words when Mr. C smiled, showing off kernel-corn teeth.
Frank squeezed my hand. He knew I didn’t want to talk about Abuela on this day of all days, the tenth anniversary of the Earthquake, and particularly, to this creep.
“Sure, the grandmother, figures,” Mr. C said. “There’s a dame I wouldn’t mind meeting. She’s as famous as Hope. Where can I find her?”
“No idea.” I willed myself to stay calm. “Come on, Frank. We’re outta here.”
Mr. C grabbed my arm. “One way or another, I’ll track down Hope and your grandmother.”
I tried to pull away, but Mr. C’s grip tightened.
“Listen, I don’t know a Hope, and my grandmother is dead.” I pressed my lips together, keeping a sob from leaking out.
“Back off, buddy.” Frank pushed Mr. C.
He didn’t budge, instead drawing me closer and studying my eyes. He nodded and released me. “You’re being square.”
I laughed at his cheesy gangster talk, but my laughter ended in a sniff along with a few tears. I swiped at them with the sleeve of my jacket. “If you don’t believe me, you can visit Abuela at Santo Domingo Cemetery on Cherry Hill.”
“Enough with the weeping already.” Mr. C bowed, his cap slipping and a shock of wiry hair springing out. “I’ll let you go this time, but I mean to find Hope.”
He weaved around students milling across campus. Despite his size, he moved like a ballerina, twirling along the sidewalk to miss a bicyclist and jumping onto a skateboard that had lost its passenger. He rolled out of sight, disappearing behind a throng of early trick-or-treaters. Witch hats and devil horns hid him from view.
Chapter 2
Knit Witch
“What’s his story?” Frank asked.
“Who knows?” I shrugged, trying to keep from crying. “It looks like my blubbering scared him away.”
“Think we should call the police?”
“And tell them what? Mr. C didn’t actually do anything. He sure gave me the creeps, though, and he knows where Esperanza and I live. To be on the safe side, I’m taking a round-about way home.”
“Okay, but I’m coming with you.”
“Sounds good.” Macho Frank was more than welcome after our encounter with Mr. C.
We turned right and left, zigzagging across campus and cutting through several alleys and lawns. I searched behind me until my neck grew sore. No sign of Mr. C.
“Did I tell you about the essay I’m writing?” Frank asked. “It’s called, The Poetry of Lester Ruben and His Influence on Heavy Metal.”
Frank chattered about his favorite subject, the combination of different musical genres, like swing with hard rock.
I appreciated his effort to distract me, but Mr. C had wedged himself inside my brain. What was the deal with the orange skin and hair?
Even worse, Esperanza might actually know him. Secrets had dominated my childhood. Whispered conversations between Abuela and Esperanza, and visitors whisked into the study, door locked behind them.
“An order from a customer, mi hija,” Abuela always said. “Nothing to worry about.” The fact she told me not to worry made me worry until it snowballed into a state of constant anticipation, forever waiting for another Earthquake.
Frank now recited the lyrics to his favorite Ruben song. “‘The beach was hot. The water cool.’ Poetry, right?”
“Not exactly my idea of a poem.” I craned my neck, ready for Mr. C to make a sudden appearance. My hair blew into a frenzy, blinding me, and I tamed it with a rubber band.
“When did you become a music critic?” Frank launched into another song and tap-danced up the hill to my house.
I jogged after him. “I’ve never understood your attraction to Lester Ruben, a one-hit wonder from the 1960s.”
“1950s, to be exact.” Frank rested his hand on my shoulder. “Old Lester sure knew how to attract the ladies.”
A talent Frank didn’t possess; although, I’d overheard
