Free Tarnished and Torn by Juliet Blackwell Page A

the stone of Xolotl.” In Nahuatl the “x” is pronounced “sh,” making Xolotl sound like Sholotal. “Xolotl was the god of fire, disease, and, like, all kinds of bad luck.”
    Shawnelle snorted as she paraded around the store in the ball gown, loath to take it off. “There’s a
god
for bad luck?”
    Janelle said, “Hey, want to switch dresses?”
    “Sure,” said Shawnelle, and they headed back to the dressing room.
    “There was a god for just about everything back then,” said Marisela in a voice loud enough to carry past the curtains. “It’s, like, a Mexican thing. Xolotl is usually depicted with a doglike face, and he could transform himself into an axolotl.”
    “Okay, I’ll bite,” said Shawnelle, her voice muffled. “What’s an axolotl?”
    “I was hoping you’d ask! It’s a kind of salamander that lives near Mexico City, which was built in the valley where the Aztecs lived. The salamander’s face looks a little like a dog. They’re endangered now, so there was a whole public-service campaign to save them. They’re really cute.”
    “Awesome,” said Shawnelle as she emerged from the dressing room clad in the pink tulle. Janelle was now wearing the cerise gown, and both girls rocked back and forth to make their skirts sway like bells as they admired themselves in the mirror. “You guys have some pretty wild stories.”
    “Right?” said Metzli, now wearing an aqua off-the-shoulder gown, complete with crinoline skirts. It was pretty, but far too grown up for her. Rosa held her daughter’s gaze, raised her eyebrows, and shook her head. Metzli made a grimace of disappointment, but ducked back into the dressing room to try on another gown.
    “
Abuelita
says that when the Spanish invaded, the Aztec priests and
curanderas
conspired to hide the ring containing the
Ojo del Fuego
. It was handed down through the generations. Opals are partly water, so they can carry part of the human spirit, or whatever.”
    “You said something like that at the fair, right?” Shawnelle asked me.
    I nodded. “I heard the stories from my
abuelita
.”
    “I was wondering . . .” Maya interjected. “I collect stories from local elders. Would you ask your grandmother if she’d be willing to tell me stories and let me record them?”
    Marisela spoke with her
abuelita
in Spanish, who nodded, and they made arrangements to get together on Thursday.
    Lucille arrived, sewing basket and notepad in hand. After more hemming and hawing and prolonged debate over each gown’s relative merits, the girls decided on their dresses. Rosa and her mother also chose their gowns; Rosa selected the sapphire gown I had suggested, and Carmen opted for a loose, classic red-and-gold shift. Lucille would hem both pieces, and take in Rosa’s dress a little at the waist. The girls’ selections would need additional alterations: a few nips and tucks here and there to make them fit just right, and, in Metzli’s case, a panel inserted to expand the bodice.
    “The
quinceañera
is a week from Saturday,” Rosa said, as I helped Lucille mark the alterations on Metzli’s dress.
    “
Next
Saturday?”
    Lucille, her mouth full of pins, looked at me with wide eyes.
    “Um . . . I don’t know if all these alterations can be made that soon—” I began.
    Metzli spun around, eyes filling with tears. “I knew it was too late! I
knew
it!”
    Putting together an elaborate
quinceañera
had much in common with planning a wedding—including the capacity to send normally reasonable people completely around the bend.
    “Don’t panic, Metzli,” said Rosa.
    “But, Mom! This is the only dress I
like
. I’ve tried on so many!”
    “It looks
great
on you,” said Marisela in a placating, big-sister tone of voice. “Everything’ll be fine. You’ll see.”
    By this time Lucille had taken the pins from her mouth. A mother herself, she understood the dynamic.
    “No worries, birthday girl,” she said soothingly. “Let me make sure I have all