Free The Jade Notebook by Laura Resau Page B

footpath through the jungle. We hardly ever see her. Once in a while she stands on the cliffs of Punta Cometa. Just stands there like a statue.” He motions with his chin. “Sometimes I see her in town getting food for the jaguar.”
    I glance at Wendell.
    “Like twenty pounds of raw guts?” Wendell asks, making a face.
    The boy barks a laugh, short and uncomfortable. “You’ve seen her, then.”
    I nod. “What do you think of her?”
    He takes off his glasses again, rubbing them on his swim trunks. “Everyone’s afraid of her,” he says with a shrug. “When I was little, an older neighbor lady would watch me. She’d warn me that if I was bad, she’d let that
señora
feed me to her jaguar.” He shakes his head, barks another nervous laugh. “Now she tells my sisters the same thing,” he says, motioning across the court toward the girls who invited us to join.
    I lean in, look directly into his eyes. “
Oye
, how come no one wants to talk about her? All they say is that the place is cursed.”
    “¿La verdad?”
The truth? He flicks his eyes around.“Adults are afraid of her too. They say she’s a
bruja
—a witch. That if you make her angry, she’ll put a curse on you. So people don’t talk about her—at least, not to strangers.” He lowers his voice. “But they say bad things have happened up there at Punta Cometa.”
    “Like what?” I ask, unsure whether I want to know.
    “Accidents. Tragedies. Deaths.”
    I swallow, staring at the purple clouds smeared against the dusky sky. “Any truth to the rumors?”
    “¿Quién sabe?”
he answers. Who knows. “But I guess it’s enough to scare off managers. There’s a high turnover rate.”
    “So we’ve heard,” I say, deflated. I take the last sip of the
agua de jamáica
. “Hey, thanks for filling us in.”
    Wendell nods. “We’ve been waiting for the straight story.”
    I stick out my hand. “I’m Zeeta. And this is Wendell.”
    “Mucho gusto,”
the boy says with a sandy handshake. “I’m José Luís.”
    “José?” I raise an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Your last name is Cruz?”
    He nods, grinning. “That’s my second last name. My first last name is Salazar. But my friends call me Sapo.”
    Sapo
. Toad. He does look a little like a toad, stout and wide, in a friendly way.
    Overhearing our conversation, one of his sisters pipes in. “Our cousin is José Miguel Cruz Diaz,” she says, pointing to a teenage boy diving into the waves.
    “And another cousin is José Alfonso Cruz Cruz.”
    Wendell gives me a meaningful look. “Did one of theolder José Cruzes—a man in his thirties or forties—go away for a long time and come back last fall?”
    I hold my breath, waiting for El Sapo’s response.
    He rubs his chin. “
Pues
, we have some uncles who come and go. My mom would know. You looking for someone?”
    “Sí,”
I say, trying not to sound too desperate.
    The older sister points to Restaurante Tesoro Escondido. A waitress in flip-flops walks beneath the palapa, going from table to table, lighting candles. “Our family owns that place. You could ask for our mother, Cristina.”
    “Gracias,”
I say, careful not to show too much enthusiasm.
    One of Layla’s favorite Rumi quotes involves a glass case around every human’s heart. Suddenly, I’m aware of this thin, delicate globe in my own chest, something that could easily shatter. Every step closer to finding my father rattles the glass. Every step makes me want to cup my hands protectively around the fragile case.
    After Wendell and I say goodbye, promising to come play again, we head back across the beach. He takes my hand, kisses it. “Sounds like a good lead, Z.”
    “Remember,” I counter, “there are twenty zillion José Cruzes around here. It’ll be a wild-goose chase.”
    “That’s what we’re best at, Z.” His mouth turns up into a half-smile, and we look at each other for a while, unsaid things passing between us.
    There’s the knowledge that two years