Page 147 of Face Off With Fate

It didn’t.

My backyard looked like a party store had detonated, scattering shit everywhere. Pink and gold streamers hung from every surface Graciella could reach, which, given that she’d recruited Thatcher to get up on the ladder, was every surface.

There were balloon arches. Plural. Tables draped in glittery tablecloths that caught the afternoon sun and threw light across the grass. And a banner that read Goldie’s Royal Court in hand-painted letters, which were slightly uneven on the right side because Graciella had run out of space.

I’d woken up at two-fifteen to an empty bed and found her cross-legged on the kitchen floor with a paintbrush between her teeth, squinting at the craft paper.

It wasn’t Goldie’s birthday.

It wasn’t anybody’s birthday.

But apparently, Graciella had made a promise back in June, so now twenty-something people were in my backyard, and the scent of carnitas had been hanging in the air since seven, wafting over from where Ricky was tending them at the far end of the yard.

My daughter’s hand was wrapped around the wrist of one of Graciella’s younger cousins, dragging her toward the playhouse. Goldie’s pink tulle dress bounced as she ran, tiara tilted so far to one side it was a miracle it hadn’t hit the grass.

Graciella’s mom had made the dress. Two of them, in fact—one sized for a five-year-old and one sized for the woman currently crouched near a table, fixing the skirt on the tablecloth with one hand and gesturing at Itzel with the other.

I’d been watching her all morning. I couldn’t stop.

She stood, finding my gaze and coming toward me with a plate of food. “You’re staring again.”

I took the plate.

It held four piles of carnitas stacked on tortillas, peppered with cilantro and onions, and topped with a hearty drizzle of a deep red salsa bordering on brown. “You deserve to be stared at.”

“Are you only saying that because I’m feeding you?”

I gave her a sidelong look. “I’m happy to feed you something.”

She whacked my arm, smirking as she took a swig of her Jarrito.

“Your mom’s in there learning how to make salsa de tomatillo from scratch, by the way.” She nodded toward the French doors that stood open. “My mom gave her an apron and a job. I don’t think she’s left the kitchen since she got here.”

I huffed a laugh. Graciella’s family had a way of absorbing people. My mom had shown up forty minutes ago and was already embedded.

“Where’s Ricky?” I asked, seeing he’d left the food behind.

Graciella nodded toward the far side of the yard, where her cousin was crouched near the fence with three of the smaller kids. A lot of pointing. A lot of serious nodding.

“No idea what they’re doing,” she said. “But they’ve been over there for fifteen minutes, so I’m choosing not to investigate.”

“Where do you want this?” Thatcher called out, appearing from the direction of the garage, hauling a castle piñata by a rope. The thing was enormous.

Graciella turned. “Normally we do it from the roof⁠—”

“Absolutely not,” I said.

She stuck her tongue out. “I guess the tree works.” She walked over, directing him toward the big oak at the back corner of the yard.

Goldie spotted it from across the yard before Thatcher had even finished tying it off. She ran, pink dress flying, tiara tipping more with every step.

Graciella crouched down in the grass, catching her by the waist, and twirling her around in a mess of matching pink tulle.

She whispered something in Goldie’s ear, and she stilled, nodding with a stern expression on her little face, which I was just noticing had guacamole caked in the corners of her mouth.

Graciella handed her the stick, swiping at the green stuff once the bandana was tied around Goldie’s eyes. It was like we shared a brain.

The kids lined up, many of them dancing on the tips of their toes as if about to run a race. Thatcher took up his position on the rope. The whole yard hummed with energy.