With difficulty, I tore my mind away from the details of her face. I’d only let myself dwell on it for a moment, because it had been so long since I’d seen it. Part of me still had trouble believing she was back—as if I’d fallen asleep for a moment and dreamt her. I allowed myself to go over the details of her face because I needed to deal with reality. I needed to deal with her. And I needed to come to terms with the fact that Lia had always been my weak spot, and apparently, even after her betrayal, that hadn’t changed.
CHAPTER ONE
Annalia – Eleven Years Old
Oh God, it was orange. Bright, brilliant orange. No, no, no. Oh no. I stared at my pumpkin-colored hair in the mirror, the look of stunned horror on my face adding to the effect and making me look twice as ridiculous. Mama was going to kill me. Or worse, she would also give me that look reminding me what a terrible burden I was. My shoulders drooped and I blinked back tears. I’d only wanted to color my hair blonde like Alicia Bardua’s. I pictured the straight, pale cornsilk of her hair and then looked back at the orange Brillo Pad that was now mine, a miserable groan coming up my throat.
A quick glance at the clock set my heart racing. Mama was going to be home soon, and I couldn’t let her see my hair, couldn’t bear to see the ugly look that she greeted me with when she walked in the door. I should be used to it, I guessed, but somehow I wasn’t. It always hurt so much. And I couldn’t take it today. I couldn’t take watching my mama kneel in front of the shrine to Our Lady of Guadalupe (La Virgen de Guadalupe—the patron saint of Mexico) and pray that the lady saint ask God to banish the devil from my mama’s life. Me. Not today.
The box where I stored my clothes sat next to my air mattress, and I rummaged through the cardboard container—which had once held Big Island Pineapple, Premium Quality—and pulled out a bandana. I tied it over my hair and tucked all the loose strands inside to the best of my ability before stepping outside into the bright sunshine.
Once I was out of sight of my small house, I meandered slowly, stopping to pick up a ladybug on a tall blade of grass and watching as she crawled along my knuckle for a minute before she flew away. I wove a flower stem into a ring, and kicked a rock in front of me, following its winding path for a bit.
I ended up at the tree-lined fence of the Sawyer property as I usually did and stood looking over it, a feeling of wistful happiness spreading through me. I soaked in the vision of the sprawling farmhouse, the acres and acres of farmland—neat, green rows of strawberries, lettuce, melons, asparagus, broccoli, cabbage, carrots, tomatoes, and peppers—the vast mountains in the distance creating a picturesque backdrop. To live in a place like this! What it must be like! Everything was big and beautiful here, from the trees to the house to the land. I gazed upward, squinting against the sun. Even the sky seemed bigger here. And when evening came, if I was still lying beneath the oak tree next to where I stood, the moon and all the stars would seem larger somehow, too.
I pictured the inside of my own one-room shack—the air mattresses with several patches to cover the holes lying against opposite walls, the small table with two chairs, the dingy paint, the stained, threadbare carpet, and the old, mismatched appliances that lined the far wall to form a makeshift kitchen. Our bathroom was nothing more than a toilet, a small, rickety, plastic shower, and a utility sink hidden behind a sheet we’d strung up from the ceiling.
Our house had actually been a storage shed on the farm that had butted up against the Sawyers’. But the family had sold that land in sections to form smaller farms, and the new family that moved into the farmhouse rented the outbuildings on the property to farmworkers.
I rested my chin on my arms that were crossed on the fence and gazed at the stunning vastness before me. I thought about Preston and Cole Sawyer, the twin brothers who lived here, and couldn’t help smiling. If anyone should live in a place like Sawyer Farm, it was them.
To me they were bigger than life, too. Cole who was always laughing, always making some big joke, and Preston . . . Preston with his serious eyes and the way he’d tilt his head and look right at me when I was talking, the way his rare smile filled up my whole heart. A strange sort of shiver ran down my spine at the vision of Preston Sawyer’s smile, and I stood straight, shifting on my feet before going to sit on the ground under the lacy leaves of the massive oak.
This is where I came to dream. And to escape.
And now, I’d just have to stay here forever. There was no way I could face anyone ever again with hair like this. I wondered how long it’d take to grow out and if I could sustain myself that long by sneaking into the rows of vegetables and eating in the dark of night like an orange-haired Peter Rabbit. I knew the layout of the rows as well as anyone—knew just the path to take if I wanted a big, juicy tomato or a sweet, crisp carrot.
My mama had worked here years ago, doing picking work with the other migrant workers who farmed the land. She didn’t do farm work anymore though. It was the strawberries that had ruined her back—those low-to-the-ground berries that had her bent over all day long under the sweltering sun. La fruta del diablo, she called them. The devil’s fruit. I couldn’t even look at a strawberry without feeling a sympathy twinge in my shoulder muscles and lower back.
That had been my introduction to Sawyer Farm, tagging along behind the shape of my hunched-over mama as she’d pushed a wobbly, one-wheeled cart down the rows, packing strawberries into plastic containers so they fit just right. Eventually, I’d wandered farther away from her and that’s how I’d met Preston and Cole. We’d played together and I’d come to love going to work with my mama, come to love the land and the peaceful feeling of just being near it.