He had to stop again when they came upon the spirits of two young girls playing tag. They chased each other, dark curls and matching dresses billowing out around them. They giggled madly as they ran straight through the small birdhouse-like tombs that held cremated remains. The tombs were hand-painted in bright colors and stood in crowded rows of golden yellow, sunburst orange, sky blue, and seafoam green. Glass doors revealed clay urns inside.
Yadriel bounced on the balls of his feet as he and Maritza hid. Seeing the spirits of two dead girls running around a cemetery would probably freak most people out, but little Nina and Rosa were nefarious for other reasons. They were both huge tattletales who couldn’t be trusted to not rat him out to his dad. If they got dirt on you, they held it over your head and subjected you to torture the likes of which you’d never seen.
Like hours of playing hide-and-go-seek where they always used their non-corporeal bodies to cheat, or purposely leave you waiting to be found behind the smelly dumpster on a hot LA afternoon. It was definitely not worth being indebted to those two.
When the girls finally ran off, Yadriel wasted no time sprinting to their final destination.
They rounded a corner and came face-to-face with the lich-gate to the church. Yadriel’s head tipped back. Whitewashed bricks were stacked before him, forming an archway. The words “El Jardín Eterno” were hand-scrawled delicately in black paint. The Eternal Garden. The paint was faded, but Yadriel knew his cousin Miguel had already been tasked with giving it a fresh coat before the Día de Muertos festivities began in a few days. A heavy, bolted lock kept out any trespassers.
As leader of the brujx families, Yadriel’s father, Enrique, held the keys and only gave them to the brujos who were on shift to guard the cemetery at night. Yadriel did not have a key, which meant he was only allowed to enter during the day, or for rituals and celebrations.
“¡Vámonos!” Maritza’s harsh whisper and her manicured fingernail jabbing into his side made Yadriel jolt. Her short thick hair was windswept. Pastel-pink and -purple curls framed her heart-shaped face, popping against her deep brown skin. “We need to get inside before we’re spotted by someone!”
Yadriel batted her hand away. “Ssh!” he hissed.
Despite her words of warning, Maritza didn’t seem worried about getting into a heap of trouble. In fact, she looked downright excited. Dark eyes wide, a devilish grin played across her lips that Yadriel knew all too well.
Yadriel crept to the left side of the gate. There was a gap between the last wrought iron bar and the wall, where the bricks slumped. He tossed his backpack over the wall before turning sideways and wiggling his way through. Even through his polyester-and-spandex binder, the bar scraped painfully against his chest. On the other side, he took a moment to adjust the half tank top under his shirt so the clasps didn’t dig into his side. It had taken a while to find one that masculinized his chest without being itchy or chokingly tight.
Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, Yadriel turned to find Maritza having a bit more difficulty. Her back was pressed against the bricks, her legs straddling the bar as she tried to drag herself through. Yadriel stuffed his fist against his mouth, stifling a laugh.
Maritza shot him a glare as she tried to wiggle her butt free. “¡Cállate!” she hissed before finally stumbling through. “We’re gonna need another way to get in here soon.” She wiped at the dirt smeared across her jeans. “We’re getting too big.”
“Your butt’s getting too big,” Yadriel teased. “Maybe you should lay off the pastelitos.” He grinned.
“And lose these curves?” she asked, smoothing her hands down her waist and hips. Maritza gave him a sarcastic smile. “Thanks, but I’d rather die.” She punched his arm before sauntering toward the church.
Yadriel jogged to catch up.
Rows of marigolds—the flores de muerto—lined the stone path. The tall orange and yellow flowers leaned against one another like drunken friends. They had exploded into bloom over the months leading up to Día de Muertos. Fallen petals dusted the ground like confetti.
The church was painted white and had a terra-cotta roof. Starburst windows flanked either side of the large oak doors. Above, a small alcove was set into a semicircular wall, housing another cross. On either side, two cutouts held iron bells.
“Are you ready?” There was no look of trepidation on Maritza’s