Latinx in Publishing is pleased to exclusively reveal a chapter from Category Five by Ann Dávila Cardinal the eagerly anticipated sequel to Five Midnights.
Category Five is a new supernatural young adult thriller set against the backdrop of post-hurricane Puerto Rico.
After the hurricane, some see destruction and some smell blood. The tiny island of Vieques, located just off the northeastern coast of the main island of Puerto Rico, is trying to recover after hurricane Maria, but the already battered island is now half empty. To make matters worse, as on the main island, developers have come in to buy up the land at a fraction of its worth, taking advantage of the island when it is down.
Lupe, Javier, and Marisol are back to investigate a series of murders that follow in the wake of a hurricane and in the shadow of a new supernatural threat.
Chapter Two
Marisol
When she arrived in Yabucoa, Marisol parked her 2001 Toyota Corolla under the only available shade, a caimito tree that was still able to protect her car from the sun even as it worked hard at pushing through the sidewalk with its tangle of roots. Not that she was worried about the paint job; no, the once-steel-gray finish had been beaten to jellyfish translucence by the Caribbean sun. It was more about the broken air-conditioning and a long-ass drive back to San Juan on Friday.
Not that it was sunny. There had been threatening dark clouds hovering on the edges of the overcast sky for days now, like an actor waiting for their cue. But hadn’t they had enough storms for several lifetimes? The drive along the east coast was beautiful despite the weather. You could see the scars from the hurricane, sure, but all the new growths were neon green and it made her happy to see life going on.
Life going on.
She was trying to figure out what that looked like. Life had been anything but smooth for her thus far, but after Maria . . . well, any kind of complaining felt frivolous. So, this summer she was determined to make a difference. To that end, she grabbed the petition she’d created at 2:00 a.m. that morning when she couldn’t sleep. This kind of protest seemed to make the most sense until the island was back on its feet again. So many people were busy trying to meet basic needs, she wanted to help give them a voice.
Marisol took a swig from her bottle of water and walked through the center of town toward the church that had become the operations hub for all the volunteers and organizations doing repair work in the area. Pablo, an ancient man who set up his folding chair near the town’s barber shop every day, waved at her and smiled his warm, toothless smile. She waved as usual and started toward the church.
No.
She stopped, convinced herself to turn around, and made her way toward him. Deep breath. “Señor, I have a petition to stop the purchasing of land by companies attempting to profit from the devastation of the hurricane.” Here it comes, the ask. Best to practice on this mild old man first. “Would you be willing to sign it?” She thrust the clipboard toward him. “You’d be my first,” she added, somewhat pathetically. He peered at the paper, and then looked up at her. She gave him the broadest, do-gooder smile she could muster, but, truthfully, she worried it just looked like she was in pain. But he smiled back, took the proffered pen, and signed the first blank line with a shaking hand. When he gave it back to her with a nod, she let out a breath, smiled, sincerely grateful, and stepped away.
Available June 2, 2020 from Tor Teen
One down. She looked at the shaky scrawl on the first page, then held it to her chest in a hug. She could get used to this.
She’d been coming to this town and staying during the week since school let out for the summer, and she was getting to know the locals and the other volunteers from the island and beyond. She was usually more of a loner, an introvert who preferred a good book to human interaction, but there was something about being here for a shared purpose. And having to talk to hundreds of strangers for the petition was a perfect demonstration that she was not the same person she’d been a year ago.
But who was?
There was a nice breeze on the east coast, and she loved how she would occasionally catch the scent of flor de maga blooms riding on the air. Then it would disappear so quickly she would wonder if she’d imagined it, if it was a ghost scent of a bush destroyed by the storm. But then she would see a splash of bright red peeking out from among the damaged foliage like hope. As usual, she planned to stop at the church’s senior center before heading to the worksite to check in. She stepped into the dark, cool building, with no lights on to save generator fuel and stave off the morning heat. The smell was so familiar—antiseptic, medicinal, with an undertone of urine and talcum powder. Okay, it wasn’t flor de maga, but it still comforted her. For most of her childhood her great grandmother Giga was stationed in a back room of their house, occasionally yelling out to the Virgin or her long dead husband, and Marisol would spend hours playing dolls on the old woman’s chenille bedspread or applying blush and lipstick on her wrinkled, thin lips. On the island old age wasn’t something you hid in a nursing home; it was right there in the next room.
“Mari!”
As her eyes adjusted to the dark interior, Marisol saw Camille, the stylish Haitian nurse who helped out with the elderly patients, walking toward her. Camille was a pro, had volunteered as a nurse in war-torn countries all over the globe, and it had taken Marisol awhile to earn the woman’s trust. But sometime over the last few weeks, she’d broken through. A smile here, a hand pat there. Now, Camille pulled her in tight for a hug, the Magi’s-gifts smell of her naturopath oils bringing a smile to Marisol’s face. Her graying hair was cut stylish and short, and her clothes were crisp linen, practical but elegant, the mango color of the shirt a warm companion to her dark brown skin. In other words, she was a total badass.
The nurse pulled her out of the hug and held her at arm’s length and then did her “staring into her soul” type thing. Did all nurses have that skill?
“Are you sleeping, Mari?”
And she was a mind reader, too. She laughed it off. “Too much to do to sleep!” Camille had no idea. Since the nightmares of the previous year had faded, she slept so much better. Just probably not long enough.
Camille did that cheek-pinching thing older women tended to do with teenagers. The woman’s skinny strong fingers had a pincer-type feel. But it also felt like family.
“You have to take better care of yourself, niña! Don’t make me drive out to Isla Verde and force chamomile tea on you!”
Family always includes just a dash of guilt and reprimand.
“I’m fine, Camille! Worry about your patients, not me.”
Her lips pulled into a reluctant smile. “Someone has to take care of you. You’re too busy taking care of everyone else!”
“Look who’s talking.”
Camille did that dismissive wave thing again.
“How’s Abuelita today?”
Camille turned to look at the tiny old lady in the wheelchair nodding off in the corner, her frail body wrapped in a thick cotton blanket despite the heat. Her real name was Ofelia Gutiérrez, but everyone just called her “Abuelita” because she was like everyone’s grandmother.
“Ay bendito, bless her, she’s doing well today, gracias a Dios. I think she’ll enjoy a visit from you.” Camille glided off to reprimand one of her charges for shuffling toward the exit in his old man slippers. Every hour or so he would insist he was going to walk back to Rincón, the town on the far west coast of the island he came from, and she would convince him to wait until after lunch, or a nap, or dinner.
Marisol pulled a folding chair next to Abuelita and took her cool, dry hand with its papery skin into hers. The woman didn’t move, her chin on her chest, rising slightly with every breath. Mari’s phone dinged with a text. She pulled it out with her free hand.
Hey! I’m here! Heading 2 Vieques w/ Tio. When can I c u?
“Vieques?” Marisol said out loud, smiling at the message from Lupe. She was so glad her friend was there for the summer, but why was she going straight to Vieques? At least it wasn’t far from Yabucoa.
“Vieques?” Abuelita echoed. She tended to repeat pieces of conversation that happened around her like a gray-haired parrot.
“Hola, Abuelita! Es Marisol. ¿Como se encuentra?”
“My grandmother is in Vieques. She’s . . .” She appeared to lose her train of thought. Another frequent occurrence.
Marisol smiled. Abuelita was eighty-eight. She doubted her grandmother was in Vieques or anywhere at this point. Besides, Abuelita was from St. Croix, not Vieques. But Marisol hated how most people talked to the elderly as if they were children, so she always responded to their questions and comments, no patting of hand and patronizing, Sure, honey, whatever you say.
“Why would your abuela be in Vieques?”
Abuelita didn’t seem to hear, she was nodding her head up and down in that way she did when she was lost in her own thoughts. Marisol decided she would sit with her for a few more minutes, then head over to the worksite. She was already focusing on what lay ahead on the repairs to the Vazquez’s house when Abuelita spoke again.
“She’s angry.”
“Who? Your abuela?”
“Yes. She’s so angry. . . .”
“At you? No, Abuelita, who could be angry at you?” She stroked the woman’s thinning hair, trying to comfort her. Mari often wondered where the woman’s thoughts went, or when. She would have to do some research into cognitive functions of the elderly.
“Not at me, at them. They made us leave . . . left her there alone,” Abuelita said again, then looked up at Marisol and with tears welling in her cloudy eyes.
“Oh no! Don’t cry! It’s okay!” Marisol’s throat tightened and she thought she would cry too. How had she upset the woman?
And then Camille was there, all comforting hushes, and lifted Abuelita to her feet gently, as if she were a bird, and walked her over to her room. Abuelita was snoring before the nurse had finished tucking in the white blankets.
Then Camille came back and looked over at Marisol and noticed the tears in her eyes. “Oh no, sweetheart, it’s nothing you said! The old ones, they get sad sometimes. So much loss . . .”
“She was talking about her grandmother being angry. And on Vieques. Isn’t she from St. Croix?” Camille handed her a tissue and she blew her nose.
“She is, but maybe she had family from there. Don’t worry, amor, she’s just confused.”
Marisol shivered, though the room was quite warm. No wonder the poor old woman was anxious. She’d lost her home to a hurricane. Marisol swallowed so she wouldn’t start crying again. She hugged Camille and left quickly, anxious to get to work.
The last ten months had been like something from a postapocalyptic nightmare. Volunteering was something, but Marisol had to do more. She looked at the clipboard in her hand and considered tossing it in the car but decided she would bring it to the worksite and gather some more names. But what good was the petition if she couldn’t get it to the right people? The people in power.
Marisol vowed right then that she would do whatever it took to help get the island past this, whatever she could do to help people like abuelita recover from Maria.
She just didn’t know how yet.
Used with permission from Tor Teen, an imprint of Tom Doherty Associates; a trade division of Macmillan Publishers. Copyright (c) Ann Dávila Cardinal 2020.
Ann Dávila Cardinal is the author of Five Midnights, published in June 2019 by Tor Teen. Cardinal is also the Director of Recruitment for Vermont College of Fine Arts (VCFA) and helped create VCFA’s winter Writing residency in Puerto Rico. She has a B.A. in Latino Studies from Norwich University, an M.A. in sociology from UI&U, and an MFA in Writing from VCFA. Her stories have appeared in several anthologies, including A Cup of Comfort for Mothers and Sons (2005) and Women Writing the Weird (2012) and she contributed to the Encyclopedia Latina: History, Culture, And Society in the United States edited by Ilan Stavans. Her essays have appeared in American Scholar, Vermont Woman, AARP, and Latina. Cardinal lives in Vermont, needle-felts tiny reading creatures, and cycles four seasons a year.
