How Moon Fuentez Fell in Love with the Universe: Chapters 1–16

Everything has a beginning. And I’m not just talking about things like the shop I ordered my moonstone necklace from, or where it was made, or where the stone itself was quarried.

What I am talking about is everything. I mean, everything in this whole wide, wild universe has one beginning. One place where everything, all of matter, converged into a speck one trillionth the size of a period. Let me repeat that, because I can scarcely fathom it myself.

Everything that exists in all the billions of galaxies, including Earth, with our salty, whale-skimmed seas and herds of elephants strewn on the horizon like gray beads and piles of electronic junk gathering here and there since, what, the eighties?

One gender being held responsible for humankind's fall from grace apparently wasn’t enough of a punishment, so God made sure we were slapped with this wild, uncontrollable penchant for miracles.

Tía Esperanza says the reason I’m not assimilated into the family has nothing to do with La Raíz; it’s that I’m still wild is all.

I’m the wild, viny moonflower that somehow got sorted into the round red roses, so thick with petals they could be mistaken for orbs. Which sounds nice and all until you realize the rose tender of my life—Mom—is waiting for the right moment when she can pluck me from the bulbous bouquet and give me a good crumple before depositing me in the trash.

I’m talking waxy lilies that look like they’ve been dipped in literal stardust, rare succulents that probably sell for thousands at plant auctions, and irises, bearded and blue and nearly blasphemous with their beauty.

Fact: Star is objectively beautiful. Fact: I am not. Fact: I’ve been reminded of these facts for as long as I can remember.

In the car, I turn on Cardi B loud enough to make Star bristle. “What the heck,” she says, lowering it.

Six pizza boxes pile up on the dining room table. At first glance, it’s become sentient, growing eyes and a long lizard-like tail, sharp teeth dripping with marinara sauce.

“You’ve been here less than a minute and you’re already starting with the vulgarity. I taught you better.”

My username is Moonflower, Tía’s nickname for me. It’s kind of obvious if anyone were going to search for me on there. But no one will, so, moot point.

Star’s figure is long and willowy and still curvy.

Mom sat on one of those stones and dipped Star in the river. Unlike Achilles’s mom, she took care to make sure each of Star's heels was consecrated.

They are like tiger’s-eye, the stone I mean, all gold and mixed with bronze and little flecks of green. They’re not even that special, but against my dark skin, they stand out enough that Mom begrudgingly will compliment me.

Though Mom’s compliments to me are not like the ones she gives Star. Star’s compliments are wide like that river, clear and bottomless. The ones I get are always sharp, like soft tulle wrapped around razor blades.

And he took me in his arms and said, “Look at that moon. Have you ever seen a prettier moon?” And I hadn’t, because that moon was full and gold like an ancient coin, glowing with a smattering of fog-like clouds around it.

Though I can’t see them all, flowers open all around me. Crocuses and dandelions and salvia, sage and lupine and five-petaled wild roses.

I sit near the edge of the forest, where backyard porch lights still reach, and spread the treasure, ruffling items back and forth. An empty shell husk here, open so delicately, it’s as if a tiny fairy did it with reverence.

Select influencers are invited to tour the country, meet and greet their followers (or fanatics, in many cases), give speeches on things like “aesthetics” and “believing in your dreams—the Fotogram way,” and sell merchandise (with all profits to go to Families Against Drunk Driving).

“That’s called fireweed,” my dad told me. He said that it was so named because it sprouted up really fast and full anywhere that had just burned. “After London was bombed in World War Two, it sprouted right through the ashes. Big swaths of pink where there had been so much killing and trauma.”

She gets a little teary-eyed as she crosses us with her rosebud rosary. “God bless you.”

I’m not sure what Purity Culture would say about that, but she looks incredible. I can feel my cellulite deepening just by proximity.

Chamomila appears out of nowhere like a wraith, making me choke on a piece of air I was trying to inhale.

“I mean, I’m just Star Fuentez’s sister to about everyone.” Even my own mother.
Chamomila doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed. And then she has the audacity to say, “Oh, I’m sure you will accomplish something that will surpass that soon.”

“I’m releasing my first lipstick line this season, called Brixsticks. All the colors are available in matte and a glitter blend. I have plenty of samples if you all want to try!”

After the last person says their spiel, Andro calls us to join him at the restaurant—some fancy lantern-lined French bistro.

The inside of the bus is a Fotogrammer’s dream. Hardwood floor, little windows with sheer eyelet curtains, everything covered in warm fairy lights.

“The beds are assigned for a reason, Moon,” Star says in her snitty voice she uses when she’s trying to impress someone with how resilient she is.

Before sleep, I imagine that instead of a bus, I’m on a spaceship, blasting through a glittering nebula that still tastes like the beginning of this whole, wild universe.