Luminous.

Dawn Metcalf.

For Mooma and Dad, who always believed, and for Jonathan, who made it come true.

chapter one.

"I believe that myths, like every living thing, are born, degenerate and die. I also believe that myths come back to life."

-OCTAVIO PAZ.

CONSUELA wrestled with an armload of jeans, trying to catch the hangers on insufficient hooks. Squeezing into the tiny dressing room, she tugged on the first pair. No good, she pulled them off. Tried another pair. And a third. Step-step on, step-step off. It was as if the room had been specifically designed to make her feel big. Consuela hated shopping for jeans. It made her want to eat a donut.

Eventually she found two pairs that weren't too bad; the question was whether they were worth buying or not. Consuela compared price tags. She didn't like them enough to buy both. It was tough to feel good when clothes were made for size-four white girls. She felt heavy, unsuccessful, and annoyed-the exact opposite purpose of her coveted shopping therapy break.

Screw it.

Consuela pulled her T-shirt over her head, unhooked her bra, and posed for herself a few times, half naked in the dressing room mirror. She flashed a smile over her shoulder. Perfect white teeth-no cavities-her smile was her best feature. She spanked her hip, feeling better than she had all morning.

Getting dressed, she decided to keep one pair of light denims and hand the rest back with the two plastic, yellow "6" cards. She hung the remaining eleven hooks neatly in her palm for easy counting. The baggy old attendant lady had glared at her earlier as if she suspected Consuela of shoplifting. Like she could hide a pair of True Religions in her cleavage. She could all but hear her best friend's voice in her head: You know, you probably could! Allison could always make her laugh.

Consuela held her head high as she stopped at the dressing room exit. The old woman lifted her hangdog eyes.

"Find anything?" the woman asked, only because she had to.

"Yes, thank you."

The gnarled, arthritic hands took the jeans as a sudden lurch of vertigo brought Consuela to her knees.

Hangers clattered against the floor. Head spinning, Consuela groaned; nausea kneaded her throat and her vision slipped sideways. The three-way mirror in the corner bent out of shape. Points of light winked and wobbled like candle flames. Consuela tried to focus on her reflection and saw surprised eyes looking back-but they weren't her own. Dark eyes, wide with urgency, had appeared just inside the gla.s.s.

* Know thyself. *

It was an electrified sound, like synthesized violins given voice.

Consuela blinked.

The bizarre image and dull pain shattered.

She slapped a hand to her forehead, squinting against the sudden needle-stab p.r.i.c.kles in her eyes. She heard distant voices and felt soft hands touching her back and face. She shrugged them away and fought the wash of cold sweat crawling over her skin.

"I'm all right," she mumbled, embarra.s.sed and shaken. "I'm fine."

Several strangers helped Consuela to sit.

"Are you sure?"

"Sit here."

"Did you faint?"

An employee hurried over. "Hang on, I'll get you some juice."

The old dressing room attendant remained on her stool behind the pressboard podium. She glanced down at Consuela and shook her head.

"Gotta watch them mirrors," she advised in a croaky voice. "They'll play tricks on you if you're not careful. I see it all the time." The old woman looked away. "Mmhm. All the time."

Speechless, Consuela sat numbly on the floor. She drank the small bottle of orange juice, fumbled with her cell phone, and hung up when there was no answer at home. Someone shoved a clipboard at her. Fl.u.s.tered and self-conscious, she dutifully signed the accident report, scribbling her name and forgetting to give back the pen.

Consuela waved off any more offers of help and hurried to take her place in the checkout line, nervously brushing her hair from her face and folding the jeans over her arm. She wanted to pretend that everything was normal, that nothing weird had just happened, and go straight home.

She took out her credit card and adjusted her necklace over her collar. She felt the clasp catch.

"Ouch," she grumbled. Consuela tried untangling the snarl of gold and fine baby hairs.

She rubbed the back of her neck and felt something move.

TENDER dropped to a crouch, rising slowly as the Flow ebbed and swirled around him like a cloak. He looked back to where the window had appeared between worlds. He wasn't used to looking over his shoulder. Others were usually watching their backs around him.

"Did you see that?" Wish whispered, eyes wonderwide under his greasy mop of hair.

Tender was tempted to say no. Instead he admitted, "I saw the rift. But I didn't see who was on the other side." He felt obliged to state the obvious. "Someone's coming through soon."

"Never saw that before," Wish added, tugging his denim jacket covered in old novelty pins. "Shone like a mirror."

"Yes," Tender said. "I suspect V got a good look. He's always somewhere lurking about."

"You should talk." Wish grinned up at Tender. Tender glared through his too-long blond bangs and oppressively thick, black eyebrows. Wish tapped one of the b.u.t.tons on his left pocket that said IF YOU CAN READ THIS . . . YOU MIGHT AS WELL INTRODUCE YOURSELF! and winked. Tender sighed and readjusted the heavy silver belt buckle riding low on his hips.

"Come on," Tender said, jerking his head into the void. "I've got things to do. Whoever it is will get here soon enough."

Tender strode away, the Flow twisting in impossible directions as the world bowed beneath his feet. The gray-and-opal mist parted. Wish wiggled his loose tooth and broke it off with a snap. Blowing a long, cool breath through his fingertips, he pushed a dusty white moth into flight. Both boys turned away as it flew jaggedly up into black nothingness, slipping like a satin ribbon between pages of night.

CONSUELA walked around her room, absently rubbing the back of her neck and trying to figure out what was wrong.

She ran a finger over the skin again: it gooshed under pressure.

Prodding experimentally around the base of her skull, she thought the lump was about the length of her little finger and the width of her thumb. It was soft and squishy, following the line of her spine. It didn't hurt, but touching it made her feel uneasy. Still, she couldn't stop. Like picking a scab.

Her mother handed her two small white pills and a tall gla.s.s of juice. Consuela stopped rubbing her neck as Mom watched her swallow. The citric acid tasted like vomit.

"I called Dr. Cooper," her mom said, stroking Consuela's hair. "He recommends heat, rest, and a double dose of ibuprofen. If the lump is still there in the morning, we can make an appointment."

"Great," Consuela mumbled.

"Does it hurt?" Mom asked.

"No," Consuela said with a flashback feeling to when she first got her period. Mom had wanted it to be a "moment," while Consuela hadn't. It just hadn't been one of those bonding mother-daughter things for her. She wanted it to go away and get on with her life. Like now. "It's gross."

"Let me see," her mom said.

Consuela turned around and ran her fingers down the back of her neck. Her mother pushed Consuela's glossy black hair aside and gently dabbed a fingertip over the lump's surface.

"It's not bruised," Mom said. "Did you bang it somehow?"

"I think I would've noticed getting smacked on the back of the head."

"I would think so," her mom admitted. "Still, if it doesn't hurt, we'll wait until morning. Try soaking in the bath and I'll go find the heating pad." Her mother hesitated by the door, as if debating whether to admit this was a big deal or not. The pause was scarier than the lump itself. "If it starts hurting, tell me right away and we'll go straight to the hospital. Okay?"

What else could she say? "Okay."

Both of them smiled uneasily, projecting Everything is going to be fine, while checking to see if the other one believed it.

"Don't worry," Mom said, squeezing her hand. She went downstairs, probably to call Dad. Consuela closed the door.

Okay, so it's a big deal.

She distracted herself by playing with the bathtub faucets, trying to get the water temperature just right. She paced her bedroom while she undressed, grabbing a hair tie and throwing her keys on the vanity, hitting the pile of blank Statement of Purpose sheets from her college applications. The truth was that she had no idea what she wanted to major in or where she should apply, let alone what she wanted to do with the rest of her life described in one thousand words or less. Every time she tried to start, she ended up doing laundry or going online shopping. Anything to avoid the fact that she obviously had no Purpose in life.

Lavender-scented bubbles perfumed the warm air as she unwound her robe and hung it on the back of the door. Dimming the lights, she tied her hair into a knot on top of her head.

Slipping one foot into the hot water, Consuela waited for the initial sting to soften. She climbed in, goose pimples rising all over her legs. She settled into her sh.e.l.l-shaped bath pillow, inching down so that the water lapped the back of her neck. Consuela closed her eyes and tried not to think about anything.

Unfortunately, the moment she tried thinking about nothing, everything else flooded in. She wondered what was wrong with her, whether she'd go to the doctor's tomorrow or end up in the ER tonight. She should've listened in on her parents' phone conversation-she hated not knowing what was going on! Should she dress for a hospital stay? Should she insist on staying home? Going to school? Would anyone notice the lump? She resolved to wear her hair down and her new pair of jeans.

She shifted in the water. Why did Allison have to be out camping this weekend, totally unplugged? Consuela itched to text her. Allison would have made a joke, told her not to worry, and known whether or not that second pair of jeans was worth buying. That made Consuela remember the changing room, the fall, and the creepy old attendant. Consuela squirmed. She couldn't believe she'd stuck around to buy a pair of jeans!

The whole experience had been uncomfortable. Buyer's remorse struck. Luckily, she'd kept the receipt.

Consuela wiped tiny beads of sweat and steam from her face and examined her pedicure. Ten little squares of Ruby Matte with gold decals floated beneath the surface of the bath like buried treasure. Pumping foam into her palm, she slid it thickly over her arms and legs. She soaped and rinsed her whole body, drained the tub, and sprayed herself with the handheld showerhead before daring to check the lump.

Sliding her fingers over her scalp, she slowly worked her way down-the skin changed from normal to mush. Consuela grimaced. Nope, still there.

She felt around the giant soft spot at the base of her skull. Bracing herself, she pushed a little harder. Her finger slipped-pushing inside?-and stopped suddenly. She shrieked and yanked her hand in front of her face.

Consuela stared at her fingertip: nothing. Not even blood. She checked the back of her neck and pulled her hand away-nothing. She ran her fingers over the lump again-not a hole, or even a scratch. It was smooth, unbroken skin.

She swallowed. I imagined it.

But she knew she hadn't.

Steadying herself, Consuela kept her right finger straight and pushed slowly, but firmly, into the lump. She felt her nail sink inside, all the way through, until she touched something hard-my spine?-and stopped.

Consuela sat in the empty bathtub with her finger stuck through the flesh of her neck and her heart hammering in her chest. What the h.e.l.l?! Consuela kept her eyes closed, drinking in air. Her mind spun. What now? She thought desperately, Call Mom? She'd freak. I'd freak, she admitted to herself. This is me, freaking!

She took a few deep breaths that shuddered on the exhale. Her eyes stayed shut, spots of light winking behind the red. Using both hands, she traced her fingers along the edges of the gap, feeling along the edge of puffy skin and the bony nubs beneath, trying to determine whether this was or wasn't real. She couldn't quite decide yet. She had to be sure before she screamed.

Chin on her chest, Consuela slipped a second finger alongside the first, parting the skin at the back of her skull easily. It didn't hurt-It doesn't hurt-but it felt . . . strange. She tried a third, her pinky stuck into her hair as the rest of her hand cupped inside her neck.

She closed her eyes, trying to picture it . . .

Her fingers broke through, melting a line of cool heat down her back. Her body opened like the seam of a sandwich bag.

She felt the cold kiss of air on her naked spine.

Almost without thinking, Consuela slipped her skin over her head like a sweater. She pulled her arms out of their long gloves and stepped gently out of the warm, wet suit left puddled at the bottom of the bathtub. Keeping her eyes on her feet, Consuela stared at the collection of thin, tiny bones suspended in a sort of liquid shadow holding them together, surreal against the peach bath mat. She looked up into the full-length mirror and saw herself.

Consuela was a skeleton.

Rich and shining, her bones gleamed-the steam giving her an aura, a halo. She was smooth and shiny, like pale mother-of-pearl, almost glowing in the muted half light. A thin translucence clung to her, outlining where her skin ought to have been. She traced the ghost of her curves, powdered with dew. Hard but soft, luminous as sh.e.l.l, she was firm, beautiful, strong, alive.

She moved lightly, as if the weight of her was measured in the tiny gaps of nothing between each of her bones. Flexing her hand, she watched the delicate cage of fingers floating in darkness. She opened and shut her mouth, watching her jawbones slide together, marveling at the motion. She breathed deeply the warm smell of the air, seeing her rib cage expand and lift-free of organs, but hardly empty. She exhaled, and saw her clavicle and shoulders settle straight.

She wanted to smile, but she was already smiling. She realized she'd always been smiling on the inside. Now she could see it-her perfect white teeth in two, perfect lines: her forever-smile. Admiring herself, she knew that this was her.

This is who I am, she thought. The rest is just skin.

She looked down at the empty suit of Consuela Chavez, feeling curiously detached. She picked it up and inspected her surface body, feeling the soggy weight of it in her hands. Consuela knew there should be muscles and organs and blood-and pain?-but there wasn't. There was only the skeleton and her skin.

She cradled it in her arms like a precious thing, a gown of tan silk with black satin fringe, and hung it gently on the door hook to dry.

She laughed.

Consuela felt suddenly, impossibly whole. Shining. Pure. Powerful. Alive! She knew that Consuela Chavez, high school good girl smiling shyly in the back of the room, never felt like this. But, like this-for the first time in her life-she felt like the real Consuela Louisa Aguilar Chavez. Completely.

As if imagined, she heard a whisper like music.

* Know thyself. *

Consuela turned in the hazy glow, tracking the sound. She didn't see anyone, but she had the feeling of being . . . not "watched," but "observed."

She stepped toward the mirror and gently wiped away the clouded moisture. Condensation dripped like tears where her bones sc.r.a.ped the gla.s.s. She tried peering into the silvery reflection.

A pair of lips surfaced. Smiled. Withdrew.

She stepped back.

The ghost of violin sound quieted and she was alone.