Rogelia's House of Magic by Jamie Martinez Wood Read Free Book Online Page A

grandmother she never had. The only problem was her mother. Rebecca Peralta didn’t really approve of socializing with the hired help. But maybe it was finally time for Marina to worry less about her mother’s ideals and figure out her own.

Six
    T wo days later, just after lunch on Wednesday, Fern gripped the steering wheel of Pilar Fuego’s beat-up Volvo, twisting the loose leather covering back and forth. She and her sister were parked in the virtually empty lot in front of Glassell High School, waiting to begin her third test drive. Fern could pretend she was in a race car if it wasn’t for the smashed pretzels and empty juice boxes littering the floor of her older sister’s station wagon. Pilar’s seven- and eight-year-old boys, Danny and Miguel, treated their mom’s old but dependable ride like their personal trash can.
    The ice cream truck tootled down Flower Street to Fern’s left, blaring “La Cucaracha” over the crackling loudspeaker. Children raced after the truck joyfully, waving their dollar bills. Fern plucked at the sleeves of her Social Distortion cap-sleeved T-shirt, giving her arms plenty of room to move freely, and adjusted her purple-tinted sunglasses low on the bridge of her nose; then she turned up the volume of KROQ, the local alternative rock station.
    “Fernandita, you shouldn’t drive with this many distractions.” Pilar turned the music off and pushed her wavy brown hair off her angular, almost regal face. “Let’s make this quick. I’ve got to pick up Danny and Miguel at the soccer field in an hour and run to Sports Galaxy after I drop you off at Marina’s.”
    “Don’t get one of those lame T-shirts with ‘Soccer Mom’ plastered over the boobs in glitter,” Fern said.
    “I would never,” Pilar said, looking offended. At twenty-seven, and pretty as well as hip, Pilar was not ready to advertise her mommy status across her chest. She pointed to the dashboard. “Okay, I know we’ve been over this, but repetition is the key to learning. We’re in park. Pull this stick thingy forward and down to drive and the indicator will move to ‘D’. Slowly—I mean,
slowly
—take your foot off the brake pedal and press down lightly on the gas pedal.”
    Fern pulled the gearshift forward and down, and the car started to roll forward. “Is that the official word? ‘Thingy’?”
    “No, it’s actually a thingamabob,” Pilar said sarcastically. “But since you’re only fifteen I thought I’d use a simple term. Brake!” She pointed to the cement foundation of a lamppost directly in their path.
    Fern stomped both feet on the brake and they jerked to a stop. “Stop yelling. And I’m fifteen and a half. You know every month counts.” Fern turned the wheel away from the cement barrier, took her foot off the brake, and carefully pushed on the gas. They inched along at about ten miles an hour, rolling over the speed bumps as smoothly as possible. “Pilar, I’m not a child, you know. I’m a big girl now.”
    “I suppose,” Pilar muttered.
    “So will you let me drive on the street?” Fern pleaded.
    “All right. Just for a little bit,” Pilar said. “Make a left out of the parking lot, but don’t go onto Bristol Street. Just drive through the neighborhood.”
    Delighted, Fern made a wide turn out of the parking lot onto Flower Street, almost bumping a parked car, and made a right at a stop sign. A ball shot out between two parked cars, followed by a small boy. Fern slammed on the brakes.
Maybe the parking lot wasn’t so bad after all,
she thought, watching the boy grab his ball and wave at her. She waved back weakly before proceeding.
    After a few more minutes of slow, cautious driving, Fern looked sideways at her sister. She was burning to tell her about last night’s ritual. Maybe she could ask her about Rogelia. “So Marina and I did some magic last night.”
    “You mean like with a Ouija board? You shouldn’t be messing with that sort of thing,” Pilar lectured in