I wandered past the college party, ignoring the catcalls and invitations to join them, and found an empty section of sun-flooded lawn close to the playground. I looked in all directions, making sure no one could sneak up on that spot, then sat, trying to ignore the anxiety making me feel like the ham sandwich I had for lunch might make a messy return.

A thousand questions were shifting uneasily through my head: Was I in trouble? Had someone in town seen me naked and tracked me down? Was it someone from my past? A previous foster parent? Did he ask for me by name, or show a picture, or what?

I was so wound up in my thoughts, I didn’t realize anyone was sitting beside me until he spoke.

“You’re glowing. It’s beautiful.”

His voice was little more than a whisper, but I was on my feet, staring down at him and ready to sprint.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you going to run away from me again?” he asked with mild amusement. Curiosity danced in his dark eyes.

I swallowed a lump of fear and answered, “Someone’s looking for me.”

He stood. “What do you mean?”

“Someone was at the restaurant today looking for … me?” I said uncertainly, wondering if that was a piece of information I should be sharing with Bridger. “Never mind. It’s no big deal.”

“You’re glowing,” he said again, reaching out to touch my dusty cheek. His fingertips came away from my skin alive with reflected sunlight. “Wow. Where did you get this stuff?” He blew on his fingers and the dust sparkled a hundred different colors in the air before settling on his jeans.

This stuff? Oh, I tried to turn into a snake with scales and a forked tongue this afternoon and it backfired, I thought sarcastically. I wondered how long he’d stick around once he found that out.

“I don’t remember,” I mumbled, turning my back to him.

“So, you want to go get something to eat?”

I looked at him over my shoulder. “You mean you and me? Together?”

“Yeah, you and me. Remember, we’re friends.” He glanced at his leather-banded watch. “I know this place—”

“I’m working tonight.”

“Where do you work?”

“The Navajo Mexican, with Yana.”

“What time do you get off?”

“Sorry. I’ve got to go,” I blurted, striding away. Yana was on the other side of the park looking for me.

“Creepy dude’s gone,” she called. “Police came and picked him up. They’ll hold him overnight while they do a background check.”

My shoulders relaxed as if the weight of the world had been lifted from them. As Yana and I walked toward the restaurant, I glanced over my shoulder. Bridger was staring at me, a frown on his face. I felt a feathery touch on my skin and forgot about him—Yana was running her fingers over my forearm.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“This glitter crap is really freaking me out. It looks like it’s coming out of your skin.” She brushed her fingers over her eyelids and they shimmered.

“Pretty,” I said, wondering how she’d feel if she knew she was putting disintegrating snake scales on her eyelids. “What’s the occasion?”

She blushed. “José hired a new dishwasher. He rides a motorcycle and has a tattoo of a tarantula on his hand,” she said with a smile.

15

It was a bad night. Not only did I drop a tray of drinks on myself, I slipped on the spilled soda and beer and landed in it. The liquid soaked into my freshly torn jeans, clear to my panties. I also managed to crash into Yana while carrying a scalding plate of fry bread smothered in refried beans and greasy cheese. The beans and melted cheese clung to my shirt, burning me through the fabric. I tore my shirt off in the middle of the dining room. The college boys I’d been waiting on cheered and clapped, and left me a really good tip.

I got orders all wrong, accidentally giving a child an alcoholic margarita, serving a vegetarian college professor the mutton platter, and serving lukewarm coffee—I had forgotten to put the pot back on the hot plate.

To make matters worse, I’d been too busy to ask Naalyehe about the stranger.

At a quarter past ten, when most of the patrons were gone and no more were coming in, I made my way to the kitchen.

José, Naalyehe, and two part-time cooks were cleaning up the dinner rush, talking and laughing.

“Can I talk to you, Naalyehe?” I asked.

All four men turned to me and their mouths snapped shut.

“Maggie Mae,” Naalyehe said. He put down his washcloth and steered me out to the dimly lit parking lot behind the building. José’s car was the only vehicle parked in back.

Naalyehe studied me for a moment before asking, “Are you hiding something I should know about?”

I sighed, blowing loose wisps of hair away from my face. I was hiding all sorts of things.

“You do not need to fear me,” Naalyehe said, his voice soft. “But I need to know why that man is looking for you.”

“I don’t know why.” That question had been running laps through my brain all night. “Did he tell you his name?”

“I asked. He refused.”

“Well, what exactly did he say?”

“He said, ‘I’m looking for a young woman, goes by Maggie Mae Mortensen. She has black hair and pale eyes and is eighteen years old. I was told that she works here. Have you seen her?’ ” Naalyehe repeated in monotone.

“What did you tell him?”

“I said no one by that name works for me, Magdalena, and my only employees with black hair have dark eyes.”

I ran a hand through my faded plum-colored ponytail and smiled. “Thanks.”

“Are you sure you do not want to tell me anything?” Naalyehe asked again.

“I’m an orphan. Is that what you want to hear?”

His lips thinned. “I am sorry. That must be hard at your age.”

Yeah, I thought bitterly. But not as hard as it was when I was a little kid.

“You wear the yo-ih?” he asked. I held my left arm up for him to see. “Good. Do not take it off.”

He opened the door and I walked into the steamy kitchen, Naalyehe a step behind.

“Gringa,” José said. “Yana restocked the condiments before she left for the night, so you get to empty the trash. Then go home and put your feet up. You worked hard.”

“Sure, boss,” I said, faking a smile. I hated trash duty. My feet dragged as I went back into the restaurant.

Since I was already covered with soda and beans, I figured it was only fair that I tackle the trash. The bags dripped soda and beer as I dragged them out back. The smell of old Mexican food, stale beer, and rotting meat wafted from the Dumpster. I held my breath and slung the trash up over the side.

Light flickered beside the Dumpster. A face, red against the small flame of a lighter, glowed to life. I stumbled backward and almost tripped.

“Hola,” a stranger said, taking a drag on a cigarette. The lighter died and his face went dark.

“Hello,” I squeaked, ready to run to the restaurant.

“I’m Tito. The new dishwasher.”

“Oh!” Yana’s motorcycle guy. I took a calming breath. He chuckled and took another long drag on his cigarette, the end glowing red.

“Nice to meet you. Have a nice night,” I said, turning to leave.

Back in the kitchen, I studied myself in the bright light. Refried beans plastered my shirt, mashed into the fabric. The drinks I’d spilled and then sat in were almost dry and getting stiffer by the minute, and the scale dust, though hardly visible on my skin anymore, clung to the sticky fabric, making the spill brilliantly obvious.

“Ugh. Thank you for sending me home, José,” I whispered.

Just then Penney and José burst into the kitchen, José speaking about a mile a minute in Spanish, fanning his face with his hand.

“I already gave him a seat in the best booth!” Penney interrupted, flinging her hands about as she spoke.

“Well, go out there and see what he wants to drink … and don’t mess it up!” José barked.

Penney nodded, put her hands on her curvy hips, and hurried out the door to the dining room.

“What’s going on?” I asked. Naalyehe watched us from the other side of the kitchen.

“An important customer.” José’s voice was a little too loud. He looked at Naalyehe. “If the town knows he’s eating our food, this will be the most popular restaurant around!”

“I thought it already was,” I said.

José smiled, walked over to the sink were I stood, and gave me a one-armed hug, squeezing the air from my lungs. “Oh, you sweet little thing! If only my sons weren’t already married …”

Just then the kitchen door burst open. Penney walked in with her hands on her round hips and stared at me like I’d stolen her favorite lip gloss. José let go of me.

“What?” José and I asked at the same time.

“He wants Maggie Mae to wait on him.”

José took one look at my filthy clothes and started spewing Spanish again.

“Who wants me to wait on him?” I asked.

“Bridger O’Connell,” Penney answered.

“What?”

“Don’t panic, Magdalena,” José said in obvious panic, handing me a damp washcloth and motioning to my filthy shirt. “You’ve become a fabulous server. Just don’t mess up! And don’t drop any drinks on him!” He turned to Penney. “Can you fix her up a little or is it a lost cause?”

Penney studied me and yanked the washcloth out of my hands. Pulling the hair tie from my ponytail, she let my hair spill around my shoulders. She tugged her fingers through it a few times, fluffed it around my face, and then looked at me.

“Better,” she said. “But wait!” She fished in her jeans pocket and pulled out a tube of glittery red lip gloss—as if I didn’t have enough glitter on me. Without a word, she coated my lips. “Hopefully he won’t notice the stain on your pants,” she mused, cringing. “On second thought, hopefully he won’t care.” She smiled apologetically at me. “All right, chica. He’s in the booth by the window. Go take his order.”