ONEMayté
Three silver coins stood between Mayté Robles and her dreams.Three.
“Youmustpay off your bill before you can make any more purchases.”
Mayté scowled at the buffoon of a new shopkeeper.“No, señor.I don’t,” she hissed between gritted teeth and pressed her fingers against the paint jar she needed to purchase.The glass was smooth and sturdy; it didn’t threaten to shatter into a thousand sharp pieces.Like she did.“The other owner always allowed me to keep a tab.It’s always been that way.”She nudged the jar forward, trying her best to smooth down the cracks in her demeanor.“My bill really isn’t that high.Only two silver coins.Then another silver coin for this purchase.I need this to finish a big commission.”
Notjusta big commission.Her once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: a painting for Señora Castro.If she could pull this off, the noble woman would become her patron for life.
The commission itself was simple.A garden portrait of Señora Castro’s beloved pack of Xoloitzcuintlis.Mayté didn’t care much for the hairless dogs, all wiry, wrinkly, and flimsy.With ears thinner than tortillas and tails that belonged on rats.It was beyond her why the Castros pampered the Xolos as if they were royalty, but the handsome payment offered was enough to silence her disdain.Mayté would paint ugly dogs for the rest of her life if it meant no more scrounging and worrying.
She hadn’t slept for almost two days, but she never felt more alive than she did with a paintbrush in hand.Mixing vivid colors into the perfect concoction and layering them onto a crisp white canvas, she had absolute control over the outcome.She was the goddess of the canvas, creating everything in her own image.
Outside of the canvas, though, it was a different story.
Nothing would have stopped a goddess, yet here she was, begging for a jar of azure paint.It was needed for the garden’s signature morning glories and the cloudless sky of a lazy day.“I’ll pay off my debt after I turn in the commission, and you will always have a loyal customer.”She smiled, smooth and perfect like porcelain.
The shopkeeper stroked his goatee, which was graying and pointy.His golden-brown forehead wrinkled as his dark gaze flitted over her, razor-sharp.Mayté stiffened, fingers tightening around her rebozo.She wasn’t some item needing to be appraised.Shewas the one who would soon put coins inhispocket.Why did anything else about her matter?
She pressed her lips tight.Just endure a little more.
The shopkeeper adjusted his straw hat and pursed his chapped lips.Mayté unfortunately was all too familiar with the malice oozing from such a face, like garish paint through thin parchment.
“You’re a Robles, no?”
She should have anticipated this, yet her insides still iced over.
The rest of the shop’s clientele slowed what they were doing, casting sideways glances.The air shifted as their whispers pierced the air.
“Of course a Robles would hold up the line.”
“That entire family is full of trouble.”
Her skin prickled and the hairs on her arm stood up.If she had been trapped in a painting, she would have titled itLa hija de la desgracia.The Daughter of Misfortune.“Why does that matter?”Mayté croaked.
“How do I know your earnings won’t just up and float away to the heavens?”The shopkeeper’s mustache curled as he sneered.“If there even is a commission in the first place.”
Snickers joined the hushed choir of gossip.
“There is,” Mayté gasped, heat flushing her cheeks and surely lighting them up like roses—a flower she hated sketching, but enjoyed painting lovely shades of red.Her bronze skin had a reddish undertone.The kind that always gave her away whenever she felt the least bit angry or embarrassed, and right now she wasboth.
“Then where would you get the money to pay me back, hmm?”he continued as if she hadn’t said a thing.“Your family barely has a coin to their name.”
“I’ve always been able to pay back my—”
“Enough.”The shopkeeper raised a hand, skin perfectly smooth.He didn’t have the faded stains of paint on his nails or the calluses that came with being an artist.Of course he wouldn’t understand … “Why do you think the last owner sold his shop to me?Too much debt from people not paying their bills.This is my business now, and this is the way it will be.Come back when you can afford the supplies.”
Mayté’s nostrils flared.The robust odor of paint dizzied her—paint she needed but couldn’t have.
All because of this bullheaded oaf.
Fire consumed her, burning away all thoughts of reason.“Fine!”She snatched the pot of paint off the counter.
The owner’s eyes widened, and his mouth gaped open.Thief!he likely wanted to shriek, but Mayté was no criminal.She wouldn’t stoopthatlow.With a thin smile, she let the pot slip from her fingers.Azure paint spurted up like a triumphant fountain as the glass shattered into thousands of shards.Destroyed.Just like her plans to finish her commission.She turned on her heels and stomped away, passing stunned customers.Now they would have something meaningful to whisper about for once—and, even better, the shopkeeper couldn’t make even a coin on the paint.
“Get back here, girl!”the owner roared.Mayté picked up her pace.Past the swatches of parchment in a variety of colors—lively teal like the ocean, a deep sunset orange, and rich cactus green.No one tried to stop her.Those cowards wouldn’t.She stepped outside.The summer breeze carried freedom along with the scent of the distant ocean and fried tortillas.She pulled her rebozo over her head before completing her escape into the crowded street mercado.
The market was the heart of Milagro.Always packed during the summer and located between the pueblo district—with its homes stacked atop each other and ladders used to reach the higher levels—and the cathedrals all competing for the holy attention of Dios and Los Santos Sagrados.Every morning, vendors set up their stalls and tents on the dusty streets and stayed until sundown.Their quirky assortment of wares added a welcome burst of color against the surrounding stucco buildings, all dull shades of sand and cream with matching orange rooftops.Mayté pushed her way through a family clad in brightly patterned skirts and rebozos.No one could catch her now.
