Read The Afterlife for Free Online

Fausto mimicked. He picked up his bowl of
menudo
and stirred its heavy broth with a spoon. "It's all cold, man! I can't eat my breakfast in peace." Still, he took a spoonful and ate, clicking his tongue because it was so good. The dude had no manners; eating in front of someone and not sharing.
    I was tired of the show. I stepped through the wall and ventured into the street. Two dogs were sniffing each other as they went round and round, head to tail. Across the street, two kids on the front lawn were playing sword fight with rolled-up newspapers. It seemed like a lot of fun, and good practice for a time when they might need to know such a skill. Then a herd of kids appeared, all laughing, and some barefoot. They had no sense of seasonal changes, no sense that it was no longer summer but mid-fall.
    "God," I mouthed, my head lifted skyward. "Are you really up there?"
    The wind was picking up. My instincts were picking up, too. I could always hunt Yellow Shoes later. I had somewhere else to go. I winced when I heard a scream coming from the house. Someone was hurting, and, thank God, it wasn't me. It wasn't anyone decent, just two thugs heading for an early grave.

    I WAS GOING TO say good-bye to Rachel, a girl I knew when she and I were little. She beat me up a lot, the
cholita,
and once stole my trike when I was just out of my Pampers. I knew everything about her. We grew up together on the same street. She was bad, and at thirteen had a tattoo on her arm that said
mala.
In time she wiggled into a tight dress and looked fine. But she was always tough, crazy, and a mess—her dad was in Corcoran, her mother a barfly in red shoes and a skirt too short for her age. While I don't blame her, Rachel was one of the reasons why I became a ghost. That evening I was killed, she and I were going to hook up. I liked her a lot, even when she sometimes taunted me by saying, "You remember when I used to kick your ass?" Rachel, my girl from my childhood. I would go through the pain of yet another deadly exit if it meant one long kiss from her. A swap of tongues, a tight embrace under the full moon of October. Yeah, I would do it again.
    When I passed through the wall of her house, she was sitting on the couch, the TV muted. Though it was almost noon, she was dressed in her pajamas. Her eyes were red. A smudge of black mascara on her cheek was the color of twilight. I suspected at first that she had a headache, because she was rubbing her forehead. Then I saw: She was applying a face ointment, a preventive measure for pimples? She was sad about me, yet thinking about how to look pretty. It made sense, more sense than what was appearing on television: a muscle truck was crawling up the back of a Volkswagen Beetle.

    I sat next to her on the couch.
    "Rachel," I whispered.
    She began rubbing the soft area under her eyes. A small mirror rested on her knees.
    "Rachel," I called. "Its me. Your
novio
who never got home."
    I had to reflect on that piece of truth. Was that really my status—a
novio?
A boyfriend? I was claiming a title I hadn't earned. We hadn't even danced together, let alone walk hand in hand at school.
    She stopped fussing with her looks when I blew a coldness on her throat. When I blew on her ear, she felt a presence. She put down the jar in her hand and stood up, the mirror flashing as it fell to the floor. She touched the top button of her pajamas and buttoned it. The girl was modest.
    "Rachel," I mouthed. "I never even had the chance to hold your hand."

    She wet her lips with the bud of her tongue. "Oh, Chuy" she remarked absently. She was thinking of me after all.
    "It didn't hurt that much," I lied, touched that she thought of me. I closed my eyes and shuddered at the pain of the knife in my lower back. That had hurt. And it hurt to watch my blood spill and pool in the corner of the restroom. I opened my eyes because I had seen enough.
    Rachel crossed the living room and stood over the floor furnace. She was cold from