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1
CAMILA
“Ican’t believe I’ve got to go to Yorktown Heights for school,” I complain, pouting at my mom, who continues to pack my suitcase. Something I’ve purposely been putting off as I don’t want to leave Mexico. “I mean what respectable place is called Yorktown?”
She shakes her head. “It’s only forty-five minutes from New York City.”
I sigh heavily, running my fingers through my hair.
“You know it’s a right of passage. Both I and your father went to Crystal Lake. It’s where we met, you know?”
I roll my eyes as she’s told me the story a million times.
“Mom, you’ve told me the story enough times,” I interrupt with a gentle chuckle, trying to soften the blow of my disinterest. “I know it by heart.”
Her hands pause on a neatly folded sweater, and her eyes meet mine, filled with a mix of nostalgia and expectation. “But it’s important, mija. It’s your turn to make memories there.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, watching her resume her task with a precision that only mothers seem to possess. “Sergio and Jorge already blazed that trail. Can’t I just do something different?”
She shakes her head, placing the sweater in the suitcase as if it were made of glass. “Family tradition isn’t about doing something new; it’s about sharing an experience that bonds us.”
A sigh escapes me, defeated by the weight of generations. “But what if I don’t find what you and Dad found there? What if I don’t fit in?”
Her laughter is a soft melody that fills the room. “You’re an Aguilar. You’ll do more than just fit in—you’ll stand out.”
“I’m not so sure I want to stand out,” I murmur, picking at the frayed edge of the comforter.
Mom sits beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Crystal Lake isn’t just about following tradition. It’s about finding your own path. Your brothers might have gone, but their stories aren’t yours.”
I lean into her warmth, letting her assurance wash over me. Sergio and Jorge had carved their own legacies at Crystal Lake University—tales of academic triumphs and wild escapades that seemed too large for me to step into.
“You’ll create your own legacy,” she insists with a confidence that almost makes me believe it.
“I just hope it doesn’t involve being kidnapped by some mobster looking for intel,” I joke half-heartedly.
Mom pulls back slightly, her eyes searching mine with an intensity that borders on protective scrutiny. “You know we’ve taken every precaution.”
I nod; the seriousness of our family’s position in this world is never far from my thoughts, particularly when I’m about to start school which a bunch of criminal empire heirs, politicians sons and all kinds of corrupt and powerful people.
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” she says softly.
“I promise.” The words feel heavy on my tongue—a vow that carries more weight than any academic commitment ever could. After all, Crystal Lake University is the home to countless mafia heirs and heirs of rich families. It’s not a standard university with normal people.
Her smile returns, warm and reassuring, as she stands up and resumes packing my life into a suitcase bound for new beginnings.
The weight of attending Crystal Lake University presses on me like the thick humidity of a summer day in Mexico. I shove the feeling aside and grab a stack of clothes, folding them with less care than Mom but enough to satisfy her watchful eye.
She hums an old lullaby, a tune that once could soothe my fears. It feels out of place now, like a whispered promise in a room full of shouting. But I let the melody seep in, trying to believe it could still chase away the dread pooling in my stomach.
“Will you call every day?” I ask, breaking the silence between us. My voice wavers slightly, betraying the uncertainty I’m trying to conceal.
Her hands pause again, and she gives me that knowing look—the one that sees right through my façade. “If you need me to, yes. But remember, you’re not just Camila Aguilar at Crystal Lake. You’re Camila—brilliant, beautiful, and ready to take on the world. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
I want to believe her—about the taking on the world part, at least. The rest feels like armor I’m not sure I know how to wear, a mantle of confidence that feels foreign on my shoulders.
The zipper closes with a finality I’m not ready for. Mom hauls it off the bed and places it by the door. It stands packed and imposing, a monolith of impending change, new beginnings, and unknown challenges. Mom reaches for my hand, squeezing it with a strength that belies her delicate frame.
“Time to go,” she declares.
