“You all right?”
A wild mass of hair threatens domination over her tanned, slender body, and large, dark eyes peer up at me. “What?”
“That jerk.” I tip my chin at the coward, now long gone. “Why was he chasing you?”
I carefully sweep away the bits of gravel and grime on her skinned knee, and she hisses through clenched teeth, stiffening.
“We were playing tag for something to do.” She shrugs. “I was the last one for him to get. He almost didn’t have me.”
I grunt, holding back a blunt comment about how she was a goner, and pull her up by her small hand. A trail of blood trickles down her leg from the gash on her knee.
The cut, while nasty, isn’t deep even if it looks like it may hurt. Sometimes the smallest cuts leave the most damage. And sometimes, a cut doesn’t have to break the skin to hurt like a son of a bitch.
She wipes at her face, marred with sweat and dirt, leaving grungy streaks across one cheek.
“He is a jerk, isn’t he?” It’s as if she’s asking permission to trash talk the guy.
“Yeah, and a bully.” I flick my hair out of my eyes.
A shy smile tugs at the corners of her full mouth and it feels like the dawn of the sun. I squint at its brightness. So bright I feel her warmth. How does she do that? Go from pissed to happy in a split second?
“Grange,” Brenda shouts, and we both turn toward the house I just came from.
The girl’s watchful gaze fixes on me, and countless questions swim in her beguiling coal-dark eyes. Suddenly, I’m grateful for Brenda and even the dreaded meet the foster parents.
Not a chance I’m sticking around for the interrogation so I sprint toward the house, my combat boots sticking to the melted pavement thanks to the late summer heat.
“Hey! What’s your name?” the girl says, and I don’t stop or look back. “Thank you.”
Her soft-spoken gratitude does strange things to my insides as my chest tightens and heart flips.
At the front step, Brenda delivers an exasperated frown for my not staying put like I was told to do.
“Were you smoking?” Her chiding tone forces an apologetic smile. There’s no point denying it—she can smell it on me.
“How many times do I have to tell you—no smoking? Besides stunting your growth, they’ll ruin your lungs. No killing yourself on my watch, young man.”
With a hand on the front door, she pauses and flips her palm out. Normally, indifference or ignorance works with most adults, but this is Brenda. She has brass balls. She once stuck her hand down the front of some kid’s pants—junk be damned—for the drugs they were hiding.
“Fine.” I coolly hand over the pack.
She stuffs them in her pocket and runs her fingers through my unruly, dark brown curls, trying to make me look presentable. Good luck with that. I dodge her hands, grumbling about not needing a mother.
Brenda Alpert is the one constant in my life, not counting Molly—but she’s gone. At barely five feet five, the social worker doesn’t look like much. Rail thin with red curls, paper-white skin, and big green eyes.
Over the years, we’ve had our differences—she swears I’m the bane of her existence—and more times than not, I give her a hard time, but she’s all I know.
Side by side, we enter the Garcias’ house, my new foster parents. From what Brenda has said, they are a working-class couple. No kids of their own but a house full of foster boys. With the addition of me, it’ll be five in total.
The place is small, clean but cluttered with mismatched furniture and colorful walls adorned with pictures of old and young alike. Family, I’m guessing, and a picture of Jesus on the cross.
I cast my eyes to the shaggy, dark carpet and swallow uncomfortably, pushing down my anxiety. This drill isn’t new, and yet my intense desire to flee rages inside of me. This is my life as much as I wish it wasn’t.
The elusive thing
Freshman/Sophomore year
EVA
“The empanadas need to go on a tray.” Mamá rests her elbows on the dresser, bowing her head in exhaustion.
Guilt twists my stomach, curdling the chorizo I had for lunch. I’m trying to lessen the work but it isn’t enough. We have been working since the break of dawn to prepare for this evening’s celebration.
Our weekends are always busy with chores around the house, but today has added to our usual load. I’m fourteen today and we’re having family and friends over to celebrate my birthday.
“I’ll do it, Mamá.” I bolt for the hall, dropping the blouse I’d just lifted from the laundry basket of neatly folded clothes.
“I can—” Bianca, my older sister, dumps the rolled socks into a drawer, frustrated as she tries to grab for me but fails. “Eva, I know what to do. Let me go.”
“Bianca, mi hermosa, stay.” My mother has a way of making you feel special even when doing the most boring things. “Your sister will do it. Gracias, mi pequeña.”
Grateful for Mamá’s encouragement, I bound down the stairs, happy to help. She’s been cooking all morning for not only the party but the week ahead.
My parents work long hours, with Papi gone for long stretches at a time and Mamá working six days a week. She’s a waitress—the daybreak shift at a truck stop—and then she cleans homes, not making it home until well past dinner.
My father is a truck driver, transporting goods across the western United States. He’s usually gone for days at a time, leaving only Sunday for family time and to do things around the house. And even still, sometimes Papi isn’t even here because he’s working.
During the summer, my sister and I usually visit our grandfather in Spain and return in time for my birthday and the start of school. This year, we came home several weeks earlier because Abuelo had a business trip.
I fly through the house as if carried by the wind, skidding along the cool tiles of the kitchen with a huge grin on my face. But it doesn’t last long.
One minute I’m smiling and the next, my mouth hangs wide open and a chill skitters along my spine at the sight of someone in our kitchen. Startled and anxious to stand still, I grab the counter, bracing for a rocky stop.
Even with his back to me, I’d know this boy anywhere with his dark curls and tall, lean body.
It’s him. The boy from the street, who now lives next door. The one who helped me. I’ve caught glimpses of him over the past couple of weeks.
Alert, he tenses, peering over his shoulder at me, and his hair flops onto his forehead. Eyes wide and round like shiny brown buttons, his mouth gapes open, crumbs on his lips.
He has four whole empanadas and one half-eaten in one hand. He’s stealing our food and as if trying to get rid of the evidence, he licks his lips.
His gaze flashes from me to the food and back again before angling toward the door. Our back door is always locked. It was locked when we went upstairs after lunch. How did he get in?
“Wait!” I rush at him.
His tall, imposing frame should frighten me but it’s the other way around. He’s alarmed and I don’t want to scare him away. Ready to bolt, he’s halfway out the door and the sun’s golden rays cast yellow beams around him.