by S. M. West
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.
“Take this too.” Words tumble from my mouth like a waterfall and I scramble to open a container with freshly baked star-shaped churros.
The sugary cinnamon hits my nostrils, and instantly, my mouth waters. Churros are my favorite. Sweet things are a treat we can’t afford, and with my birthday cake, Bianca was all too happy to point out my greediness in wanting them. But Mamá insisted we make a large batch.
Why am I giving some to this strange boy? He’s stealing.
I silence the nasty voice telling me not to share—that’s not how I was raised. If he’s here, there must be a valid reason. He does have a roof over his head and surely the Garcias must feed him, yet something tells me things aren’t as they seem.
The boy watches as I wrap the baked goods in a paper towel. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you ne
ed it more than I do.”
“I don’t need your charity, girl,” he spits as if biting into a rotten apple, and I step back.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean...I love churros. They’re my favorite. I’ve never met anyone who didn’t like them.”
“Thanks.” He straightens, tugging at the waist of his jeans like it’s no big deal, but with the gratitude in his gaze, I’m guessing he thinks the opposite. “What’s your name?”
“Eva Ramirez.” My name has barely left my lips when I follow fast with a question of my own, afraid he won’t answer again. “What’s yours?”
“Jared. Jared Grange.”
“Hi, Jared. It’s nice to meet you.” I extend my hand.
His eyes widen and eyebrows rise at my polite gesture as if I’m an alien. Heat climbs up my neck and he chuckles. Even at my expense, the sound warms my insides, as his large, strong grip swallows my small hand.
“You live with the Garcias?”
He nods, shoving the rest of the empanada in his mouth. “You make this?”
If I wasn’t proud of my part in the cooking, I’d say something about how rude it is to talk with his mouth full. Instead, I beam.
“Yes. Do you want more?”
Why am I offering when he already has more than enough? We made a lot for the party, and the little he’s taken will go unnoticed, but any more and someone may ask questions.
“Nah, I’m good. I gotta go.” He hikes up a shoulder and turns on his heel.
“Wait, um…are you…do you, ah…” I trip over my tongue, nerves tangling my brain and insides.
He cocks an eyebrow, resting his hip against the counter, and waits, staring. The corner of his lips twitch upward, as if amused with my awkwardness.
I channel my older sister, Bianca, and how cool and confident she is with boys. “See ya.”
“Yeah, see ya around, kid.” He dips his chin and in a blink, the doorway is empty.
I forgot to ask why or how he broke in or tell him not to do it again. What he did was wrong, but I won’t tell a soul. His secret is safe with me.
“Eva, come help clean the bathrooms! Mamá didn’t say take a break!” Bianca’s aggravated tone pulls me from my thoughts.
I lock the back door, double check it’s secure, and place the food on the tray before heading upstairs. My mother lies on the bed, a cool washcloth over her forehead.
“You okay?” I crawl onto the mattress and snuggle into her warmth.
Bianca glowers from the door to the bathroom, yellow rubber-gloved hands on her hips. She likely thinks I’m kissing up, trying to get out of chores. I’m not.
“I’ll be all right, mi pequeña.” My mother strokes my hair affectionately. “It’s been a long day. I’m tired and need a nap before tonight. We will have so much fun.”
She tries to inject enthusiasm into her tone, but fatigue overshadows her efforts.
My sister marches to the bed and smacks my butt.
“Come help. I’ve still got to shower and do my hair and makeup.”
“Ow.” I jump at the sharp sting and accidentally disturb my mother, who moans and grasps her aching head.
“Girls.” My father stands in the doorway, all of his five-foot-five stature displeased. “Go. Leave your mother.”
“Sorry, Papi,” we say in unison, and I gingerly climb off the bed.
I rub at my backside and stick my tongue out at my sister, making sure my father isn’t looking. Bianca does the same and we giggle, shutting the bathroom door.
My party is a smashing success, and like my mom promised, a lot of fun. We ate, danced, and laughed, and even as Bianca and I clean up the mess, I can’t help but smile.
“I’m going out.” She tosses the sponge in the bucket. “Tito is waiting for me.”
She’s sixteen, closer to seventeen, and a rule breaker.
“What?” I glance down the dark hallway, making sure Papi has gone to bed. “It’s late. You’ll get in trouble—”
“No, not if you keep your mouth shut and cover for me.” She looms over me, and I want to laugh.
She has, at most, an inch on my five-foot-two frame. I won’t be intimidated. Grabbing the bucket, I trudge to the laundry sink. The kitchen is clean and all that’s left is to dispose of the dirty water and the trash.
“And how am I supposed to cover for you?” I flick the light on and hoist the bucket to the basin.
“Lock the bathroom door, and if Papi comes in, tell him I’m not feeling well. I doubt he will. They’re sleeping and he has an early start tomorrow.”
She has used the sick ruse before, without my help, and gotten away with it. Something tells me she won’t be so lucky the second time around, but she can find out on her own.
“I want nothing to do with this.” I wipe my damp hands on my jeans and tuck the bucket into the corner.
“Eva, I busted my ass to help make your party as fantastic as it was. This is the least you could do.”
“And here I thought you did all that because you were a caring sister.” I can’t resist my sarcasm.
“Look at it this way, I’ll owe you.”
Quirking a brow, I’m skeptical, cocking my hip to one side. “I’ll never get what’s owed to me.”
It isn’t because she won’t repay the debt but because I will never need her to cover for me.
“Don’t be so quick to dismiss the offer. You’re going into high school. It’s different. You’d be surprised at what you may do.”
Her words give me pause. Bianca’s rebellion or need for independence or whatever you want to call it did start with high school. She has changed. But we aren’t alike.
“Eva, don’t be such a baby.”
“Fine.” Jaw clenched, I make my way up the stairs.
My long hair sticks to the back of my neck, and I gather it into a messy knot at the base of my skull. Exhausted and now grimy, I want a quick rinse off and then bed.
Piano practice with Mrs. Hernandez is first thing in the morning, and then I’m babysitting the Sanchez twins for most of the day. I better get some sleep.
After my shower, I’m cooler but now wired, sleep nowhere in sight. On my twin bed in the room I share with Bianca, the moonlight illuminates the dancing shapes of leaves and branches on the ceiling.
A gentle breeze floats, warm and thick, into my room, and a light whisper of the trees mingles with the distant sounds of voices, car engines, and horns. A loud thwack of metal startles me.
Curious, I get to my knees, elbows on the desk wedged between our beds, and I peer into the night. The Garcias’ screen door swings back and forth against the frame, and the person responsible for the offending noise—tall and lean—is bathed in the dim whitish glow from the light above the door.
It’s him.
Again.
I’m unable to make out his facial features, but his profile and the way he moves—cool and confident—tells me it’s him. He’s carrying a guitar case.
Jared.
He slinks like a cat, soundless and graceful, along the edge of the house, hugging the shadows. Where’s he going?
Pushing my face into the window screen to get a better look, I watch him sprint across the lawn to a car idling at the curb with its headlights off. The interior light blinks on as he slides into the passenger seat.
There’s a spotlight on the driver. Dark-haired buzzcut and a gleaming white-toothed grin. It’s the guy I’ve seen with Jared many times. He isn’t one of the foster boys living next door. And boy isn’t right, he’s more man.
The door shuts and darkness swallows them whole as the car roars to life and drives away.
Who is Jared Grange? He’s in foster care, but what put him there? And why’s he sneaking out at almost two in the morning?
The neighbor’s door slams just outside our window, a sound now as familiar as Bianca’s light snores, and I hop out of bed. It’s the third week of school and well past midnight.
Jared walks along the side of the Gar
cias’ house, and Ike isn’t waiting at the curb. I whip off my nightgown, a pair of shorts and T-shirt underneath, and throw on my shoes. I’m going to follow him.
Since my birthday, the first night I saw him sneak out, this has become his almost-nightly ritual. I want to know where he goes. If Ike’s waiting, they drive off and I have no way of following. But several nights a week, he’s on his own and then he heads down the street east of the houses, guitar case in hand.
I’ve seen him at school, and when our gazes lock we share a silent understanding but we don’t talk. We run in different circles, and even though he’s only a year ahead of me, he hangs with the seniors.
Tonight is a good night to follow him. Papi and Bianca aren’t home, and my mother is fast asleep. Once outside, I stick to the shadows, following at a safe distance behind the tall lone figure sauntering down the middle of the road.
Head held high, a backpack slung over one shoulder, he has a casual air about him that I envy, comfortable in his own skin.
My fascination with this confident, lonely boy is hard to explain. I feel this mysterious connection, as if I already know him. It’s baffling because that isn’t true and he wants nothing to do with me.
And yet, when I found him in our kitchen, I wasn’t afraid or angry. He felt both familiar—comforting even—and exciting.
He slows at the end of the street where the park is and looks over his shoulder. I freeze, and the warm moisture in the air clings to my already heated skin. My breath builds in my lungs like the pressure in a cooker, and his gaze cautiously sweeps the area.
Hidden by a few parked cars, I wait, and finally he drops onto the seesaw, pulling a cigarette and lighter from the front pocket of his bag. I inch closer, still covered by a car and with an unobstructed view of his profile.
He’s contemplative. An unlit cigarette hangs from his mouth, twitching slightly between his lips. Anticipation arises within me, unsure what he’ll do next. With a flick of his finger, the lighter flames and his face is now aglow, sharp angles and shadows. His eyelids flutter shut with the first inhale.