"Back the hell off my brother, Damien. We've been through this before." Callie shoved the young man roughly aside, pushing her way into the shared bathroom and readjusting the red bandana wrapped around her brown hair.
Jude was perched mutely on the makeshift bed, really just a musty pile of blankets covering the cold concrete, picking at the blue polish on his fingers while enigmatically absorbing the argument caused by his existence.
"Damn, girl, I just be sayin'—I was cookin' at his age. What are you, little freak, like 11 now?" The adolescent turned on his heel and stared at Jude, who stared blankly back, as indecipherable as he had been yesterday, and the month before, and the year prior to that.
"It's unnerving, Cal. It's bad enough that the kid don't speak, but dude's gotta start pullin' his own weight. I be tryin' to have your back. I heard em choppin' it up, what to do with him. They be stayin' up whisperin' the last few nights. Pretty soon, you not gonna be callin' the shots no more, no matter how good you run them streets. It's been two years. We ain't got no surplus to be feedin'… feedin'… what do you call them things that stick to whales?"
"Barnacles?" Callie rolled her eyes into the cracked mirror that was propped up on an inoperable sink, the expression multiplying before vanishing; Damien's face, scrunched up in comical concentration, peered back at her through the looking glass. She swallowed hard, trying to repress the fear that had crawled its way up her throat like nausea. "You should have stayed in school."
Whipping the towel off its rack with rapid speed, Callie spun and lashed out at the shirtless teen, playfully pelting his skin with the damp rag in an effort to ease her nerves, to deny the inevitable recognition of his words. She needed a plan, and fast.
"Yeah, well, maybe you should have too." Damien caught the weapon in his open palm, yanking it gently away from Callie. He nudged his head in Jude's direction, adding, "You and dat boy both" to the statement before sauntering away, leaving her in sudden, oppressive silence.
The leaning walls of their refuge, really just an abandoned home in a neglected neighborhood of San Ysidro, pressed heavily against her heart, and she couldn't remember having ever felt so alone.
Hours later, after the sun had gone down and so had her brother, Callie made her way through the crowded kitchen, brushing at the thick smoke that rose and gathered like storm clouds from the glass tubes and connected piping littered across the plastic table.
She scanned the room for Marco's tanned face, searching for the row of tattooed tears that dropped from his eye to his cheek, making him shine brighter in veiled light. She slid beside him as he counted the cash, lurking in the shadows to avoid disruption, holding her gaze haughty and off of the floor. She couldn't slip now.
"Yo, bro," a voice cut through the hum of activity in the room, "I think BG Bitch be waiting for ya. Think she wants some of your attention." Hoots and hollers echoed the pronouncement, and Callie fought the reddening of her cheeks.
"You can shut your fucking mouth, Joe, or I can shut it for you." She threatened the shadows now, stepping out of obscurity and lowering the register of her voice as she dropped to her knees before Marco; she spoke quickly, hoping to avoid the onslaught of Joe's verbal retaliation. "I need to talk to you," she widened her eyes and placed a hand on his denim-clad thigh, "please."
As she followed him out the back door and into the cloudless night, only one thought was clear in her mind: She would never let Jude work in that kitchen.