Hey everyone =) Sorry I left this so long; I had finals then Christmas and on top of it all I ran into writers' block. But I finally broke through today and finished this =D So this is your holiday present. Enjoy!
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When I open my eyes in the morning, I see a ceiling as familiar to me as the one in my bedroom at home. I sit up on the bed that pulls out from Uncle Oscars' couch, the blanket still clinging to the front of my hoodie, and look around his living room. Just like your typical bachelor pad, it's messy. Crusty dishes and car magazines litter the coffee table in front of me. The remote for the TV pokes out from underneath one of the pages. Sunlight filters through the dirty windows to my right.
I pull my hair back from my right temple and scratch my head, examining the sun falling on the floor. It caresses my face with warm and loving fingers. I close my eyes and smile, enjoying the sensation. Today is a new and beautiful day.
"Finally, you're awake!" The voice startles me, and I turn back up front. The bit of blanket covering my right shoulder falls. It's only Uncle Oscar, who's waving a "good morning" to me with a spatula from the stove. I can see him because there's a breakfast bar between the living room and the kitchen. I become suddenly aware of the sizzling aroma of sausage and chorizo and realize I'm starving. Pushing the rest of the blanket off me, I scoot off the futon, scampering past the TV and the breakfast bar (which is covered in old newspapers) to sit at the kitchen table.
"Would you like some breakfast, dormilona?" Uncle raises his eyebrows at how fast I sit down.
"Yes please." I grin.
"What if I don't give you any, eh, chica?" He asks as he turns back to the frying pan.
"Look how skinny I am, Tio. I'm undernourished enough as it is. I would starve to death if you didn't feed me. You wouldn't want to have my death on your conscience, would you?"
My uncle chuckles as he lays a platter each of breakfast burritos and scrambled eggs in the middle of the table. "That I wouldn't," he says, opening the fridge. I get up and grab two glasses and two plates. Uncle Oscar takes the glasses from me and fills one with orange juice. The other he puts away as I lay down forks for us. When he sits down, I've already started eating and he has a mug full of coffee. He offers the pot to me, but I shake my head. I like coffee well enough, but Tio Oscar makes it too strong for me. For a while, the only sounds that we make are the scraping of forks over the plates and sipping our drinks.
"That was great, Tio. Thank you," I smile when we've finished.
"No problem, 'Drea. What's on the agenda for today?" Uncle Oscar leans back in his chair and sips some more coffee, looking at me over the mug.
I shrug. "I'm not sure. I have to go home to grab some stuff, though."
My uncle frowns. "What's going on at home, chica? You've been sleeping at my place more than at yours."
"The usual." I look away. "It's nothing I can't handle." I can feel his eyes on me and my body heats up with embarrassment. I love Uncle Oscar, but I really hate when he asks questions like that. He knows why I don't go home, or at least the basics. I don't tell him anything else; he has enough to worry about without fretting over me too.
"You know you can talk to me, Andrea." He only uses my full name when he's being serious.
"I know, Tio. But really, I'm fine." Still without looking at him, I gather up the dishes, place them in the sink, and start running the hot water. I pour enough Dawn in there for a Thanksgiving dinner, not breakfast for two people. I scrub vigorously, not because the dishes are overly dirty but because I'm trying to wash Uncle Oscars' concerned expression from my mind.
"When you're done at home, you can swing back by the garage. Reuben's been sick so I could use an extra hand." My uncle offers.
"I will, Tio." I tell the dishes.
The floor squeaks as my uncle pushes his chair back. He sets his empty coffee mug in the sink and places his hand on my shoulder comfortingly. "I'll finish up here, mi hijita. You go do what you have to."
"Sure you will. If I didn't clean every time I was here, this place would look ten times worse." I snort. But I look up at my uncle and smile as I hand him the dishtowel. "You sure you can handle it?"
"I suppose I gotta man up sometime." Uncle Oscar takes the towel from me with only two fingers, wrinkling his nose like it's a dirty diaper. We both laugh. I grab my keys and promise to be back in an hour.
…
I turn down my street, and feel nauseous. There's a tension in my stomach again, but it's not at all like the kind I get before a race. It's a sick kind of dread. I never know what I'm going to find when I walk through my front door. I park in my driveway and cut the engine, comparing it to walking into a battlefield without knowing what's out there. Sometimes it's quiet and dead: a ceasefire. Other times I walk right into the crossfire with blood and bullets flying all around me.
Sitting here worrying about what's inside won't get me out any sooner. I take a deep breath and push the button that opens the garage door. It glides open, revealing a white Ford Focus and a dark blue Honda Civic. Shit. They were both home. Like you expected them to be anywhere else?,the cynical little voice in the back of my head asks. I tell it to shut up, grab my duffel bag, and get out of my Cobalt.
I duck into the shadows of the garage and use my house key (also rarely used) on the "Princess" keychain I got three boyfriends ago. Not my boyfriend – I haven't had one since high school – my mothers', trying to get me to like him. Eventually he went to jail and Mom picked up another guy. Just like she always does.
The door creaks slightly as it opens. A sun-filled yet silent kitchen greets me. I'm not about to ruin it, so I bound around the corner to my left. I grab the banister and whip myself around the tight corner and up the stairs. My Nikes make no sound on the carpet. The door to my bedroom is crowded top to bottom with pictures and drawings. More importantly, it's closed, just how I left it. But that doesn't mean the rest of my room is the same. I gingerly open my door and hear a ripping as I step inside. I smile and reach up to the top of my door. I take the Scotch tape carefully off the wood. I've always been particular about my privacy. Ever since I started racing and been out of the house a lot more, I've pulled out this little trick. Now I can tell if anyone's been in my room. I have important stuff in here I don't want anyone to find.
I look around my room, checking once again to make sure everything is in its' place. My bathroom door to my left is ajar and also covered with pictures. Along the same wall is my closet, the sliding door showcasing posters of movie stars and anime characters. Facing me on the opposite wall is my bookcase, my beanbag chair between it and the window. The pink curtains are drawn, but the strong sun shines through, casting a cherry blossom glow over the white carpet and bedspread, the rose petal walls. Next to the window is my desk, which faces the closet like my bed does. The office chair is pushed in and the lamp stares down forlornly at the place my laptop used to occupy before I moved it permanently to Uncle Oscars'. My dresser takes up nearly the whole wall just beside the door. Makeup, jewelry, my smaller stuffed animals and an assortment of other trinkets litter the top. The larger ones occupy the space from my bed to the corner the dresser leaves free. Though I'm not here often anymore, I still feel at home here. This is my room, my own little corner of the world.
But first things first – I need to change. I walk around to the front of my dresser and open drawers, taking out a fresh pair of socks, a faded pair of indigo skinny jeans, my favorite white tank top, and the pink zip-up sweatshirt Uncle Oscar bought me for my last birthday. I quickly shuck off my clothes and toss them, and the dirty ones in my bag, in the already full hamper – Mom must not be feeling very domestic lately. I'll have to find a night to do laundry later this week. After wiggling into my skinnys, I grab as many clean clothes out of my dresser as I can. Turning around to my bed, I shove them in my bag. Urgency fuels my movements. This house is never silent for long.
I take a second between dashing back and forth from my dresser and look in the mirror. My long face, tanned from the constant San Diego sun, is flushed, the color high on my cheekbones. Thick, black hair falls around it in wisps, bangs falling back over my right eye. The visible eye is a deep chocolate rimmed with black eyeliner, smudged from the night before because I'd run out of makeup remover. Gotta pick up some more at Walgreens'.
The zipper makes a sound like a mini engine as I rip it shut. I turn one last time to my dresser and open the far left drawer. To anyone else, this is my junk drawer, but that's to disguise the importance of what's inside. Reaching all the way to the back, my small fingers close around a small key. I use it to open my jewelry box, which sits at the very corner of my dresser and pushed back towards the mirror. I have a key for two reasons: my expensive jewelry and my racing money are kept in here. I take out the secret compartment at the bottom and quickly count it. It's all here. I add most of my winnings from last night, keeping some for shopping and my own betting.
I've just locked the box back up again and am in the process of putting the key back when I hear my door bang open. I jump violently, instinctively dropping the key in the drawer and slamming it shut. I look up and meet my mothers' bloodshot eyes. For Christs' sake, it's not even noon.
"Andrea." She raises her arms to me. She's dressed in a baggy gray sweatshirt with the collar ripped out; it falls off one shoulder. It's so big it hangs to her thighs. The rest of her legs are covered with a pair of black leggings that were in fashion about 10 years ago. Her hair is a crows' nest trying to be tamed with a ponytail. "Andrea," she reapeats, "my baby. Why didn't you come home last night?"
"I was out, Mom. Remember? I don't live here anymore."
"Since when don't you live here anymore?" My mom cocks her head, looking like a confused little girl.
"Since I -,"
"Why don't you come home to me, Andrea?" She suddenly shrieks.
"Mom, calm do-,"
"Who were you out with?" Her eyes have grown huge, her face twisted with abrupt anger. "Some guy you just met, some old guy you're fucking for money?" She closes the gap between us in three strides and grips my arm. "Tell me!"
"Let go, Mom! You're hurting me!" I twist, trying to break free, but her hand is like a vice.
At that, her eyes clear somewhat; she becomes lucid. She blinks. "You," she breathes.
I say nothing, just stare blankly back at her, wondering what she's going to do next.
Narrowing her eyes, she demands, "Where the hell have you been?"
"We've been over this," I say icily.
"Don't give me that bullshit." She brings me closer. I can smell the alcohol and God-knows-what-other stuff on her breath. "Answer me."
"I told you," I say with exasperation, "with Tio Oscar."
"What? Again? With my good-for-nothing brother? You know Carlos and I need you here-,"
"To do what? Shoot up with you and clean up around his stupid friends passed out on the couch? I have a future, Mom, and Uncle Oscar is helping me get there. He's worth more than you'll ever be." That seems to stun her momentarily; her eyes glaze over again and she drops my arm. I snatch my duffel bag up from my bed and run out of the house.
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Thanks for reading! Please review and look out for chapter 4!
