Four: Dirty Money
It was just after six, and Santana found herself propped up on a stool in Anita's bathroom. Santana refused to cry out as the older woman poked and prodded her bruises. The other woman muttered something in Spanish, making a small 'tut-tut' sound in the back of her throat.
'Well, it doesn't look too bad," she said, sitting back. "Or at least I've seen worse." She opened up her first aid kit, taking out a cream. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me what happened." She unscrewed the lid, and applied a little of the cream to the worst of Santana's bruises.
"I've already told you," Santana said, biting back a hiss of pain, "nothing happened."
Anita snorted. "Don't try to bullshit me, Santanita. I raised three sons on my own. I can tell a lie from a million miles away."
"On your own?"
"My husband died just before the third was born." Finished Anita put the cream away. She turned back to Santana with a stern look in her eye. "And don't try to change the subject."
"I just…I don't want to talk about it," Santana sobbed, trying to force the waterworks. Where evasion didn't work, tears always did.
Anita snorted. 'Don't give me crocodile tears, girl."
Santana instantly switched it off with a melodramatic sigh. "It really wasn't anything…much. There were these three girls…and, she just looked…I don't know, so freakin' defenceless. I couldn't just…" Santana trailed off, unable to explain it.
Anita assessed the girl and shook her head, dismissing it. "Well, it looks like you gave them one hell of a fight." She gave the girl a smile. "How'd the other girls look afterwards?"
"Worse than me," Santana informed her with an impish grin.
"Well, that's what they get for messing with a spitfire."
Santana blushed, looking away. Anita laughed, a deep, good-natured laugh. For some reason it made Santana feel…safe…comforted. She smiled hesitantly up at the other woman.
"I should probably get home," Santana said, slipping off the stool. "Thanks for…you know…thanks."
"You're welcome," Anita acknowledged.
"Well, bye Anita."
"Abuela," the other woman reminded her. Santana just gave her another casual wave over her shoulder.
Santana let herself out. The night was coming earlier now, and the watery light of dusk was rapidly fading. Down in the courtyard below the safety lights flickered into existence. Santana went to the balcony and looked out over the street. A few kids were kicking the can around in the streets. Nearby, some of their older cohorts tagged the sidewalk. Why are we living in this dump, Santana wondered. Sighing, she leant against the balcony rail.
A pair of headlights lit up the streets. The kids on the street fled, scattering in every different direction. A taxi pulled up out the front of the building. The door cracked open, but nobody stepped out for a moment. Then a woman stepped out of the cab. Santana jerked up as she recognised her mother, standing there in her slinkiest black dress and monster heels.
Rita said something to someone inside the cab. A man leant out the door. They seemed to be arguing. Angrily the man stuffed a wad of bills into Rita's hands. Santana's eyes widened in surprise as her mother desperately stuffed them into her purse. The man said something, and then slammed the taxi door in Rita's face. The taxi drove off. Wearily Rita sighed and headed up the stairs.
As she reached the top, Santana met her eyes. Santana took in her mother's appearance, examining the slinky dress and smudged red lipstick. An unspoken message passed between them. They both knew what the money had been for. Rita pushed past her daughter, rummaging through her bags for her keys.
"Why," Santana asked hollowly.
'We need the money," her mother replied. Her tone didn't brook any discussion.
"Why can't dad pay," Santana asked angrily. "He has enough money for it. What's more, why are we even in this hellhole to begin with? I mean…" She trailed off, shaking her head in disgust. Her mother silently opened the door and stepped inside. Santana followed her mother. The door swung shut behind them.
