I don't answer right away. My throat feels tight, like even breathing around the possibility is risky. I can't let anything suggest emotion.
Then the loudspeaker crackles overhead, spitting out some half-muffled command about rec time ending early. A few men groan. Somebody curses. The whole block shifts with that familiar prison irritation. Everybody is ready to act like they don't care, while caring too damn much.
I tuck the notebook under my arm and stand.
I'll read the letter. Eventually. But I'm not ready to hear about how much I hurt her. Not yet. Everything is still too raw, too fresh. Opening it would be like throwing salt into a wound that hasn't even started to scar over.
CHAPTER 6
RAUL
…14 years old
T-Pain's "Blow Ya Mind" rattles low from Diego's boombox, the bass thumping just enough to blur with the hum of the box fan in the window. We're sprawled in his family's living room, a little too hot even with the blinds half-drawn.
Pictures are scattered across the walls and shelves, like memories frozen in time. Thanks to Aunt Val, I get to see Mom's face every day. Dad's too, in those same frames. He hasn't come around much since we moved in. After that first week, he broke down. Aunt Val said he had a job he couldn't pass up, but I've only seen him a handful of times in the last year. Video games have been a solid distraction.
The faded floral couch sags in the middle. The coffee table is crowded with a half-eaten bag of plantain chips, tangled game controllers, and an old ashtray nobody's bothered to dump. The TV glows with the dusty yellow-blue haze of Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. The place smells like old AC, lunch leftovers, and the sweet chemical bite of Diego's over-sprayed Axe cologne.
A soft knock hits the door, and Diego hops up.
"Hey, Ty."
"Hey, DJ." They bump shoulders like they've done it a thousand times. Ty leans past him and nods at me. "Sup, Raul? Michael will be here soon."
"Hell yeah. What's the plan?" I ask, fist-bumping Ty as he drops onto the couch beside me. My eyes stay locked on the screen while my character runs through the streets and the radio thumps in the background.
"There's a party tonight. You in?" Ty glances between us.
"Ma's out at work tonight, so I'm down. Where's it at?"
"I think it's at Michael's dad's house."
"Oh, hell yeah, we're down," I say.
"Cool. I'll let him know."
Music thumps loud from Michael's beat-up Honda Civic, windows down because the AC quit a few months back. Six of us cram into the tiny car like sardines. Diego and I share the rear passenger seat, elbows jammed into our sides. Liam and Kyle sprawl across the back bench — brothers who look almost like twins, both over six feet tall with deep brown eyes and darker skin. Liam's got a fresh buzz cut; Kyle rocks a short afro. Their long legs need the middle seat just to fit. I'm the heaviest one here by quite a few pounds, so it's tight. The night air rushes in, heavy with mist and distant charcoal smoke.
We pull into a gas station parking lot.
"Aight, who's running in for beer?" Ty asks from the front.
My neck sweats as I glance around at the familiar faces. None of us are 21. None of us could pass for it either.
"Yeah, man, Kyle and I got it." Liam pops the door. "Keep it running." He winks.
Kyle heads straight to the cashier, a young girl with curly dark hair pulled into a high ponytail. He asks her something, pointing to the cigarette wall behind her. She turns her back to check. He points lower; she follows his direction and squats down to investigate.
Liam's hood is up, sunglasses on even at dusk. He walks out casually, something tucked under his arm like a football.
Kyle keeps talking to the young woman. She stands, shrugs, and waves him off apologetically. He waves back before he strolls out, like nothing happened.
They slide back in at the same time. "Drive," Kyle says flat.
"What'd you score?"
"Twelve-pack," Liam grins, holding up the case.