Caught in a Crossfire

Chapter 2

“Ready?”

“Ready.” I step up beside her, smiling in the good way I can.

As we start to walk to her house, I hear it before I start cringing. Mom falling down on the floor. Don't turn around, I say to myself, and keep walking, head down. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Focus, Autumn. Focus.

Yet I don't.

I stumble on a risen piece of concrete, and instead of smashing my face on concrete, I'm running smack into a chest. Before whoever saved me from bashing my skull open on the pavement says a word, I'm moving away and muttering a small thank you, and following Mrs. Maria to her house.

The guy behind me yells, “You're welcome!”

I don't respond back. I never really had that much interaction with teens my age, because I was always stuck in the house. Dad said to come back home at 3:30. No later than that, or else. When I was twelve, I was rebellious and I had enough hate for Dad that I didn't come home at 3:30. I came back at 5, because I was at the local bookstore. Mom, surprisingly, was unscathed. As she slept, Dad whipped his belt across his hand, whispering, “You've been a bad, bad child.”

I was in the closet for 6 hours, and I'd peed myself and threw up in his coat pocket when the smell made me sick. I didn't go to school the day after that, because Dad had beaten me until I was too bruised to even move.

I shake the memory from my head and see the front of Mrs. Maria. Her house reminds me of some house in the countryside. Slated roof. Blue and white paint on the door, window shutters and roof and chimney. Bench swing with chipped paint, a pot of peonies and roses on either side of the front porch. Bushes full of lilacs, lavender, and some Birds of Paradise brush against my skin in the light summer breeze.

“Mi casa es su casa.” she says, walking up to the door and opening it. She moves to let me walk in, and suddenly I realize how much work I have to do.

There's dust gathering on the shelf above the fireplace, magazines littered on the floor, candy wrappers on the wooden floor along with shopping receipts dust the floor, her tray that has her usual silver teapot and teacups is on the floor, the teapot on the floor and spilling coffee on the lush, white carpet. The throw-pillows that are on the couch are on the carpet in front of the coffee table, which is littered with plates of food from either yesterday or tomorrow. Her Russian Blue cat, Blueberry, meows and sits near her scratching post, which is decorated with toilet paper probably from Mrs. Maria's grandchildren little acts. I sniff the air, which reeks of burning fish, and I turn to Mrs. Maria, who starts running to the kitchen and starts cursing in Spanish as Blueberry starts meowing again.

Guess I have my work cut for me today.

“Are the rooms in good order?” I ask, making my way up the stairs.

“Um . . . good order?” Mrs. Maria says. More question than statement. “Not really.”

I sigh heavily, closing my eyes. “How bad is the damage?”

“The kids didn't make their beds, toys are on the floor, some forgotten things that my daughter has called about. . . .”

In other words, it's like a tornado. I almost laugh. “Well, let's get to work, shall we?”

“But first, would you like something to eat?”

I bite my lip as my stomach growls, realizing I haven't eaten anything since this morning. I look at the grandfather clock on the side of the fireplace. 5:30pm. “Yes,” I say, going down the stairs and going into the kitchen, where Mrs. Maria has cleared the island and places some sandwiches on the table, with a cup of juice. I smile as she still acts like a mother, even to me most of the time. It proves that some people still care and don't slaughter in the world.