The Music In Me (boyxboy)

1

**Image edited by yours truly**

"Stand still, Roman," I said to my six-year-old brother, helping him put on his brand new shirt. It was steel blue, my favorite color, and it had white and black stripes all over it. "Ooh, you look so handsome for your first day of school." I pinched his cheek and he giggled, holding onto my arm. "You excited?"

"No," he innocently responded, still clinging onto me.

"No?" I repeated with wide eyes. "Why not? You don't like school?"

"I'm scared." he pouted and I did the same thing. I sat down on our makeshift bed in the cramped room. It was only a few blankets that Momma had laid out on two worn mattresses. My baby brother played with the hem of his shirt, staring at me with huge brown eyes.

"You have nothing to be afraid of," I reassured him. "It's first grade. The teacher's gonna be really nice and you get to sleep and play. Then you'll learn how to count in two's and make a bunch of friends that you may know for years to come."

He distractedly raised his shirt and poked at his bellybutton. "Riley, how come you didn't get a new shirt too? You promised we'd match."

I sighed sadly and caressed the back of his hand. "I know, Roman. But... we have to eat so no new clothes for some of us, okay? We'll get some soon."

He wouldn't understand. Not at six.

At six, he starved, he ached, he thirsted. But at six, he wouldn't know why we had to make sacrifices. He wouldn't know why, sometimes, us older siblings had to give up our wants for our younger siblings, or why we were more than happy to do so. He couldn't comprehend why we skipped meals and received no second helpings. He wouldn't understand why we lived in an abandoned home, with cracked cement floors and old, chipped paint fading along the walls. Or why Papa lost his job. Or why Momma was so sick. Or why...

Life was a luxury we couldn't afford.

And should I, at eleven years old, have to understand these things?

"Come on, let's get you something to eat." I coughed into my arm from the dust forming on the ground and stood up, leading him by the shoulders out of our tiny room, which had a curtain to serve as a door. It was a room shared by all six of us children, and I was the oldest.

I was an identical triplet. Four minutes after me came Ricky, and four minutes after him was Ryan. Our eight year old sister, Ria, was the only solo child, followed by twins Roman and Rosalina. It was a full house, though it wasn't really a house. A shelter, maybe. A roof over our heads. A place to hide when there was rain.

We walked into the part of the home we liked to call a kitchen. All we had to eat this morning was some bread, milk, and water. We'd managed to save some bananas, thank goodness. Though they were already going bad. We never wasted anything here.

My siblings were all sitting on the ground with their food. School was always the best time of the year for some of us. It meant free food during lunch. We all had a habit of saving some of that food for later. Churches also held food drives, which had become another source of our meals.

"Buenos días, papa," I greeted my father, who was sitting on an old rocking chair, overlooking his children. He smiled softly when he saw me, opening an arm to me. I walked toward him to receive his warm hug. He kissed the top of my head and stroked my thick, long black hair, his fingers almost getting lost in it.

I hadn't gotten a real haircut since birth. My hair was to my elbows, and it was incredibly full which I attributed to my genes. My siblings and I were Hispanic and Native American. My skin was, as I liked to describe, tan-olive, and my complexion never bothered me. My eyes, however, did make me feel isolated from the rest of my family.

Theirs were all brown. Mine was blue. The weirdest kind for that matter. My eyes looked like crystals, as if there was a flashlight shining from behind them. I'd been teased about having a witch's eyes. I didn't want to be set apart from my brothers and sisters. I didn't want to be different.

"Eat, mijo."

I shook my head no. "I can't. ¿Donde esta Mama?"

"She's in the back room, resting. She isn't getting any better, but don't be too worried. I'll find her some medicine."

"How?"

"I'll find a way," he reassured me. "Eat, por favor. You all leave for school soon."

I nodded in obedience, going to take my share of bread, one-third piece of banana, and a mini carton of milk. I went to sit by the only radio in our humble home, placing a Whitney Houston cassette tape inside of it and turning it on. My parents had bought me a few music tapes for my birthday three years ago, the day I turned eight. I had Whitney, Michael Jackson, Celine Dion, and Etta James. I nibbled on my bread as I listened. I digested the music more than I did the food, and I fed my soul more than I did my body. I didn't know where I'd be without the gift of music. It kept me alive. It helped me survive the poverty we were in. It helped me endure the challenges I faced.

"I believe that children are our future; Teach them well and let them lead the way," I sang along, resting my palm atop the dusty radio. This was how I learned to perfect my voice, and I was still improving by the day. My siblings loved hearing lullabies from me. My mother claimed that I was a beast at vibrato and growling--a trick I learned by listening to Jennifer Hudson. I was introduced to music at the predominantly African-American church nearby, which I attended every Wednesday to rehearse with the children's choir. I felt so at home there, and the adults helped me a lot.

I followed the intonation and pitches of her voice, matching them with my own, harmonizing, learning, and feeling the song.

"Riley, are you gonna eat your banana?"

I turned my head to see my younger sister, Ria, standing next to me. Her hand rested against my shoulder and she blinked at me sweetly.

"Here, Ria," I gave her the piece that was clutched in my hand. She wasted not a single second in taking it from me and disappearing back to her original position.

I chuckled, standing up to walk over to my siblings. I shared my bread into three, giving it to the smallest ones before going to the backroom to see my mother. She was lying on a few blankets that she'd put on the cold floor, rubbing her eyes.

"Momma?" I quietly called, sitting down at her side.

"Oh, my baby." She leaned up to kiss my forehead. "It's your first day," she stroked my cheek with a tired smile.

"You're sweating, Momma," I observed.

"It's just hot, that's all."

"Go sleep on the mattress in our room. The ground has to be much less comfortable and you're sick."

"Don't worry about me. You go to school, and you make some friends this year. Hm?"

I rubbed my lips together as my shoulders drooped. "I don't know."

I was often bullied at school by a boy named Nathan Nickson. He scared me to my core. He was older than me by a year, and he had lots of friends. I had none, and he always made sure it stayed that way. I'd known Nathan since I was six, but the bullying really started when I was eight years old.

Now we were starting middle school, and my only hope was that he moved to a different continent during the summer. That was unlikely though.

"You all should get going. Make sure you're all careful walking to the bus. Papa will guide you."

"We know our way," I softly smiled. We usually walked to the nearest neighborhood to catch the bus, which was fifteen minutes away on foot.

"Still, you're my children. I want you safe at all times. Go or you'll be late. Make sure you and your brothers get fruits and vegetables with your free meals all the time. You guys are in middle school now; you're growing up." She kissed my cheek lovingly. "I'll be okay, you have fun, learn, and participate. Make a friend."

"I'll try, Momma; I'll try."