don't wanna rush | oscar diaz

esa invisible voz

He picks Claudia up from school the Thursday after Cuchillos tats him  up. She's grinning until he turns his head towards her fully, and he  watches with something like unease as the smile drops off her face,  mouth parted a little like she can't make sense of it. She seems to  pause, the slightest bit, before opening the passenger side door, bag  dropped to her feet once she's climbed in.

"Hey," she says, not  half as excited as she seemed the last time he picked her up, and he  returns the greeting with about as much enthusiasm.

He pulls out  of the parking lot, drives towards his place instead of hers even as he  asks her, "You heading home?" and she answers no.

He knows she had  a test in history, today, but asking about it seems unimportant. She's  fiddling with the radio, settles on some R&B song he's heard in  passing. She bites at her nails, after, and he reaches out to take her  hand without really thinking about it. She keeps saying she's trying to  stop doing that. Her hands are a little dry, soft against his. Lately  they seem to reach for one another without really thinking about it. He  likes it a lot.

She inhales, careful, and laces her fingers with his. Says, "When'd you get it?"

"Tuesday,"  he says. It shouldn't take too long to heal, Cuchillos said. Keep it  moisturized. Let it breathe. His cheekbone is smeared with Aquaphor as  is.

"It hurt?"

"Not really," he says. "'S real little."

"Yeah,"  she says. When he glances at her she's staring at their joined hands.  Rubs her thumb against the back of his, just a little. He feels choked  up, suddenly. Like his lungs aren't working when he looks at her.  Something about her expression, the way her eyebrows are pulled  together, mouth set into a frown. He wants to reach out and smooth it  all away, but he's the reason she looks like that today. He doesn't like  the feeling.

He says, instead of anything else, "How'd your test go?"

She quirks a grin at him. Amused even when he's full of shit. "Fine. Wasn't too bad."

"Cool," he says, and her smile almost reaches her eyes.

When  they walk into the house Oscar tries not to swear—catches sight of his  mother's thin form before she can see them. Takes a step forward like he  can block her from seeing Claudia. He'd be expecting too much, though.

"Your room?" Claudia asks, voice low, and he shrugs, says, Yeah,  even as his ma turns to look at them. She looks clear-eyed for once,  eyebrows up high when she notices it's not just Oscar in the doorway.  Her recognizing him shouldn't feel this surprising, but last they had a  real conversation it was only real on one end—she kept calling him  Cisco. Just thinking about it makes him sick.

"Niño," his ma says, voice reedy, "qué tienes en la cara?"

Jesus.  "Nothing," he says, even as he takes a step towards the bedrooms, away  from where she lingers in the kitchen. They don't have lights in the  living room, right now—bulbs are out. "Why ain't you at work?"

"I don't work every day," she says, words syrupy slow even without the drugs, "y esta niña?"

"You  know her," he lies. They've definitely only interacted in passing,  Claudia on her way out the house before Penelope could get a good look  at her. He knows how this is going to go before she even opens her  mouth, not that it stops her from doing it, anyway.

"You bringing  hoodrats around here, huh," she says. Claudia, standing close behind  him, curls her fingers at the hem of his shirt. He reaches back to hold  her hand, squeezes when she clutches at him. "Where you from, eh? You  too dark to be Mexican."