MARTES
7:11 AM
Dahlia Gray
My alarm didn't go off.
I don't know what happened. I was in bed, just sleeping, and instead of hearing the casual scorn of the alarm that would alert me awake—with it's annoying ringtone—I was greeted with my mother.
She was dressed in her nightgown, a hand on her head as she tries to scrub the drowsiness from her eyes. She mumbled something incoherently, but I heard her asking if I had school today—which I knew I did.
Everything else scrambles by with a blur. I check the time and read that I had fifteen minutes to the clock. I dash into the bathroom, brush my teeth and tame my wild hair to whatever extent it could be messed with, and I changed into some formal clothes.
A beige sweater and skinny jeans.
I shove everything into my backpack; my MacBook, my notebooks and my homework packets that I successfully finished.
I head downstairs, my mother greeting me in the kitchen as I rush into the fridge and pulled out any travel-size breakfast that could accommodate me on the bus. The most I found was a cachito, which I turned to my mother with an appreciative smile.
She does nothing more than wave her hand.
I stuff it into my mouth as I pull the straps onto my shoulders, tapping my pockets for my inhaler and pulling my sneakers onto my feet. The hand on the doorknob, and with it twisted, I could see in view of the bus pulling up to the designated stop.
I have one minute.
"Mija," my mother calls for me, a second from stepping out. I turn back around, seeing her approaching figure as her hand flies out, caressing my cheek.
"Mamí, llego tarde—" Mom, I'm late—
"Te amo," I love you, she proclaims, leaning forward as she kisses my forehead. "Estudia mucho. Aprende mucho. Estoy orgullosa de ti." Study hard. Learn a lot. I'm proud of you.
I cup the base of my mother's hand, bringing it to my lips as I peck a kiss on her skin. I smile at her, a warm one that tells without speaking: I love you so much. You're the most important person to me. I don't think I could live a day without you.
She understood.
She takes her hand away, ushering me out the door as I'm reminded of reality. The bus waits as a couple kids begin to fill onto the yellow vehicle, and I'm suddenly pushed to the porch and rushing down the street as I'm met with the closing doors of the bus.
The bus driver—Amaris—sees me, and with a sigh, she creaks open the door once more. I hop on, thanking her with a stumble of words and head to the next available seat, hopefully somewhere isolated.
The bus swings the door closed and I settle into a singular seat, waiting for the arrival of school. We took a couple more stops, loading on a couple more kids, but in the end, I always sat alone.
I took myself back to my mother's calling in the morning, which was a rare sight herself to be awake before eight. I soak in each of her words, appreciating them from skin to bone.
She never specifically told me, but I knew the baseline of what she meant. She wanted me to seek an education higher than she was never given, to accomplish something she was never presented an opportunity for. My mother yearned to learn more than what she could afford, and time was never kind to her. Yet, I was living in America, and I was receiving the education she merely dreams of. It was always her.
I didn't know when, or how long I was in thought, but the bus settles into a park and the students begin to usher out. I move in line, progressively moving to the front as I exit from the yellow vehicle and onto the concrete.
A lot of students refuse to go inside the building, wanting to stay outside as long as possible. They chatted with their friends, their boyfriends and significant others, and they oozed out every second they could squeeze to spend with each other.
I search for my friends, but they were nowhere to be seen. I almost had the urge to pull out my phone and text them, when something else caught my eye.
Exiting out of a black car, was the same boy from the bench. He was dressed in black jeans and a black hoodie, the same as last night. His brown hair was tousled in a manner that screams I don't care and his face was dropped to a bored expression, almost guarded.
I didn't need to know much more than that before I pointed a finger at him, catching his eyes, and marching forward.
"You!" I said, a rage of fury ignites in my stomach like fireworks. He stops before the car, not moving a muscle.
When I'm nearing his height, I begin to pick up how tall he was. Since I've always seen him sitting down, it was hard to confirm the measurements—but in comparison to my five-foot-eight, and his head still towering, I could tell that he owns a good couple of inches over me.
He looks down to meet my gaze, his blue eyes are the first thing I notice. That's a lie—his scowl was. His blue eyes are the second thing I notice.
They met mine with a bored gaze, like he didn't care for me being here. Like he didn't care at all. His brows were dark and thick, and his long lashes frame his face. He had full lips, and a sharp jawline with a small mole near his chin. I could call out that he's exceptionally good-looking, but he smokes, and that will always score lowest on my ratings.
"Hello to you too," his voice was low, and rough. He doesn't take his eyes off of me, but he doesn't look like he likes my presence near him. I didn't either. He still reeks of smoke. Maybe I'm just imagining it, but I nearly cough at our close proximity.
"You need to find a new spot," I said, crossing my arms. I'm really trying to stand my ground here, making my demands clear. I don't want no complications when it comes to my bench and frankly, my health. I've been around a smoker and the smell, and effects, ain't pretty.
"That's some greeting," he declares, bored etched between his words. He's not listening.
"I'm being serious," I said, hating this energy he projects. It's lifeless, almost exhibits death. It was negative, you could feel it, and the words he voices aren't any better. It reminded me too closely of my father, and that itself, was a horror in sight. "Go find some place else to smoke."
"I don't see you making the rules," he said, his gaze begin to move around, taking a peek at the driver of the car he exit from, and returning back to me. "So I say, I stay."
"There's—" my words stumble before me, and it felt hard to force the words out when I'm trying to translate and remain a strict stance. I inhale sharply, taking in a deep breath as I try to regain my next argument. "There's other benches around the park."
"I could say the same thing to you," he quips cleverly, his eyes met with mine in a sort of challenge. I hated that. I don't want to challenge him, I don't want anything to do with him. I just wanted my spot and my spot alone. Why can't he understand that?
"I—" It's hard to talk when your emotions are taking control of you. It's not quite a surge of emotions, but the overflow of them. I want to say one thing, but another sentence bounces. I want to speak from the mind, but the heart yearns for a taste. I can't talk.
The bell rings before I could utter another word, and I glance at the front doors as the students begin to settle inside, rushing through the glass. I look back at him, and see him looking back at me. He was waiting. To see who would take the first leave.
"This," I point between us, regaining my words as my heart and mind agrees on one. "Is not over."
With that, I head off to my next class.
Trying hard not to think about what could happen if my words would just speak.
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MARTES
7:59 PM
Dahlia Gray
I settle into the same seat as yesterday, my MacBook propped open as I flip through the tabs. The kitchen table is cleared from any homework in sight, save for an exception of a small planner I was gifted from Hannah last year.
I flip open to a fresh page, taking it out as my left hand hovers over the first line with my pen. My main objective of today was to find some way to pay for college, as the decision is looming near and my financial situation isn't quite as great as I'd like it to be.
My father receives monthly checks due to his time in the military, but he barely spends it on me. I mean, he has bought a lot of my technology—my phone, my laptop and my TV—but other than that, he uses the money for whatever he feels like doing.
My mother's a stay-at-home mom, so there's not much income coming from that end.
And since my father has a military check to his name, with its income and benefits, I won't be able to apply for most financial aid.
It sucks, but that's my reality.
My fingers skimming the touchpad, overlooking jobs offering that could pay a decent wage. I just needed enough for the first year, and after that, I'll be applying for other jobs around my university.
What university I'm exactly pining after is yet to be seen.
The seat in front of me gets pulled out, the light screeched of the legs against the floor causes me to cringe, and before I knew it, my father found himself in front of me.
He looks at me with his brown eyes—which I took from him—and short, blond hair. He wears contacts right now, but at night he likes to put on his glasses to relax his eyes. He grew chubby than when he was in the military, having added some weight from doing almost nothing at home. All he does is sit, eat, and sleep.
"Hey, sweetheart," my father coos, his eyes trying to search the screen of my laptop. Thankfully, he couldn't. "What are you doing?"
I swallow. "Nothing," I lie through my teeth, "just some homework."
He doesn't know that I want to leave out-of-state. Only my mother knows. From the suggestion she tried to give the other night about leaving town—to which he demolished before she got the opportunity to explain herself—I knew he wasn't going to like it. He wants us here. He wants to stay here. He doesn't want to leave the city, or have a change in scenery. He wants the usual, the same.
That's not me.
"How was school today?" My father asks, crossing his arms against the glass table, as he looks onto me expectantly. I wanted to coward back, not used to having a conversation with my father. When he first got honorary retirement from the military, it was good.
He would surprise me with presents, he would take us all out to eat, and he would do all the things a child could only wish their father would give.
Then, slowly, it would drop. The dinners would return back to home cooking, the interactions would fall to a minimum, and he still gives me gifts—but I don't cherish them as much. I just wanted one thing, and he's never been able to give me that.
"It's good." I answer shortly, breaking eye contact with my father as I look towards the kitchen, trying to find my mother. She's no longer behind the stove, having headed upstairs to finish some laundry. I'm really hoping she'll return soon.
"That's good," my father compliments, and I could sense the awkwardness lingering on his lips.
My laptop pings, and a message appears at the top of the screen from Hannah. She texted into the group chat with Josie and me, where she was showing how she made an A for the Calculus homework I did for her. She added a thanks and a little heart.
I almost smile from that.
"Who was that?" My father tries to peer over the table, trying to read my text. I scooted the laptop closer to me, shaking my head.
"Don't worry about it," I said, giving him a look that tells him to drop it. For him, that'll be hard. He likes to be in control.
The kitchen door swings open and for once in my life, I've never been so happy to hear the door clap against the wall and reveal my mother through the frame. She dressed down into a maxi dress, and a headscarf that matches her dress. She looks like she was heading out.
My mother looks at us and her lips begin to pull in a bright smile, she points a finger to us, "Mírense ustedes dos. Uniéndose. Eso es arrechisimo." Look at you two. Bonding. That's amazing.
I shuffle uncomfortably at her words, but it doesn't look like my father was paying attention. He was looking at her, a gloss of fury fuming behind his gaze. "¿A dónde diablos vas?" Where the hell are you going?
The smile on my mother's face drops, and she looks at him, a sort of guilt pooling on her features. Her fingers begin to trail down to the bottom piece of the dress, pulling it up. "Estaba pensando en salir." I was thinking of heading out.
He stands from his seat, "¿A dónde? ¿Con quién? ¿Por qué no me invitaste?" Where? With who? Why didn't you invite me?
My mother's face begins to pull with intense guilt, and her blue eyes flicker to me, as if to scream for help but at the same time, telling me to stay down. It was conflicting. "Clayton..."
"No, Alejandra," he shakes his head, stepping forward. I was almost afraid of what he was going to do. "¿A dónde vas?" Where are you going?
Her fingers slightly tremble, holding her bottom piece. I stood up from my seat, ready to defend my mother when she holds out a hand for herself. I stop from continuing. "Emilia me invitó a esta vaina." Emilia invited me to this thing.
"¿Y no me invitaste?" And you didn't invite me? He sounds genuinely hurt. "¿Pero qué tipo de esposa eres?" What kind of wife are you?
My mother's lips shivers, and I couldn't stand to watch anymore. I step forward, "Papi, mamí probablemente sólo quería algo de tiempo a solas." Dad, mom just probably wanted some alone time.
My father looks to me, a lock of fury surges through his brown eyes, "Sabias esto?" Did you know this?
My brows pulled together and I stare at him with a lock of confusion, "¿Qué? Que eres—" What? What are you—
"Tú y tu madre siempre estuvieron acostumbradas a estar solas, ¿verdad?"Your mother and you were always used to being alone, weren't you? He looks hurt, like my mother leaving was permanent. "Por eso no me invitó." That's why she didn't invite me.
I don't understand. "¿Qué?"
He doesn't look to me, but instead to my mother. "No puedes ir." You can't go.
My chest rises. My heart begins to beat, trying to tame my own anger threatening to spill from my clutch. My mother sees this, as much as she saw my father and steps forward. "No entiendo..." I don't understand...
"No hay nada que entender, no puedes salir." There's nothing to understand, you can't go out. My father states, matter-of-fact. His chest begins to pace down to a normal rate, and he no longer holds a look of anger on his features. No, that's passed to me.
"No la controlas a ella." You don't control her. I mumble, my heart beating in my chest like a prisoner banging against the bars.
My father's head snapped to me, "¿Qué dijiste?" What did you say?
I step forward, growing a little bolder. "No la controlas a ella." You don't control her. I said, my voice trembling with each word. I want to make it known, hating the fact that this is a normal routine. "Mamí no es de tu propiedad." Mom is not your property.
His chest rises.
He points to me, "¡No me dices qué hacer!" You don't tell me what to do! He screams, his voice knocking octaves above his normal speech. My mother steps back at his sound. "Eres simplemente un niña. No puedes decirme qué hacer con mi esposa." You are simply a child. You can't tell me what to do with my wife.
I hated this. I hated him. I step forward, trying to match pace when my mother marches in front of me, holding both arms out—not letting me pass through.
"Dahlia, sube las escaleras." Dahlia, go upstairs. My mother commands, her voice etched with authority that is rarely placed. She barely needs to use this voice with me, I always listen to her.
Mostly.
"¿Por qué?" Why?
"Dahlia, sube las escaleras." Dahlia, go upstairs. The authority stretches with more power, as if she refuses to get into an argument with me right now. She has too much to deal with, and knowing how I'm quick to let my emotions react, she didn't want to risk it.
I clench my jaw, hating the helplessness of the situation, and walk to my laptop—picking it up and heading upstairs.
I begin to hear their conversation after I leave.
"No saldré." I won't go out.
That was the last thing I heard before I reach my bedroom, closing the door on the impending argument ready to shake the entire house.
I drop onto my bed, crossing my legs as I try to shake this level of anger ignited in my body. I hated the feeling, the feeling like nothing is being listened through, the feeling that I'm not worth it, that I can't make a statement.
My laptop pulled back to a crack, and I'm suddenly reminded of the whole reason why I was down there in the front place.
I wanted to talk to my mom.
I wanted to talk to her about this.
The screen stares back at me with hundreds of job offerings, but I'm afraid of leaving. I'm always afraid of leaving.
Because there's going to be a problem the moment I do.
My mother will have to choose.
Will she come with me, or will she stay?
And I don't know the answer.
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