Headline

twenty five

troy

Inside the Fairmont San Francisco the Retro 1 high Air Jordans walked the few steps across the corridor to the suite and paused in front of the door. His hand lift up, knocking a few times; he waited, and pinched a grip of his jeans to pull up his waist. He heard latches unlocking from out the wall, straightening his posture to prepare himself to finally face his mother after thinking on it all night.

      The door opened and Troy planned seeing his mother but instead his focus lowered a foot and a few inches to the Cuban and Panamanian boy. His black, wavy hair touched his shoulders and he recognized he was one of the two boys from yesterday.

      "Um.. yo' mama in there?"

      "Quien es ese?" A voice asked further from inside the suite.

      "Algún chico negro." He responded, and Troy deadpanned at the different language he understood.

      "This black guy name is Troy."

      "Él entiende lo que decimos."

      "Yeah I do." Troy answered, walking his way in without a proper invite. He could hear the shower running and saw the older boy rummaging through his suitcase. "Where Kim? She in there?"

      "No.." The boy gathered his clothes and towel, finally speaking english. "I'm about to get in there. She's not here."

      "So, where she go?"

      The older boy shrugged instantly. "Hell if I know." he said, walking past and going into the bathroom.

      Troy stood confused, watching the young boy go and sit on the bed with his focus on his Nintendo. "So, do you speak english?" he quipped, and the young boy nodded whilst sitting in silence.

      "Okay then," he went on, "Where Kim? She get food or something?"

      "If she's been getting food since last night, then yeah."

      "She left y'all?"

      "This ain't the first time." The boy voiced lowly. He gestured to the dresser, and Troy turned to grab the napkin with neat writing on there—I can't do this; this isn't the life for me, K—the fist balled the napkin, his jaw clenching angrily.

      "So," he started, turning around to the young boy, "What's yo' name?"

      "Benny."

      "Aight, Benny, I'm Troy." he introduced, "What's yo' brotha name in the bathroom? How old are y'all?"

      "His name's Silvio. I'm eight and he's twelve. He's just tall."

      "And where y'all Pops go? He comin' back or?"

      Benny shook his head no. "He went back to Cuba—lost his restaurant. He had us here to live with our Mom and she left, so... I guess we're here alone."

      "Yeahhh," Troy dragged, going to sit in the nearby chair, "she left me and my brothas like this too. She didn't start coming back around till three years ago and pop in the slightest so often." 

      Benny's light brown eyes pulled off the Nintendo and focused on Troy. "So, you're really our brother? I heard you call her mom yesterday."

      "Yeah, I am. You have two other brothas: Tyson and Gabe—Tyson my twin."

      "Twins? So y'all have the same face?"

      Troy released a gentle chuckle. "Yea, we have the same face; I'm just finer."