Loving Georgia

Uno | One

Uno | One

He will never make me like this.

        "Come on, Tesorito," Papi says from the front seat of the car, glancing at me through the rear view mirror. "It'll be great, you'll love it, and I know it."

        "You don't even know me, how do you know what I'd like?" I snapped at him. "And don't call me that." He let out an exasperated sigh, tapping his fingers in a pattern on the steering wheel. I knew I was beginning to annoy him, but I didn't really care. He obviously didn't think about [my] feelings when he decided this move would be a good thing.

        He already knew how hard it was for me to make friends in California, and now he pulls this stunt by moving me nearly three-thousand miles away from my home.

        "Kinani, you're overreacting," he states.

        "Don't come at me with that, Papi. You already know how hard it was for me to transition from Puerto Rico to California the first time-"

        ''You were five!"

        "-and I lived in Cali since then! That was thirteen years ago, and now, you expect me to throw all of that away like it was nothing. You made me leave my friends, and my happiness, and you expect me to be okay with that?" I rolled my eyes with a scoff. "At least I had friends out in Cali, now I got nobody. Thank you, Father, I appreciate it"

        Sensing my anger, my Burmese Mountain Dog, Sherlock, snuggled his head under my arms, whimpering a little.

        When I was about five, we lived in Puerto Rico, where I was born. We didn't have too much--we were poor, to say the least--but things were better. I was happy, and had two parents, who loved each other as much as they loved me. The scene, not so much. It wasn't the best area, per say, to want to settle down and raise a family in. There was a lot of violence that would float around, and the crime rate was way too high.

        Papi would always tell us it was temporary. He promised we would make it out, and not become victim to the craziness.

        Well, he lied. You see none of my commentary is directed towards a maternal figure, now is it? That's because my mother is dead. We may've made it out, but she only made it six-feet-under. And to top it off, we still didn't even know who did it.

        I didn't understand too much, considering I was so young. But I figured it out as each day went by and Mommy never came home. And it ate me alive every time I closed my eyes.

        You can call me bitter, or a bitch, but whatever. Think what you want, I'm still living.

        "Cállate, okay?" Papi ordered. Yes, ordered. It may've seemed like a question, but I know it was imperative. It made me wince a little, as him raising his voice was rare (even with me as a daughter). I hope he didn't see that. "Kinani!"

        "'Kay, fine, whatever," I muttered, folding my arms like I was five again.

        Papi chuckled, glancing into the rear view a couple more times. "You're favorite word, eh, Tesorito? Whatever."

        I put on a sarcastic close-mouthed smile, before pulling out my Samsung. I slid on my teal-colored Beats headphones, letting whatever Pandora decided to spit out serenade me.

        While I was still on my phone, I found myself on my photo album, scrolling through my photos; usies with me and my (might-as-well-be) ex-friends, pictures of me being genuinely happy, pictures of my Sherlock, some of my dad on our...on days.