Street Love (An Interracial Love Story)

Chapter 1

Evie's POV

I look up from my Calculus AB textbook and stare at the diner clock, willing it to move faster. It's a little past 9:00pm and I don't get off for another two hours.

"¡Aye! ¡Se mueve!" A group of five boys wander into the diner and they smell like beer. I shut my textbook and silently sulk over the foolishness I'll have to deal with when I go take their order.

"Don't worry about it," Ruth says pushing past me. "I'll take their order."

I've been working at Bob's Diner since my freshman year in high school. I'm a junior now so it's been two years. Bob's is one of those run down places in the middle of the ghetto that seems to never get hit by stray bullets and makes its income off the high kids coming in with the munchies.

Growing up on East Side St. Monica hasn't been easy. I live with my single mom and seven year old brother, Donovan. Like many black dads, mine left as soon as I started calling him "dada" and Donovan's dad came into the picture. His dad left when he turned two and it's just been me, Mama and Donny every since.

Our house is small. I should actually say apartment complex. Donny and I share a room and Mama sleeps in the living room. I can't complain too much though. My mom is trying so hard to take care of us, working during the day at the liquor store and at a dance club during the night. I try to be appreciative of the little things we have.

I don't say it too often but my dream is to get out of this ghetto. Ever since I started middle school, I would stare at the Homestyle Living magazines at Safeway and dream of having nothing fancy, but a small house of my own that I could decorate. One where I could come home everyday and not worry about possibly being mugged or seeing a drug deal go down outside my window or see girls from my school selling their bodies on the street corner. I've just always dreamed of a life outside the ghetto.

That's when I started trying harder in school. All the teachers that teach here on the East Side are from upper middle class neighborhoods, and have always pitied us black and mexican kids who are "bound to be just like our parents." But me? I'd like to think I've broken that stereotype.

"Hola mamacita."

I look up from my Calc book to see Tony Cortez staring down at me. His green eyes are nonexistent, glazed over by dilated pupils. He reeks of alcohol and sways a little as he begins to speak. After a moment, he plops himself onto the counter seat and rests his elbows on the table.

"Hey Tony," I respond quietly, tucking my textbook under the counter. "How's it going?"

"I don't understand you," Tony responds completely ignoring my question. "You always work so hard in and out of school. Nothings gonna change mamacita."

"What do you mean?" I ask. I turn around for a quick second to pour Tony a tall glass of water and place it in front of him. It's gone in seconds and I get him another one.

"Gracias."

"No problem."

Tony's group hollers some stuff in Spanish from their booth at the corner of the diner and Tony yells something back.

"Y'all can't be doing that in here," I say as a few older diners glare at the boys.

"Aye. Chica you're always so uptight too. I don't get you sometimes." Tony sips at his water. "But back to what I was saying, why you always trying so hard in class? This is East Side. Nobody cares about us."

"I care," I say wiping down the counters. "Don't you ever dream about leaving St. Monica and moving to like, Seattle or Portland?"

"Where the hell is Seattle?"