The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 5: Becca

"Becca? There's a boy outside asking for you. He says his name is Santy?"

I take a careful sip of my tea, but it's too hot, and it burns my tongue. I make a face. "Tell him to go away," I shout down the stairs.

"Mija. He says he won't leave until he speaks with you."

"Then tell him to prepare to be disappointed."

"Becca! He won't stop knocking on the door and it's interrupting my nap. Please, at least come down and try to make him go away. Maybe he'll listen to you." Even from a different floor, I can hear abuela huff in annoyance. "He's definitely not listening to me."

I set my tea down on the night table. Then, as an afterthought, I pick up my pocketknife and stuff it down my jeans pocket.

I hurry down the stairs, skipping every other step. Abuela lays across the sofa and glares at the closed door; Santy's still knocking on it. A look of disapproval is written clearly across her face. She gives me a stern look and demands, "Another suitor?"

Her tone is pure acid. I shake my head and say, "No. Nothing like that."

She lets out a loud harrumph. "Does he know that?"

After last night, definitely. "I'll go make sure."

Santy's knocks echo throughout the house, the rhythmic thumps sound almost like a heartbeat. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. The noise makes my gut twist into a knot. I stride towards the door and yank it open mid-knock; Santy's fist hovers with tension in mid-air, poised to swing. His face hardens into a scowl when he sees me.

"Becca," he says, and spits on the ground near my feet. I know he's thinking of a dozen other words to call me instead, but because my abuela is only a few feet away, he keeps his mouth shut. "Took you long enough."

He's wearing the same clothes he wore last night- a sweat-stained grey tank and ill-fitting cargo pants with blood flecks on the ankles, paired with scuffed, once-white Nikes. Matted blonde hair sticks to his forehead. He looks... underwhelming.

Abuela calls out at me from the couch. "Todo bien?" Everything okay?

"Sí, estoy bien," I reply. The weight of the pocket knife hangs heavy in my pocket. Slowly, I pull the door shut behind me, so it's just me, Santy, and the empty street. "Why are you here?" I ask him.

He lets out a hoarse laugh. "Why do you think?"

I shift my weight from my right foot to my left. "Don't you have better things to do than knock on my door all day?" I say. "Just leave. You're disturbing my grandmother's rest."

"I'm not leaving until I get what I'm owed."

"A black eye?"

"You know what I'm here for. Money." He spits on the ground again. A fleck of it lands on my bare foot- I forgot to put on shoes before I left the house. It's too hot outside for shoes, anyways, but I'm used to the heat. In Arizona, it's always hot. "You owe me ten grand, chica. And once Sammy gets out of the hospital, you can pay for his bills, too."

A trickle of sweat dribbles down the bridge of my nose. "You know I don't have ten grand."

"Then find it."

"Where?" I ask. I laugh at him, and the sound of it is flat and hollow. "Under my mattress? In between the sofa cushions? I don't have a free ten grand, Santy, so I recommend that you fuck off and beg someone else for money."

Santy's hand moves towards his belt, and I'm already reaching into my pocket- until I realize that it's not a weapon he's holding, but... a lighter, and a box of cigarettes.