Antes | Oscar Diaz

february, march, april.

All of February stretches like a bad dream. Claudia watches Oscar get up in the mornings and stays in bed while he gets ready for court, doesn't answer when he asks her if she's coming with.

He says, "Can you take Cesar to school for me?" and she says yes, and waits until he leaves to get herself ready. Her limbs feel heavy, eyes dull when she catches sight of herself in the mirror. She hasn't felt this way since her mother died, that first year an endless march of doing what had to be done and gritting her teeth the whole while. She was only twelve when cancer killed her mother. Twelve and by herself for the first time in her life. Only a few memories stick out; the slow, methodical way she packed her clothes, Araceli explaining how the Santos and Prophets ran things, and Oscar, nearly thirteen and shaggy-haired, letting her cheat off a test.

She tries to focus on that last memory. Cesar looks so much like a young Oscar it aches. She thinks she might have been crying, the day she and Oscar first interacted. She failed that exam, actually. It was six months to the day her mother died. Her then-foster dad had a temper, and she couldn't figure out how she was supposed to keep living. It wasn't like it was an act of mercy, Oscar offering her his test, but it made the day a little better. She can't get that feeling of relief back, try as she might, at least not before hearing Cesar wake up.

She hasn't had a real conversation with Araceli in a minute, either. Their last conversation—or argument, or discussion, or whatever they're calling it—still stings, even if it's not too far off from what she and Oscar had been yelling at each other about before the arrest. It just feels different, Araceli telling her Cesar's not her responsibility like Claudia hasn't been helping Oscar run around after him for two and a half years now, has known the kid even longer than that.

Christ. She's known Cesar since he was maybe four or five, just a little baby, practically, missing a tooth and as good-natured a child as any. Sometimes used to run into the two of them at the nearest grocery store, or just walking around Freeridge, whether she was on her own looking for some time away from everyone or bumming it with Araceli. Araceli, who had whispered in her ear after Oscar had said hi to them, early autumn of their freshman year after he found her at the park.

"He's a Santo," she said, hair still brown back then, longer than she has it now, "his folks is all Santos, too. I hear his dad's in the joint."

"Who told you that?" Claudia said, still watching him walk away from them, socks pulled up like the rest of his crew. Him being a Santo wasn't really surprising; she had figured he had to at least be affiliated, and if his father was locked up, well. That was an answer, too.

Araceli tutted at her, like wanting a source was the worst thing to ask for. "Snitches get stitches," she reminded her.

Claudia smiled with all her teeth. "Thought it was talk shit, get hit?"

"You're lucky you're cute, niña," Araceli told her, and that was that. She nearly lost her mind the first time Oscar came to sit with them during their lunch period—not his, of course. They started a food fight, once, arguing over something dumb. Claudia thinks it might've been about the Angels, but what she remembers most is their twin looks of horror when someone's applesauce ended up smeared down the front of her shirt, both of them falling over themselves to offer her something else to wear.

Usually, remembering them as kids—real kids, not as hardened, still playing at being real people—makes her grin. Today she finds herself straining when she smiles at Cesar, like her hugs aren't as warm as they're supposed to be. All her motions feel mechanical, just to get through the day. Her and Oscar aren't quite fighting, but it's close. Every conversation seems to be double-sided. They say one thing and mean another, speak via silences.