03 | Keeping Fuel

LUNES

6:39 PM

Dahlia Gray

I really don't understand why I prompted the idea that I should finish my friends' homework.

I mean, it was a spur of the moment type of thing. We were all huddled before first period and I brought homework into the conversation. It was innocent. Suddenly, Hannah and Josie were freaking out about not having completed their assignment for Calculus tomorrow and looked at me for help.

Somewhere in the midst of it, I just volunteered. I guess I just felt guilty for them since I have all this free time, and they have so much they have to do. Hannah had cheerleading practice and Josie, well, she said she had some personal issues at home.

I just felt bad.

Now, I'm really regretting my decision. Since first period, I've been assigned three homework packets and it's due—tomorrow.

Estupendo.

The sizzling of the oil surrounds the kitchen, my mother stood before the stove with one hand on the handle and the other looming over the thin edge of the worn-down recipe book.

My grandmother had given it to her, right before she died, and she was the only one of her siblings to have been able to obtain this privilege of keeping the family's generational recipes. From what I heard, the battle was brutal—mainly with the argument of my mother being the only one who'll lose her culture the most.

Because she married a white man.

My mother's black hair is pulled back into a ponytail, the front of her forehead covered in a flowery pale-orange scarf. She looks much younger when she dresses down, around her thirties. Though she isn't that much older, it was the complete contrast that got me.

When my mother was at the dinner, versus when my mother was at home.

"Dahlia," my mother hums, her blue eyes found mine as she studies the load of homework before me. My backpack sprawled against the glass breakfast table, three different color notebooks and rolling stationary covering every square inch of the table. "¿Te acuerdas de Venezuela?" Do you remember Venezuela?

The question caught me off-guard, considering how she glances down at my homework before she meets my gaze. I thought she was going to question my load, or if I'm struggling, or if I needed any additional help. Sure, she wouldn't have been able to provide support in any of those departments, but she would've found a way to help me.

Any way she could.

"Um," I mumble, playing with the end of my pencil. The eraser burned down to a stubble. I shake my head. "Un pelo." A little.

"Oh," my mother muses, her full lips fall to a frown. "Eras muy pequeña." You were pretty young.

I nod, "Recuerdo a la abuela, recuerdo a las cabras. Simplemente no puedo... no puedo recordar nada más." I remember grandma, I remember the goats. I just can't... I can't remember anything else.

My mother lived in a small village in Venezuela, struck with poverty. My grandmother mainly grew her own vegetables and livestock, not dependable on supermarkets or stores like I'm used to. It was healthier, but there were risks.

There were those who were so poor, they stole from us. They were storms, that could someday destroy our only source of supplements and there were always that edge of belief; that this was it. This was how I was going to live my life.

My father met my mother when she was in her twenties, when he was stationed there for a couple of years. I don't know if they fell in love, but I knew they got married. They were happy. They had me.

Then, my father had to be relocated into the Middle East and he didn't come back until I was four.

We moved to America at that age.

"Estaba pensando en hacer la sopa de la abuela. ¿Qué piensas?" I was thinking of making grandma's soup. What do you think? She looks at me expectantly, like I could say no. I love everything that my grandmother made—sometimes a little too much.

My grandmother would call me conejita, like the bunny we owned that ate anything we fed it. Sometimes it would hop back and beg for more, never satisfied.

"Chevere." That sounds good.

My mother grins, and nods, returning back to the recipe book as her fingers quickly skim through the pages, reading the crisp paper. I turn back to my homework, sucking in a sharp breath as I gave myself a mental pep-talk.

I can do this.

I split all my time, dividing and conquering. I finish one of my mine, and switch to Hannah's homework. Finish that, then I switch into my second packet, and when I'm done with that, I return to Josie's. It kept me paced, and it was enough that, by the time I was on my third packet, my mother neared competition of her craft and it was almost dinner time.

When I was busy writing down the answers for the third packet, my mother places a steaming bowl of porridge soup in front of me. I look up from the notes, my mother giving me a soft smile. I knew it was time to take a break from the books and enjoy my mother's cooking.

Because, dios, did I need it.

I shove my homework to the side, tucking the finished ones into a folder and into my backpack. I drop the pencil onto the notebook, taking the spoon my mother offered and took a dive.

I moaned in delight.

My mother seems content with my sound effect, returning back with a bowl of her own and sitting right in front of me. Usually, we would try to have family dinner in the dining room—it was a rarity.

I hear the door swing open, the loud hmph of my father entering through the wooden door. "I'm home," he announces gruffly, as the sound of him slipping out of his work boots were heard. We don't wear shoes in the house.

I look to my mother, to which she merely grimaces. I think she was planning on talking to me about something—but was interrupted by the presence of my father returning.

The kitchen door swings open, and my father enters through the door. He looks neatly tucked in a UPS driver's uniform; brown khakis, a brown shirt and a hat that reads the company's brand.

He waves at us, acknowledging our presence, and goes immediately to the stove. My father flips open the top, seeing the soup, before quickly setting it back down. "¿Hay algo para comer?" Is there anything to eat?

I chew on the inside of my cheek, stopping myself from saying something I might regret. I don't know how to explain how I feel without sounding delirious to the situation but it's just—it's right there.

"Hice la sopa de mi madre." I made my mother's soup. My mother points to the pot, her fingers blank of any color. My father hates it when she wears nail polish, stating how the toxic chemicals are bad for us. Especially since we eat with our hands a lot.

"¿Hiciste algo más?" Did you make anything else?

My fingers pulled into a clench and I stop myself from talking, biting the inside of my cheek. I glance over at my mother, the smile on her lips were slowly slipping and she sucks in a soft breath.

"Podría hacer algo." I could make something.

My father nods, coming forward as he plants a kiss on my mother's forehead. "Gracias," thank you, he said, "voy a ir a ver el partido. Se está haciendo tarde." I'm going to go watch the game. It's getting late.

My mother nods, but it goes unappreciated as my father steps out of the kitchen and into the living room, the click of the remote resumes the sound of sport commentators. I always hated football, thinking that it was a stupid play with lack of real treasure—but sometimes, I think I hate it because of other reasons.

My mother stood up from her seat, barely making a dent in her soup, and she stands to go fix some ingredients. I open my mouth, ready to offer my piece of mind when my phone rings a wild noise: the sound of my alarm.

I pick up my phone, seeing it read: Bench.

I check the time.

Eight pm.

"Who was that?" I hear my father yell from the living room, his presence to be acknowledged.

"No one," I answer back shortly, tapping the alarm off. I look to my mother, her eyes fixated on a new meal to be made and the warmth of her soup growing cold.

"Mami—"

"Estoy bien." I'm okay. She said, forcing up a smile. "Solo disfruta tu sopa." Just enjoy your soup.

I could barely offer a counter argument when her eyes left mine, returning back to filling the pan with ingredients. I look down at my soup, seeing it almost to finish and deciding to quickly eat up the rest. I place my bowl into the sink.

"Estoy de salir." I'm heading out, I announce. I didn't need to clarify where because she knows where I usually go. She knows it's my spot.

"Chevere." Okay.

I pick up my last homework and shove it into my backpack, reminding myself to finish when I come back. I head up to my room, dropping it onto the floor next to my bed and grab my earbuds.

I swing the jacket on my shoulders, patting my pockets for my inhaler as I descend down the steps. I slip onto some sneakers, plug in my ears and press play.

The moment I step outside the house, the cold swept across my body and delivered a shiver in response. I tighten the jacket around my body, zipping it halfway as I approach the concrete, heading down the park.

I have this mental note, to make a claim of my bench before the boy takes it again. My plan is to go a bit earlier than before—two hours earlier—and take the bench. So, then, he would grow into the habit of picking a new bench, far from mine, far from his smokes.

It was petty, but I didn't care.

I just wanted my bench.

The song In My Head by Peter Manos plays in my earbuds as I approach the bench—clear of any boy in sight. I let a small gasp of excitement, breaking into a small smile as I take the seat.

The silence of the atmosphere, the low chirps of the bird, and the complete and utter abandonment of the space. This was the place. This was my safe.

Sometimes, I come out during the day and see what it's like beyond my time. Before it grows quiet, before it grows a dimmed light.

It's lively.

There's children at play, parents conversing with one another or entertaining alongside their children. There's couples strolling in the park, and dogs running along the field with a ball between their teeth and or chasing after a frisbee.

It was life.

But, I enjoyed the morning as much as I enjoyed the night.

The night was mine, while the morning reminded me I was living in a world where the earth continues to spin, the people continue to dance, and I continue to live.

There are other ways to know you're alive.

My free hand slips from my side and comes close to my chest, settling on my heart. I hear the rhythm, beating against my ribcage as bones shackled it behind bars, vessels pump blood and tissues covers everything behind layers.

I hear: one, two, three.

I'm alive.

I feel the bench shake, and my hand instantly drops to my side. I turn to my right, the space once free with emptiness was now occupied.

By the same boy.

He takes out a cigarette.

━━━━━

AVA'S NOTES

i just posted on my instagram about dahlia and harlow, so if you guys like edits, you should check it out. if you guys don't, well, you should still check it out. :)

i posted on inkitt and someone left a review that my writing style is weird. i thought i was going to be affected but ngl, it did hit me a bit.

just curious: what do you guys think of my writing style? especially since i changed it from miss incomplete/miss nail techie?

anyways, please remember to vote and comment!!