"Buenos días," I rub my left eye as dad walks into the kitchen, interrupting my session of staring at my cup of coffee for some good three minutes without touching it.

"Buenos días," taking the cup, and leaning so he can place a good morning kiss on my cheek, I move out of the way to let him get access to the coffeemaker.

"It's Monday, why do you look so tired?" He lets out a small laugh, filling up a cup for himself.

Trying not to think of all the shenanigans I did last night, I simply smile.

"Mondays are reason enough to look tired." My father has an uncanny ability to crave work like an addict. Thankfully, that same energy also makes him fall asleep easily at night, and he sleeps like a rock, so I didn't have any problems last night when I snuck into the apartment around two in the morning.

"Morning classes, huh?" He's already dressed up to leave, even though it's still six in the morning.

"Mm-hmm" As for myself, I have class around nine, but since I bike to school I need to leave home about eight thirty — and, I mean, have you seen the bike racks at a college campus? The school puts five spots for about every fifty bikes or something. If I can find a pole close enough to my building and not get a ticket that is a blessing.

I once saw a bike chained to a bush outside the Nursing building. Nursing students ain't fucking around with their education, I'll tell you that.

"At what time do you get back home?"

"I should be back by five."

"You work today?"

"Well, if I want to eat out, yeah." I work at the library as an aide, simply doing the dirty work the librarians in movies do. Shelving books away, helping people find that book that is obviously right in front of their faces, but they didn't want to look it up, signing people up for library cards, except Jeremy — Jeremy lost the book I lent to him in eighth grade and never gave it back to me. Fuck Jeremy.

"There's plenty of food here at home," dad moves his arm towards the stove and the fridge. "You won't go hungry for days—"

"I haven't gone grocery shopping, actually."

"You won't go hungry for a day."

"For hours, probably, I used the leftover carne seca to make you some tacos de machacado con huevo  for lunch." I walk to the microwave and extract the small bag I'd wrapped for him just minutes before he entered the kitchen (which I did not microwave, I left them there so they'd stay warm. I'm not that much of a bad cook, stop judging me). Mom used to wake up early every morning to make him lunch, so I do it every now and then for the sake of nostalgia. "There. See? I'll make a good housewife."

Dad chuckles, taking the bag.

"Thought you didn't want to be a housewife."

"I don't, I'll make my husband do half of the work like it's meant to be, but I know güelita only asks you about how I cook and do everything for you." I'm not saying my grandma is lost in the old times, she tries to understand the world is different these days. But I know a part of her still thinks I should cook and clean and do everything for my dad since mom is gone. Because who cares if I go to school and also work when there's things to clean, amirite?

Dad rolls his eyes, placing a hand over my head and messing it up. I move away as he finishes up his coffee.

"Gotta go, si no, se enoja el jefe." He says that, but I doubt I've ever heard of a boss getting angry at my father. He's a hard worker. He used to be very fair when he was younger, but after years of working under the sun his skin has become a darkened tan, nearly matching my own skin color, though I got mine from my mother's side of the family.

"Ok, be careful."

After dad leaves I consider going back to sleep, only for thirty minutes or so, but knowing myself I'll probably snooze my alarm some five times before actually getting up again, and I ain't about to deal with the stress of being sleepy again for morning class.

Instead, I take a shower, cursing the Gods when the cold water hits my skin, and then proceed to wash my body as fast as humanly possible. Once I'm out I brush my teeth, hop into some jeans, struggle with the button to get it to close, put on a sports bra—because I can't deal with underwire today, and find a random shirt from the pile that looks like the clothes I just washed last week and haven't put away yet.

I stop short on my track when I get to the front door, though, looking around for my cat.

"Concha? Conchita?" I call, putting my backpack down and waiting for her to meow back at me.

I go check if her water and food bowl are full, then pet her when she comes purring between my legs. Assuring she won't die without me here, I put on my backpack once more, grabbing the key for my bike, and heading out the door.

Westray is a pretty small town, so the community college is not extremely far from my house. I actually didn't want to go to this school, but after what happened last year I made a last minute decision of not going to USC. It's not like I could have survived much in there anyways, considering I didn't have the money and would have drowned in student loans. So I stayed at home with dad, the financial aid that WCC provided me being enough to cover for my classes.

I stop by a street light, the crossing sign telling me to wait as the cars speed by. To my right, I can see a street that goes down a tree covered neighborhood, you know, those fancy ones with picket fences and all. Two blocks more to the right and I could go and see if there are police cars outside the Winstons' house, checking for the break in that happened last night.

I chew on my lower lip, looking up just in time as the signal turns white, allowing me to cross the street.

The screeching of tires alone nearly make me fall off my bike as a car turns into the bike lane and stops a good foot or two away from running over me.

And then, as if the guy inside the car didn't almost turn me into pulp at this unholy hour of the morning, he has the nerve to honk at me.

If I didn't need my backpack, I'd try to break their windshield with it.

"Asshole," I mumble, pushing my pedals and trying to make it to the other side of the intersection before someone else tries to kill me today.

Considering I'm earlier than usual, I manage to find a decent spot for my bike. We got Starbucks vending machines last Fall, so the students always hog those, but the Social and Behavioral Sciences building also has a small coffee shop owned by the college and I'm able to get a cup before class, marking it my second one of the day. My record is twelve under twenty four hours.

"Caffeine, already? You're going to get the jitters." Diane hits my shoulder with hers as soon as I'm out of the coffee shop, the weight of her backpack alone nearly knocking me off my feet.

"Dude, this is my second cup of the morning."

"You're an addict,"

"I'm a normal student, you on the other hand are superhuman." She rolls her eyes, pushing a curl over her ear.

"I already know that."

"Oh fuck off." Diane and I met last semester, but we're already in cursing terms, which means we're pretty close friends in my book. "I feel so dead, I don't want to go to class."

"Don't do it, skip."

"We just started the semester, woman, I don't want to fail yet." She laughs as we enter our literature class.

"Oh please, I know you're only coming to class because of —" she trails off, raising her eyebrows at the guy sitting on the last seat of the second row. He's not model material, but he's surely an eight out of ten. But in reality, I like the class, the professor is funny and usually keeps me from falling asleep.

"Right, but I'm not the one that stayed up Snapchatting someone all night." We sit down on parallel desks, waiting for the class to start. The room slowly filling in with more classmates.

"Excuse me? I go to sleep at a decent time, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Diane, you messaged me at three in the morning asking whether or not to send her a good night Snap." She smiles with one of those dopey grins you get when you're so in it that you don't even realize it.

"She's so fine, I can't help it."

"Then tell her." She huffs out when I say so, hitting my hand with her pencil, "Ow, what?"

"You didn't even tell me how it went last night." If she really thinks I didn't catch the change of topic she's really underestimating my power.

I catch everything. I will haunt her at night for information. There is no limit to my curiosity.

She hits my hand again.

"Ow, fuck, calm down." Rubbing that same place, I cringe at the events of last night. Taking into consideration the bruises on my torso I discovered this morning, I can now truly start a grunge aesthetics blog on Tumblr. "Well, I was nearly murdered last night, if that serves as a summary."

Diane's eyes go wide. "What?"

"Okay, that is a bit of a stretch, but I did fall off a tree."

"I mean, I can't say I'm surprised. You broke into someone's house —"

"Who broke into someone's house?" The guy that sits in front of me suddenly turns around, his headphones still inside his ears, but eyes shining with interest. It's a move I've used a thousand times to eavesdrop on conversations, though I never thought it would one day be used against me.

"M-my uncle," I say as I glare at Diane who is now pretending to be enthralled with something in her phone, "someone broke into his house last night."

"Oh wow, that sucks man."

"I know," the professor enters the room, and my chest feels lighter as she places her bag on top of the desk in front of the classroom, "I keep telling him to move houses."

"Where does he live?"

Fuck.

"Minnesota." I don't know anyone that lives in Minnesota, I don't even know this guy that is asking me questions.

He raises a golden eyebrow, looking ready to shoot another question, but then the professor interjects with a: "Good morning class," and takes his attention away from me.

As for myself, I turn my attention back to Diane who shoots me an apologetic look.

If end up going to jail it will be her fault.

🌥

I clock in around eleven. The second floor of the library is bursting with so many people that the little space of the sweatshop we call the back of the library is like a little piece of heaven to me. Here we have all the damaged books or the ones that need to be stored away, in other words: my job. It's the living wet dream of an English major, being surrounded by books all of the time.

I brush my hair up into a ponytail, cringing when it gets caught between the hairband, and redoing it a couple of times until I'm tired of the tugging it does on my scalp and simply doing a ponytail with my bangs so that they don't get on my field of view.

Pushing the kart with my name out of the room, I give a small nod to one of my coworkers as I set on in my journey to put away the books.

I blame the rising among students on the fact that is the third week of school, since all of them are looking in vain for the books their teachers ordered. Professors want those fancy books that'll cost you at least sixty bucks online for a used copy. They're not going to ask students for books that can easily be rented from the library, unless it's from the bookstore on the first floor, that'll be around thirty bucks for a book that is on the brink of falling apart, and if it does, they'll charge you extra for damage you didn't do to it.

I started working last semester about a month into the school year, so the flux of students had already slowed down by then. According to my boss, it gets unbearable at the beginning and the end of the semester. Yay.

I place a large tome of the DSM-4 back on its shelf. Today has been so mundane, it nearly feels like the second chapter of some YA story. I have been half expecting for the police to burst in through the doors at any second ready to take me prisoner — not like I want that to happen, but I mean, come on, bring something interesting into my life.

Something aside from the History Club, that might be a bit too much, and now that I think about it, I'm surprised the group chat for its members has not blown up by now. Anna is usually sending messages by this hour.

"Sol, can you help Karim at circulation?" one of my coworkers asks when I pass her as I'm returning the kart to the back room.

"Oh, sure." The circulation desk is literally a desk in the shape of a circle in the middle of the library where students can get information and library cards if they lack any. We usually don't have many students come to us and I spend my time spinning around in my chair while Karim pretends to look busy.

The latter is currently talking with some students when I push the small door that leads into the inner circle of the desk. I grab my chair and tell the next set of students that I can help them, settling into the calm drag the day has fallen into.

It's some well fifteen minutes into this calm that I see him.

To be honest, I don't recognize him right off the bat, I mean, unless you can recognize someone you saw while running for your life, in which case, call Professor X, they might be looking for you.

What I did notice last night was his dark skin and his curly hair, really. But as he approaches the desk it's like my mind becomes clearer, accompanied by the fact he seems to take me in as he gets closer, blinking a couple of times behind the round glasses he has on. Lips parting as he stops a couple of feet away from me.

And then he lifts one hand up, finger accusatory directed at me as he shouts: "You!"

That's when I scream. 

  🌥 

I call my grandmother güelita (not to be confused with güerita) instead of abuelita (which is the most common diminutive). It 's just a different way to say it, but I wanted to mention it in case some readers got confused. The same goes for grandfather (i.e. güelito instead of abuelito).

Carne seca means dried meat, though it tastes better than that sounds. (Kind of like beef jerky, but the process is different). Machacado con huevo simply means eggs scrambled with this type of beef.