three. 

. . . 

I'm home!" I called out, my voice cracking from how hoarse it was. The fight with Mateo was a fresh wound, but as always, I chose to ignore the problem, instead, smoking until I couldn't speak. Gently closing the door of the trailer, I dead bolted the lock. If the door was left unlocked, it was free territory, and I did not want to share my abysmal belongings.

I heard a muffled curse and a loud thud. After a moment, the lump on the bed, Briggs, my mother's longest partner? lover? companion? groaned back "and I'm asleep, you fucker."

Making my way to my side of the trailer, I dropped to my futon. It wasn't a lot, but it was mine.

"How was school and work?" he asked, turning over so his back was to me, his voice groggy.

"Same old shit," I muttered back. "How was your day?"

"Same old shit," he repeated and blindly waved his hand in the air. "I have an early start tomorrow, so g'night, Willa." Not even waiting for a response, he slumped back to sleep.

"Night," I whispered into the air as his snores filled the empty void. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the throbbing headache growing behind my eyes.

Briggs was my unofficial guardian and caretaker. Also, the sole reason I was still alive if we're being completely honest. 

He was the one man my mother stuck around with for the longest. When she took her stuff and dipped, he filled the adult figure role I needed in my life. He was the closest thing I had to a father, and I cherished him more than my own life. 

Because Briggs was the only family I had left and life without Briggs would be a life not worth living.

Succumbing to sleep, I greeted the darkness with welcoming arms.

. . .

I woke up to the smell of eggs wafting into the air, crusty eyes, and a dry ass mouth. Groaning in exhaustion and running a hand down my face, I crudely muttered, "God, fuck me with a fork, what time is it, Briggs?"

Blinking at the shapes and hazy figures until they solidified into furniture and things, I honed on his cooking.

"The ass-crack of Satan's ass, Darlin'," he grinned widely, the blue in his eyes twinkling in mirth. I always told him he looked like an older, happier Kurt Cobain, but he always laughed it off. His long blond hair into a low ponytail and he was wearing his favorite red flannel, blue jeans with the utility belt, and worn torn Timbs. The only thing he was missing were his gloves, hat, and goggles.

Briggs was ready to work.

"Figures you'd be awake," I snickered, "ass cracks and you not there? Pity."

"Shut your mouth," he laughed loudly, his lightly yellow stained teeth proudly on display.

"Shut your legs," I threw back, and Briggs threw a piece of toasted bread at me.

"Willa: one, Briggs: zero," I smugly said before getting off my futon and stretching.

"More like Willa: one, Briggs: fifteen," he rolled his eyes, going back to his eggs.

"You keep thinkin' that" I stuck my tongue out, making my way to the bathroom.

"What're you doin' today?" Briggs asked, his back to me.

"Guess I'll go to work early," I muttered, "making a living in this bitchass economy is hard as hell."

"You're telling me," Briggs humored me, "eggs and toast will be ready by the time you're ready. I'll be leaving in a few. You take care, alright?"

"Take care, Briggs," I saluted him and shut the bathroom door.

By the time I had finished my morning routine (which wasn't anything fancy, to be completely honest), Briggs had left for work. Throwing a quick glance at the flickering analog clock—6:30 AM glared back at me—I quickly shoveled the food into my mouth.

After placing my dishes in the sink, I grabbed the one heavy duty jacket with a hood I had and zig-zagged my arms through the holes. Walking over to the floorboard that jut out with a well-placed hard jab, I bruised my knuckles once again. Pulling out the wad of cash—I had about 2 grand saved, enough to get me out of this fucking town—I pocketed two tens in my pocket for public transit, lunch, and maybe dinner, if I was lucky, for the next two weeks.

Not much, but when you're poor, you gotta make every cent count.

Making sure the rest of my cash was well hidden, I shuffled the bills further in the floor. Once satisfied, I slammed the floorboard back in place and stood up, dusting my knees. Giving the trailer a quick sweep with my eyes, I noted where everything was and made my way to the front door.

My anxiety made me turn around again. The trailer was cramped and cluttered, but it was home. The furniture, or lack thereof, was worn and outdated. The floor was covered with linoleum that was stained and chipped. Despite its small size and warn-out appearance, this trailer was my home.

Stomping on my torn up Timbs, I picked my keys from the crudely screwed hook on the wall. Unlocking the deadbolt, I put the hood of my jacket up, shielding my head from the bite of the cold wind.

Once outside, I made sure the metal door and lock were secured. Because of where we lived and the circumstances of people in the neighborhood, robberies were common and deadly. I, for one, did not want my money to be stolen—by banks or desperate robbers, same fucking difference, right?

Giving the door one last shake, I rolled my shoulders back. It was time to go.

Just like I gave the inside a visual sweep, I did the same to the outside. The exterior of the trailer was made of metal and had a greyish color (which was probably once white). The paint was chipped, and the top of the trailer was flat. The windows were small and rectangular, with broken thin, white blinds hanging over them.

The yard was tiny, with just a patch of dirt and gravel surrounding the exterior. But this was my home. I loved it.

Walking in the cold was a favorite pastime of mine, obviously. I loved nothing more than getting my skin constantly kissed by the icy-biting wind that felt like drinking cold water after eating a peppermint.

Humoring myself was something I did normally on my long walks to work and it killed time, so that's what I did. Talk to myself.

Looking both ways, I crossed the street. This part of my walk always left a bad taste in my mouth because the differences between the neighborhoods was stark. My area was filled with trailers and broken down one-bedroom houses. The houses across the street were posh and gentrified. They were built on land that was taken from foreclosed homes, and instead of helping families, the city decided to give away their homes to rich people.

Their M.O. was to take the remaining "broken neighborhoods" and change them into "modern living areas." Basically, my street was next in line to go.

10 minutes into my walk to the bus stop, I passed the Delgados' house. It stood out amongst the grand houses on the street. It was unfathomable to me that some people literally shit money, while people like me struggled. I never asked to be born poor, but fuck me, right? 

The house was an intimidating sized Victorian-style mansion, set back behind a tall wrought-iron gate. The gate was adorned with intricate patterns, and designs, and a large, ornate lock kept it securely closed. The house itself was painted in a pale-yellow color, with white trip around the windows and doors. The roof was made of dark, weathered shingles, and the chimneys rose tall and stately from the rooftop.

It made me fucking sick.

The driveway leading up to the front entrance was lined with perfectly manicured bushes and colorful flowers. The front lawn was large, and lush, and screamed of money.

It was a symbol of wealth and privilege. It was a slap in the face to the residents of a neighbourhood where people struggled to live.

Grimacing, I looked away. No need to dwell on unpleasant matters. I was minding my business when the front door opened and out walked the Mrs. Amaya Delgado, home wrecker, and best friend betrayer, galore.

She made eye contact with me, freezing when she realized who exactly she was looking at. It was no secret I looked uncannily like my mother, Faith Evans. Her eyes widened in horror and instead of turning around (like I expected her to), she began screaming loudly at me.

"Get off my property, you bitch!" She pointed a finger at me, not caring how insane she looked.

I looked around, making a show of looking to my right and left. Looking down at my feet, which were on the sidewalk, not on her property, I raised my eyebrow.

"Lady, it's too fucking early in the morning for you to be screeching like that," I humored, her reaction giving me some pleasure. Bitch fucked up my mother's life (and in extension, mine); this was the least I could do.

"I will bust a cap in your ass; get off!" She yelled back, losing her composure even more.

"Make me," I taunted, arms spread wide. "Bet you don't have the balls to pop one in me right now."

"Evans, what are you doing?" The gruff voice of the bane of my existence greeted my ears and I groaned. Amaya Delgado I could deal with. Her son? Not so much.

I hadn't spoken to Mateo for about a couple of days, and sweet Jesus were those days nice. He had respected my request to be left alone and we had served our individual detentions in peace.

"Mateo, what the hell is she doing here? Did you invite her?" Amaya Delgado turned her attention onto her son, who looked at us both with blinking eyes. Assessing the situation, he slowly turned to me, shoulders rigid.

"Evans, leave."

"I was minding my own fucking business," I shrugged. "She started screaming at me. Guess you can take the bitch out the 'hood, but can't change her fucking attitude, huh?" I barked out a laugh at her dumfounded look.

"C'mon, Ma, let's go inside," he lightly touched her shoulder, "C'mon."

"No—" she hollered, "I will not allow her to be anywhere near my family; she wants to steal my Richard! He's mine!"

I unconsciously furrowed my eyebrows. I know I looked like my mother, but it sounded like she confused me for my mother. She sounded like she was on drugs or some shit. I didn't care about that though; I did care about her projecting her insecurities onto other people, ie: me.

"No one's stealing him from you," Delgado gently pulled her way. "C'mon, let's go inside."

"Yea, go inside Mrs. Lady. No one's stepping on your lawn," I snipped at her as she struggled against him, trying to get a glimpse of my face again, but he prevented her from doing so. Without looking at me, he tiredly called out, "Leave, Evans. Please."

Not wanting to waste any more time, I quietly trekked away to the bus stop. I didn't want to be late for work just for Amaya Delgado.

. . .

I didn't want to dwell on it, but the way Delgado dealt with his mother and the way he spoke to me played like a broken loop in my mind. He just looked so tired, something I could relate to— but this was Mateo Delgado, he had both sets of parents, he didn't have a reason to look how I felt.

Shaking my head and blinking the dryness out of my eyes, I rolled my shoulders back. I didn't have time to dwell on these thoughts; thoughts did not bring in cold hard cash, they brought up more questions that I held no answers to.

Going back to my work, I couldn't help but squint at the large, unblinking clock on wall, 2:15 PM, glaring at me to get back to work.

I worked for a construction company, and though my lunch break was overdue, I tried finessing more hours to work. Overtime equaled more money. More money equaled the faster I'd be able to change my life.

"Evans!" My boss barked and my shoulders instantly stiffened. My boss was a pig and someone I did not want to mess around with.

"Sir," I nodded, taking my dirtied glove off my hand, and running my now naked hand across my forehead.

"How long have you been working?" His mustache moved with every word he uttered, and I shuddered. 

Imagine kissing that thing. Yuck.

"Without a lunch?" He added, his eyes narrowing.

"Uh, just a couple of minutes," I curtly said back, daring him to call me out on my lie. He stared me down before shaking his head.

"We have a new worker in the office; go show him around and then take your lunch in fifteen," he cracked his knuckles. "Messy kids, trying to juice money out of me."

With no choice regarding the matter now, I stuffed both of my gloves in the utility belt around my waist. Taking my goggles off, I rubbed the palms of my hands on my eyelids, causing galaxies and vortexes to form.

"Hurry, Evans!" The irritated voice of my boss caused me to jump, hurrying to the office where we kept all our gear. I walked in, stopping instantly when I saw who it was waiting for me.

"Delgado?" I said incredulity, "Jesus fucking Christ. Why are you here?"

He turned around, his eyes widening as he took in my tired and dirty form. His eyes raked the top of my head down to the bottom of my shoes and I felt a little irritated that he didn't reply to my question.

"Want me to repeat that?" Doesn't matter how exhausted he looked or how his words were a loop in my head, snarky, bitchy Willa did not care.

"Huh?" He shook his head. "Evans?"

"One and only," I snidely commented. "Why'd you follow me to work?" The possessive my went unspoken, but we both heard it.

He finally grasped the situation. "I didn't follow you," he struggled to come up with a coherent sentence. "I'm working here now."

"Oh, fuck me," I let out a sarcastic laugh. "There are so many other fucking places, why the hell did you apply here, of all places? Spending time together in school not enough for you?"

"I didn't know you worked here," he rolled his eyes. "I don't care about you that much."

Ouch.

"Ouch," I verbally reiterated the word, clutching my chest in mock pain. "It hurts me so, don't say that dearest Delgado."

"I'm not in the mood to argue with you, Evans. Just show me what to do," he looked annoyed. "I'll figure it out from there."

His expression from earlier in the morning came back to me and I had to mentally shake my head to get rid of it. Ignoring him, I walked over to where the extra utility belts were. "I fuck around with many things, but not other people's safety." Throwing one to him, I waited for him to catch it before continuing.

"The belt should have all your tools for the day. Gloves, goggles, tape measure, band-aids, the like. You put it on like this," showing him how mine was, I gestured for him to put his on.

"You need your hardhat, and this is where we keep 'em," walking over to the cabinet to my right, I grabbed a hat and tossed it to him as well. "You have a hard head as it is, but the hat will help protect you."

"Thanks," he muttered, holding onto the hat until his knuckles were white.

You okay? I wanted to ask, but I held it in. What Delgado did or didn't do wasn't my business.

Instead, I began walking to the interior of the office. "Follow me. There's a couple more things you need to know." Without waiting to see if he was following me, I began walking.

. . .

Working with Delgado was the same as working by myself.

He stayed out of my way, and I did the same with him. Honestly, the expression that haunted his face haunted my thoughts and I tried my best to forget it all.

Just because we were working together did not mean we instantly became friends. I made sure to stay out of his way even more now. Any time we saw each other, we quickly averted our gazes and walked in the opposite direction, but for some stupid high-school reason, this made my already non-existent social status plummet.

Any time I would go from class to class, the murderous intent of our peers filled the air. Our heavy conversation and past interactions were the latest of our spats, but all I wanted was to keep a low profile.

God, I hated small New England towns so fucking much.

I was walking to lunch when I was yanked into the hallway infamous for unmentionable activities Seniors partook in. Instantly squaring up for physical retaliation, I was shoved into the ground by multiple hands.

"What the fuck?" I grunted, angry at the perpetuators. Of the two heavy-set girls who had shoved me onto the ground, the girl on my right pushed me up against the wall. When I struggled against her hold, she dug her nails into my shoulder, and I winced. Her mini-me stepped back, "try me, puta" she sneered.

I heard the thump of heavy combat boots and a headache instantly formed behind my eyes.

Briana Fuentes was Delgado's girlfriend? I think. Yeah. They were together or something like that, I don't fucking know. What I did know was that she was the girl from the day of the fire drill. 

Looking back at it, I should've let her get in trouble.

They were on/off, well known for their monthly screaming matches in the hallways and heavy make out sessions in front of their lockers. I didn't really know what their relationship status was, nor did I care enough to find out.

Briana Fuentes, on the other hand, cared too much.

"Willa Evans," she sneered, her button nose scrunched in irritation, eyes lined with heavy liner. "There are rumors spreading about you and Mateo?"

The question was more of a statement. She lightly raised her eyebrows when I visibly winced in pain. The girl who was digging her nails in my shoulder was doing it with great pleasure—what the fuck did I do to her?

"I'll answer when your bitch lets me go," I bit out and Briana let out a harsh laugh.

She really was a pretty girl. But her attitude was so rancid—evil, almost. Briana Fuentes had a track record of playing dirty. She would start fights and let her girls finish it for her.

I wasn't exactly afraid of her, but I was weary.

"Manuela, let her go. Now, answer my question."

"What do you mean?" I scoffed in annoyance, straightening up and dusting myself off.

"We both know Mateo is the only man that goes to this school—and that he's mine," she laid the foundation down.

"Cool," I entertained her and her posse, "keep him."

"I know you want him, you bitch," she came closer, her manicured nail poking my chest. "This is your one warning: stay away from him."

Oh, for the love of God. She was so predictable; I don't know what was more annoying: her pulling a stunt like this or her personality.

Fuck that, I'm not gonna let her talk to me that way. Looking at Fuentes with narrowed eyes, I made sure my voice was as menacing as I could make it.

"I'm not the one you should worry about stealing your boyfriend." Throwing Manuela and the other girl a scathing look, I glanced at Briana's ashen face. "Hmm? Perhaps you have other issues to deal with first."

With that, I shouldered my way out of the hallway.

Fucking bitches.

. . .

word count: 3314

the model in the picture is what i imagine briana fuentes to look like.