Sweat, Part 4

SWEAT
A Redemption Story
Part 3

 

     “Todos al suelo! Al suelo!” 

     Aida crouched near the end of the hallway, holding her pistol steady in both hands. Peering around the corner of the hotel’s front desk, she saw that the silk- and diamond-clad attendees were gingerly descending to the floor. Their disdain at being forced to do something so uncouth was barely overpowered by their alarm at the two men wielding the AK-47s.  

     The gunmen, both wearing Spanish military uniforms like Armando’s, though somewhat more second-hand, held large canvas sacks into which they were unceremoniously dumping the exhibit items. The sound Aida had heard from the suite must have been the glass breaking on these displays; the guests on the floor crouched and cowered on the finely glittering yet worthless shards as the men collected gemstone-encrusted artifacts dripping in rough gold and silver. 

     This room had three entrances: a wall of French doors that led into a small conference room, the hallway she was now covering, and the three archways that led into the main ballroom. The conference room held no exhibits; there were probably no gunmen there. She couldn’t see clearly enough to assess the ballroom, but she could hear more shouting and knew there were plenty of guests and artifacts to plunder in that area; she’d have to take these thugs out before she got across.

     “Ariana!” 

     Aida whipped the gun around and nearly hit Armando across the face with it. “Armando!” she whisper-shouted. He had followed her to the end of the hallway and knelt down next to her, bottle still in hand, without her noticing. She tried to slow her breathing again. She must really be off her game tonight. “I told you to stay!”

     “I couldn’t just sit there and wonder if you were still alive,” he replied, full of what Aida suspected was either reckless bravado or an attempt at chivalry. His slurred words and rosy cheeks made it difficult to be certain. 

     She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. You, however, are drunk and unarmed.”

     More breaking glass from around the desk. The two gunmen spoke to each other in a tongue Aida didn’t recognize --- but their brief duet of triumphant laughter was universal.

     “Well . . . that may be true. But I am not completely useless. What is going on?” Armando insisted, his eyes now glinting in anticipation of the firefight. Aida smiled in spite of herself. She was all too familiar with the buzz of action. Three . . . two . . .

     “What’s going on is, I’ve got to work. For the last time, stay here.”

     One.

     Aida ducked out from behind her cover and stood as she crossed behind the closer three pillars. The two gunmen, still intent on the treasures, took a second to realize someone was disobeying orders, another to realize that Aida was no civilian, and yet another to reach for their weapons, which had been slung around their shoulders to free both hands for looting. In that time, Aida took aim and fired two rounds at each of them at her leisure.

     They dropped behind a display.

     Without pausing, she ducked behind the furthest column in case someone in the other room looked to see what the damage was. From her vantage point, she could clearly see Armando’s finely chiseled jaw drop.

     “Quédense en el suelo, por favor,” Aida whispered to the few guests still sitting with their hands over their heads. Apparently this small area had only attracted a few couples and an elderly matriarch decked out in pearls. The woman looked up at her in confusion through bulbous eyeglasses, but Aida didn’t have time to satiate her or Armando’s curiosity.

     Aida moved at a crouch around two display cases and behind the centerpiece of the room. This was untouched by the gunmen, because it held only a model of the excavation site. As she rounded the corner, she saw the results of her perfect marksmanship sprawled out of sight of the ballroom: Headshots. No blood. No noise. No wonder their compadres hadn’t come to check on them.

     On hands and knees, she moved to the back corner of the model. Armando was now sitting next to the display on the wall across from her. “That was incredible!” he whispered, clearly and genuinely impressed. “You are fearless!”

     She shrugged and smiled, one teasing eyebrow raised.  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

     Aida smashed the corner of the wooden base open with one bare fist. Armando’s jaw dropped again. She knew that such a show of force was a completely unnecessary way to retrieve her spare weapons; the compartment had a secret door that would have slid open silently had she so desired, but she couldn’t help showing off a bit. It was rare that she had such an appreciative audience. And, she reasoned, the gunmen behind her wouldn’t argue if she said they were the ones who broke this display.

     Aida pulled a fitted double holster over her shoulders, snapped a new magazine into the semi automatic in her hand, and swept the sawdust from her knees. She realized Armando was gesturing to her. “Don’t I get one?”

     She scoffed indignantly. “Get your own guns!”

     He gave her a pair of cloud-soft puppy eyes. She sucked her teeth at him in annoyance and then slid a small revolver across the flagstone floor: the only gun left in her stockpile.

     “Just to defend yourself. I get it back at the end of the night. Got it?”  

     Armando nodded, trading the wine bottle for the cozy wooden handle. 

     Aida snuck around the display, her bare feet silent on the glass-sprinkled stone. Behind the leftmost column, which was the last of her cover, she spied three more gunmen in the ballroom, guarding the gang’s escape through the foyer. The hostages were huddled by the walls, leaving Aida a clear path into the room.  

     “Too easy.” She winked at Armando and ran, double-fisted, into the fray. 

TO BE CONTINUED! 

Sweat, Part 3

SWEAT
A Redemption Story
Part 3

     A protracted and saccharine conversation involving the letter A. Snarky comments and giggles at the expense of the older dignitaries at the gala. Several waltzes in the ballroom that made Aida feel like a princess. And, at his insistence, a bottle of Armando’s favorite Spanish wine; even though Aida Rosenbaum was a few years shy of the drinking age in the States, Ariana Adams could be any age between 16 and 24.

     All memory of the mission cleanly forgotten.

The two lovebirds strolled away from the crowds of grey-hairs, hand in hand. Armando led Aida down a long stone corridor lined with thick, iron-bound oak doors. The ceiling was barely seven feet at the corners but arched up with many baroque swirls and spirals to a dazing twelve feet in the center, making it feel like they were giants in a tiny cathedral.

     “This part of the building was erected in the 16th century. It served as a monastery for the Catholic church,” Armando explained in a thoughtful voice, his cloudy eyes roving over the well-worn stone. “During the Peninsular War in the 1800s, when the French and Spanish armies were fighting and fleeing and fighting again, the monks in this church provided medical help to anyone who came to their doorstep, French or Spanish. They saved many lives and helped so many people. But when one battalion of Spanish soldiers found out there were French here, they threw torches into the library and nearly burnt the whole place to the ground. Isn’t that sad?” he asked. The poignancy of the moment was slightly dented by his burp on the last word.

     “That’s war for you. All’s fair, right? The Spanish soldiers were just trying to win,” Aida replied, swinging their clasped hands back and forth like a little girl. “Anyway, part of it survived, right? That’s why they incorporated it when they built this place.”

     Armando’s eyes slid out of focus. “Yes, I suppose.” He shook his head. “Let’s talk about something happier. Like how delicious this wine is.” He took another sip from the bottle, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and handed the bottle to Aida.

“Or how beautiful this architecture is. Those monks sure knew how to build good stuff out of rocks.” Aida took the wine but didn’t drink; she could consume much without feeling drunk like Armando, but she didn’t like the taste of the alcohol as much as her companion did.

     “Or how beautiful you are,” Armando said suddenly. He stopped and turned to look at her, rosy patches on his rough cheeks and a cheesy grin on his face. His uniform was coming undone; his sash drooped off his shoulder and his jacket hung open, revealing a white undershirt and plenty of pectorals underneath. He gently stroked her cheek with the knuckles of his free hand. “Because you are. You’re like a dark angel.”

Aida gave him a half-hearted grin. “Thanks,” she said, looking down, “but I’m not really anything special. I’m just thin and muscular is all. It’s not the same as being beautiful.”

     Armando shook his head. “Mentiras.”

     Aida looked up. Even with her stilettos on, they were at eye level.

     “Don’t say that. You are truly a vision of beauty, and even more, you’ve got a beautiful soul. I can see it in your eyes, your smile . . . your lips . . .”

     It was very cliche. Aida knew that at least 90% of romantic threads in movies and television shows included lines just like that. But hearing it for herself, with those gorgeous grey eyes on her, made her heart beat faster.

     In an empty suite off the main corridor, they were kissing with an intensity and passion that Aida drank in. So much better than wine, she thought. Without taking his mouth off hers, Armando aimed and failed to toss his uniform jacket on the dressing table by the door. Aida felt his firm embrace pulling her closer, and she ran her hands up the back of his undershirt. The heat of the moment drew sweat from between his shoulderblades.

     He backed her toward the enormous bed. She didn’t know what kind of suite this was, but it was swanky as all get-up. The ornately carved wooden headboard matched the rest of the museum, and the welcoming satin bedding made a feathery poof as they toppled together on top of it. They curled together on the pillowy cloud of bliss, a bliss that wound inside Aida’s heart like a clock.

     POW! POW! POW!

     The sound of gunshot and the accompanying screams of the partygoers hit Aida’s eardrums through the door of the suite. She sat up straight, thoughts of the mission slicing through her hormone-muddled mind. How could she have forgotten? How could she have been so stupid as to let her guard down for even a few minutes?

     POW! POW! More shots drove her out of the bed. “What? What’s going on?” Armando mumbled, still prone on the sheets. Aida kicked aside their shoes and jackets, looking, looking - there! She scooped up her purse, pulled out the semiautomatic, and headed for the door.  
     “Just stay there, Armando!” she snapped at a whisper. Back against the wall, pistol in both hands, she looked through the crack in the door to see if she could assess the situation from there. More screams. Breaking glass. Male voices shouting. But no one within sight. She’d have to make her way back to the exhibits.
     Heart and lungs still working overtime, she glanced back at Armando with a pang. Why did work always have to interrupt her life at the worst possible moments? At least she was still dressed. “I’m so sorry, Armando. Wait here, okay? I’ll be back as soon as I can.” 
     Tearing herself away from his look of confusion, Aida checked for clearance, pushed open the door with her shoulder, and took off toward the commotion.

Sweat, Part 2

SWEAT
A Redemption Story
Part 2

 

    “It’s a good one this time,” Mr. Morris panted when he sat down at the conference table in Aida’s apartment. He tossed his overcoat over the back of the chair, sprinkling the carpet with droplets that shone like crystalline shards of amber, reflecting the streetlights five stories below. “We’re flying you off to Spain tonight. That’s a new one for you, right?”

    Aida nodded and sat across from him. It always seemed weird that Mr. Morris sat in the cushioned office chair behind the desk. This left her to sit on either of the two hard-backed chairs facing the floor-to-ceiling windows, like she was a student and he the principal in the school that was her home. She crossed her legs carefully. Even though her pantsuit was super itchy, she would try to do Mrs. Strickland right and look the part of a professional agent.

    “Basic gala event,” Mr. Morris continued, opening his briefcase and passing over a manila envelope with a slim stack of materials inside. As Aida flipped it open and pulled out a passport, a gilded invitation, and a building schematic, he continued, “An opening for a new museum exhibit. It’s a particularly insensitive one about the Spanish monarchy, so the Basque people there are a little upset. Your job is security - infiltration and surveillance, hopefully. Our client heard that there might be some separatists planning on busting up the party, as they say. Do you speak Spanish, Ms. Rosenbaum?”

    “Not well, but that shouldn’t be a problem,” Aida replied, now reading her cover sheet. “You have me as a delegate from Liberia. I’ll need to speak English.”

    “Oh, right right right,” Mr. Morris said, wiping his handkerchief along his receding hairline. “Well, you may want to brush up on your Basque history, but other than that it’s pretty straightforward. 48 hour turnaround, I think. Your plane will be ready in an hour. It’s a long flight, so pack what you need.”

    He stood up. Aida hurriedly flipped the folder closed and rose to complete the obligatory handshake that signaled the end of the meeting.

    “Good mission!” Mr. Morris grinned.

    Eighteen windswept hours later found Aida assembling the last of her ensemble for the evening: A particularly gorgeous gown of cobalt silk, matching blue stilettos, and her favorite semiautomatic pistol tucked inside an eggshell-white clutch. She put her hair in a complicated up-do, adjusted her special clip-on diamond earrings, and finished everything off with a faux-fur coat. Aida demanded the agency to only supply her with the finest and animal-friendliest of materials for her missions, and they had certainly held up their end for this. She would enjoy the short strolls from the towncar to the museum and back, even if the evening was far from cold. She could handle a little sweat.

    Of course, once she checked her coat and declined to leave her purse, Aida’s fun appeared to be over. All the muckety-mucks at the gala were inclined to admiring the museum pieces and chatting through their noses in rapid Spanish, dripping with class. The old gold and gemstone pieces were remarkable, as was the museum building modeled after a medieval castle, but also only worth about two seconds of her attention.

    She knew she wasn’t doing any justice for her cover by sipping sparkling cider from a champagne glass by the bar, slumped over slightly, head in her hands and a blank expression on her face, but there were no separatists in sight, and she was getting tired of white-haired old men commenting on how tall she was, how long her legs were, how finely toned her muscles and features. She had known the stilettos would make her stand out, but she wanted to treat herself. Now she’d give anything to go back in time and kick past-Aida in the shins.

    “You look as bored as I feel.”

    Startled, Aida’s instinct drove her hand to the patient pistol - but a second instinct kept her from dumping the magazine into the man’s stomach. She did her usual visual scan of this new element, and then did a double take. This was not a white-haired Spanish politician; this was a young man with a golden-brown mane, a shade of stubble on his chin, and rough dimples wrapped in military formal. He even had a few medals pinned to his chest. No firearm, though. Not a threat. Just ruggedly handsome.

    Quickly rifling through the memorized file in her head, Aida sat up straight and gave him what she knew was a shy, winning grin. Her accent well in place, she said, “Well, I really have no personal interest in Spanish history, but I rather hope I’m not disrespecting your hospitality, Captain. Your people have put on quite a show.”

    He rolled cottony gray eyes. “You mean they are showing off. Don’t be afraid to speak your mind, querida. I am not blind to my government’s ploys.”

    “Good, because except to those old men who lived through it, all this history is a snore. As they say.”

    Aida rather enjoyed the genuine quality of his laugh. He smiled at her and extended his hand. “Captain Armando Aguilar, of the Spanish Navy.”

    Armando’s hand was rougher and yet far more pleasant in hers than Mr. Morris’ could ever be. “Ariana Adams, delegation from Liberia.”

    His thick, masculine eyebrows arched and curled with his amusement. “Ah, I see. I am avid to make your acquaintance, Miss Adams.”

    A quick smile slipped from her painted lips. “As am I, my alliterating ally.”

    Their charmed laughter rose together and echoed into the corners of the arched ceiling above them. Aida didn’t get to chastise herself for the temporary lull in her surveillance in which Armando surprised her. Her interest in the evening’s activities restored, she didn’t even notice the other naval officer across the room who took a surreptitious glance around the ballroom before slipping behind the velvet rope, pulling a revolver from his belt as he went.

TO BE CONTINUED! 

Break, Part 2

BREAK
A Spitfire Story
Part 2

           Two worn sneakers pounded the sidewalk. The palm trees craned their necks into the pale sky, their shaggy-haired heads washed out in the powerful sunlight. The heat and the glare had no impact on Maggie’s stride as she blazed a path to the park where she planned her escape.

           On a corner, she jogged in place and watched the cars sliding through the intersection like dark snakes, their tinted windows sealed tight against the outside world. She prayed that her park would be empty despite the good weather, which often tempted those hermits who poked out their heads when the air turned any shade lower than 85. The stoplight changed with a faint click. Maggie’s soles bounced off the corner as she made the familiar turn.

           Finding her prayers answered, she smiled her relief. The circular park wasn’t remarkable and didn’t buzz with activity on even the best of days, and that was how Maggie liked it. Twelve palms stood sentinel around the circle of concrete, forming an enormous sun dial with an empty fountain rising from the center point. The pool was not adorned with baroque curls and frills, nor did it boast a statue of some long-forgotten soldier in the neverending war of good versus other. Instead, it featured a single column of white marble. It was simple. Clean. It was there for its own purpose and for no other reason.

           Maggie slowed to a walk. She put her things inside the fireproof pouch and dropped it on the bench beside the entrance before moving toward the three o’clock tree. She positioned her toes, relaxed her shoulders, and closed her eyes. One slow breath, then another.

           And then she moved.

           Her right foot slid out, her hands rose and fell. She pivoted on the balls of her feet, the bubbling wells, and turned, envisioning the ball of energy between her palms. She moved her weight between her feet, bent her knees, and extended her palms, pushing and pulling at empty air. Her steady, easy breathing matched each movement and she focused every thought on this ancient and carefully structured sequence.

           As she moved through each step, Master Xifeng’s words echoed through her mind. Move like water, fluid, ever-changing. Transfer your weight between your feet. Balance. The short, black-haired tai chi teacher from Maggie’s after school program was the most inspirational woman she knew, but - whether coincidentally or otherwise - she was also the most unyielding teacher she’d ever had.

           Maggie’s early years in the program had been marred by detentions, remedial programs, and stacks of homework problems. By the time she was in fifth grade, she and all her teachers knew she was doomed to mediocrity and failure. But the moment Xifeng laid eyes on the fiery little Latina, when she was squirming in the back row of the gym where they had their first introductory tai chi class, she saw something special that no other teacher had. “Please stand up straight,” Xifeng said, passing Maggie by on the way to the front of the room.

           At that time, Maggie was already an inch from passing the tai chi master in height. “No thank you,” Maggie had said sardonically, and then popped her gum.

           In a moment as lightning quick as a hummingbird’s wings, Xifeng had the ten-year-old leaning over a garbage can with her arm twisted behind her back. “No gum in my class.”

           Maggie struggled and grunted, trying to break her grip. It was useless, and, as she would later learn, nearly impossible. She reluctantly let the gum fall into the rancid depths of the canister.

           Xifeng released her.

           She and the head teacher resumed their stroll to the front rows of students as if nothing unusual had happened. As Maggie returned to her spot, rubbing her now aching shoulder, she overheard Xifeng telling Mr. Macintosh, “I like her. She’s got fire in her belly. She’ll be a great student if she can sit still long enough for me to teach her.”

           That was all it took to get Maggie hooked on martial arts. She took all of Master Xifeng’s classes in the after school program, and when she turned fourteen she started working a paper route to pay for advanced lessons. The intensely visceral art of practicing physical perfection allowed her to center herself emotionally and intellectually. As long as Maggie was able to work out her energy on the mat, she found she was able to focus on school and life issues with clarity and relative grace.

           Taken too far away from herself while reminiscing, Maggie froze mid-step, realizing she had forgotten a stage in the sequence. She groaned and rolled her eyes. The perfectionism she had to work through with everything else in life extended into this arena as well, and, realizing she would have to start over, she decided to vent her frustration and make a clean break: She swung one foot around and threw a series of punches in the air, erasing the tai chi sequence with some basic kickboxing.

From each strike burst a plume of fire, burning up the dry air with flames from no source. Maggie practiced tai chi in another attempt to control her pyrokinesis, but sometimes a girl just has to let loose with a little firepower. That was why she had hoped to find the park empty - so that she could practice with fire if she needed to.

A gasp from behind her told her that she was not as alone as she’d thought.

Turning, Maggie saw a young boy standing near the entrance of the park, staring at her with an expression that clearly said, “I just saw you make fire with your fists.” They locked eyes for a moment, and as Maggie realized what would follow, she silently tensed her muscles in preparation.

            He took off with all the speed of a frightened fawn. She followed with the well-trained stride of a wolf.

Sweat, Part 1

SWEAT
A Redemption Story
Part 1

Aida’s life was, if anything, comfortable.

She enjoyed more freedom than anyone she knew - although to be honest, she didn’t know that many people. Mrs. Strickland, her handler, worked most of the day taking care of her and so many other people in the company. But she didn’t have much of an outside life, and Aida was pretty sure (or at least she hoped) she didn’t have children. Mrs. “Strict-land” enjoyed her nickname way too much.

Dr. Valiant was reasonably happy, too, but Aida thought there was something wrong with her. Something that made her worry so much. Something that adorned her hazel eyes with a crown of crow’s feet and shot the green-and-gold irises through with pain. Aida liked her visits with Dr. Valiant. She was the most compassionate of her “family,” and Aida loved to hear her talk about her kids. Danny and Rachel, ages 2 and 4, a young boy and his older sister. Aida sometimes wondered if the something that worried Dr. Valiant was her children, but as much as she prodded she could never get any substantial information from her. Aida was happy with their friendship, which she sometimes imagined was more like having a close cousin than a longtime doctor, but she wished they were closer.

Mr. Morris was likable. Whenever he presented Aida with missions briefings, he was overly enthusiastic, to the point that his round, bald head would shine with the sweat of excitement. He would wipe it with the same kerchief he kept in his pocket and say, “Aida, do we have a rad assignment for you!” But he was always quick to get to work and quick to leave with a brief, strong shake of the hand. He was all business, and then he was all gone.

In fact, the business was the only part of her life that Aida wasn’t overly fond of. There could be fun parts, sure. Flying to new locations and kicking bad guy butt was always a thrill. But she supposed everyone had to work for their share of life - and that was just how she did hers. She just wished she didn’t have such short notice for life interruptions.

That was why she wasn’t surprised when Mrs. Strickland called her loft late Saturday night in the middle of a Friends marathon to warn her of an incoming mission.

“But I can’t leave now! How am I supposed to work not knowing what happens with Ross and Rachel?” Aida whined into the phone.

“They get together, they break up, they get together again, blah blah blah,” Mrs. Strickland snipped. “There are more important things than television, Ms. Rosenbaum.”

Aida whimpered. “But . . . but . . . Please, Mrs. Strickland?” She pounded the hand still holding the remote down into the lush, golden folds of her down comforter. Her widescreen television, which filled the wall opposite the queen sized bed, flickered with a billion silent colors; she had put it on mute when the phone rang.

She heard a prolonged, aggravated sigh on the other end of the line. She bit her lip hopefully. “All right,” Mrs. Strickland answered. “I’ll get someone to record it for you. You’ll be able to watch it all when you get back from your mission.”

A huge, self-satisfied grin spread across Aida’s face. She leapt to her feet and did a little jig on the bed. “Thanks, Mrs. Strickland! I owe you one!”

“You owe me more than that, young lady,” she replied, but Aida could hear a small grin and eye roll through the growl. “Now stop jumping around and smarten yourself up. Mr. Morris is on his way now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Aida replied. She dropped the remote, stepped down onto the blue and white fur rug, and looked over her shoulder at the little black ball of plastic in the corner where the camera was mounted, not even bothering to hide itself in the vaulted ceiling.

“Oh, and keep it modest this time,” Mrs. Strickland added as Aida crossed the spacious studio apartment. “We are professional businesswoman, Ms. Rosenbaum, not washed up pageant girls begging for work.”

Aida rolled her eyes and ran her free hand along the rows of clothes hung in the walk-in closet, feeling the swish and shimmer of materials under her fingers. “Right. So more The Proposal Sandra Bullock and less Miss Congeniality?” There was a short silence on the line. Aida guessed Mrs. Strickland was deciding whether to look up those references or just go with it.

“Yes,” she said curtly. She hung up abruptly.

Aida laughed. “Too easy,” she said. She shook her head, put the cordless phone down on the enormous shoe rack in the back of the closet, and turned back to the racks of clothes in all colors, textures, and styles. She put her hands on her hips, looked around carefully, and then sprung into action like a pageant girl with a great job earned by raw talent and well-honed skill. 

Time to work for her money. 

 TO BE CONTINUED!

Break: Part 1

BREAK

A Spitfire story by Annie M. Pasquinelli

  

Mamá stomped over the threshold that afternoon after Mass, as touchy and ready to attack as a tigress with eczema. 

Magdalena sloped in after her. She hated it when Esperanza was gone. The lack of balance always drove those remaining in the Guerrero household up the walls. Mamá would grumble as she went about the house, growling and lashing out at anything and everyone. Small mistakes in the completion of chores became towering nightmares of retribution. Any smart remark became an act of mutiny that more often doubled the already cruel level of punishment. Nothing slipped by her. Nobody would be left unscathed.

Emiliana pounded through the front door, dropped her purse and shoes by the hall closet, and threw herself down at the kitchen table. When the house was missing its smallest member, Emi always dove into her schoolwork. Maggie didn’t know how community college worked, but she felt sure that midterms didn’t happen with such frequency, nor that they required such prolonged hours of studying, like her second oldest sister claimed to have done. Emi took over the worn oak table, which was stacked comically high with books, papers, notecards, and various office supplies. Though the columns looked like little more than organized messes, they were really the precisely assembled pieces of a delicate and dangerous doomsday device, ready to explode if even the smallest mound was moved from its place. Emi was the mad scientist overseeing this dastardly creation, tending to its sprawling branches, feeding it late into the night, shunning all outside help.

Mamá, after extricating herself from her tightly buckled wool jacket, caught one glance of the discarded items on the floor, turned to look at Emi, and inhaled with a sound like a hot teapot ready to boil. “Emiliana! Can’t you take two more seconds to put your things away?”

Emi half-stood above her chair so that her crazed glare could be seen over the homework-monster’s back. “Mamá, I have at least three hours of reading for each class before tomorrow. So no, I can’t take two more seconds to put my things away.”

Maggie, who was admittedly the first to jump into the fray when an argument arose between any of the family members, withdrew into herself and stayed in sulky silence, like she always did until her youngest sister returned. As she shut and dead bolted the front door, she dreamed of the days not long past when Esperanza was around to bug her with stupid questions about cartoons and to cry her constant pleading supplication to play Barbies with her. If only they could see Esperanza’s annoying little face again, Maggie thought, the cosmos would fall back into alignment and peace would be restored to the home ravaged by the wildfires of negative energy and misplaced aggression.

Her mother snorted in anger. “I have hours of work left to do, too, mija! But you’re going to make me take those two seconds instead? Are you really so selfish?”

The eye contact between the two women was tense enough to snap like a rubber band. Maggie didn’t want to wait around to see if it would break like a rubber band, too. The empty, quiet house had lain dormant in their absence that morning, nursing its wounds, but Maggie hadn’t had the same opportunity. She wouldn’t be their collateral damage again.

“Can’t you just leave it alone?” Emiliana moaned. She dropped herself back onto the chair again and reached to adjust the mounds of paper as though desperate to ensure that her dark creation had not fallen apart in her absence. “I’ll put them away if and when I have time, but only after my work is done! I shouldn’t have even taken the time off to go to church this morning!” 

Maggie had snuck halfway to the closet behind Mamá, where she hoped to put her own things away before retreating as quietly as possible. Her eyes widened when her sister’s last statement echoed through the house like the warning sirens wailing in advance of an air raid. There was no turning back now. Maggie knew the argument would burn hotter and longer than napalm in wartime. Abandoning all hope, she kept her things with her and fled on tiptoe up the hallway.

Behind her, Mamá’s voice rose in a terrible crescendo. “Emiliana Josefina Guerrero, how dare you! You will never put your homework above the work of the Lord! There is nothing more important than your heavenly salvation!”

As Maggie reached the doorway of hers and Esperanza’s shared bedroom, she heard the blast of her sister’s nuclear bomb rush toward her: “Dios mío, Mamá, God will not lock me out of heaven because I missed one Sunday Mass!”

Horrified, Maggie shut the bedroom door. She ripped off her high heels and pearls, stripped to her underwear, and shoved her tight, itchy, prissy Sunday best into a dark corner of her closet. She pulled on a rough t-shirt, running shorts, and tennis shoes, and then loaded up her old drawstring bag with essentials. Water bottle. Tracfone. Keys. Emergency rations. Fire resistant pouch.

She scrawled a quick note on a torn-off piece of notebook paper, took a last sad look at Esperanza’s side of the room, and exited through the window. It’s just for a little while, she told herself. Esperanza would be back that night and everything would go back to normal. She just had to wait a bit longer.

She just wasn’t going to wait there.

TO BE CONTINUED!