Darnell parks on the street opposite the trailer park gates. I don't let him go any further than that even though I know he would if I asked. Before he can turn off the engine I'm already unsnapping my seat belt and opening the passenger door. My rush doesn't disguise the fact that I don't want him to inspect my neighborhood too closely.

It's dark and every second streetlight is broken but you can still see the graffiti-covered benches, the trash littered sidewalk owing to a week of late waste disposal, and the boarded up convenience store with an eviction notice neatly taped to the storefront.

Although he doesn't comment on it, he notices. You can tell by the way he drives a little faster as we go by an alleyway, by the sudden click when he locks the doors, and in the tension weighing on his shoulders as he steers. He's nervous. San Antonio can do that to a person. Make them walk quicker, pull their purses tighter. Avoiding eye contact as they try to reroute their GPS.

I get that. But his demeanor still bothers me.

"Will you be okay walking home?"

I stop myself from rolling my eyes and instead say, "Of course. I live here, remember."

In all honesty, I should be more worried about him getting home safe.

"Thanks for the ride."

He responds with a curt nod and turns his focus onto the road. I watch him drive away before I sigh and start for the security gates. If you can call them that. To me, security should mean more than a dozing man propped in front of a screen in the building by the gate. It's easy to slip past the gap in the fence and weave through the trailers.

Someone's dog barks at my heels as I walk but what else is new?

I don't have much in terms of excuses for being this late. My parents think I'm staying over at Anika's. Showing up in the middle of the night with a different outfit will raise more than a few eyebrows.

I thought I would have more time to think but whatever excuse I had put together in my head comes apart at the seams when I see who's waiting for me on the front porch. I should have seen this coming. Maybe I forgot that Friday was Dad's night-off or maybe it slipped my mind that since he isn't allowed to smoke in the house he takes his cigarette on the porch. Every evening without fail.

I'm not even shocked to see him. It's karmic justice for me to get caught in the second stupidest thing I've done this week. I'm not sure but somewhere God is up there laughing at me. I don't blame him.

I pull back the fence gate and right on cue Dad raises his eyebrows. I wonder what he'll comment on first, my short skirt, my late-night arrival, or how I got back home.

"I can explain." Is the first thing that comes to my mind and mouth though I know I can't.

He stares at me for a full minute taking a long drag of his cigarette as he does. "I'd really like to hear you try."

He taps the seat on the old wooden settee and I walk over and sit. My mouth is dry and my pits are damp under the sweater.

Taking too long to answer would arouse suspicion and despite my best efforts, I've come up with nothing in the believable lie department. Instead, I settle for the truth. The failed sleepover, our fight, and the startling realization that I only have one real friend. Telling the whole story minus the more incriminating parts. A game of selective honesty.

"What did you fight about?" He asks.

"Nothing major," I scoff. "I think she's passive-aggressive, she thinks I'm dramatic. It was pretty one-sided. I barely got a word in edgewise."

My dad makes a disbelieving note but doesn't reply.

"What do you mean: hmmm?" I say.

"You barely got a word in?" He chuckles. "I find that hard to believe. We're both hard-head me and you. Love the last word in any argument."

"I don't," I say indignantly. I may have gotten the last words with Anika and they just happened to be shut up. But that doesn't make me hardheaded either. "Aren't you supposed to take my side?"

He shrugs, "Not in my job description."

"My advice is to ask yourself if it's worth it. Fighting with someone you care about over something that stupid."

That's his advice. Wave the white flag and sing Kumbaya?

I'm surprised at how calm he's being, given the gravity of what I just confessed. I went to an entire party and yet he hasn't verbally ripped me a new one. Am I walking into a trap or is the nicotine finally winning the battle with his brain? Or perhaps he's softening with age. Given the fact that a few days ago he flipped someone off on the freeway for a risky overtake, I think not.

"We'll get over it," I mumble even though I'm not sure we will. Anika and I have never fought before, not like this. I didn't know what was wrong with our relationship until today. It was like touching on a bruise you didn't know was there until you felt the pain.

"And how did you get home? I hope you didn't walk all the way."

A minefield of a question.

"No," I reply. And because I'm committed to telling as much of the truth as possible I say: "I got a ride with a friend."

"A friend?" He asks, tone laced in concern. He furrows his brow as he goes on. "You let a friend drive you around. I know Anika doesn't have a license."

"Not Anika, Dad. Someone else. And he had his license, I made sure."

I turn to stare out ahead of us as he turns to look at me.

"Who is this he?" There's a soft growl under the he, telling me that I've misspoken.

"It's just a friend." I put my hands up as I speak as if to show I come in peace.

"So you let boys drive you around now?"

No one distrusts the male species more than my father. From the minute I could see past my hands he's put me onto every crime documentary ever made. I knew about Ted Bundy before I'd heard about Sesame Street. When we aren't watching sports, we're bingeing countless hours of true crime footage. Serial killers, vengeful ex-boyfriends scorned women. The works. He's fed me statistics about missing girls, signed me up for self-defense classes, and lobbied for guns in our home since 2013. He's the reason I keep a rape whistle in the bottom of my bag and maybe he's the reason I've never had to use it. Along the list of his major Don't is don't get into a strangers car. Especially if the stranger carries a Y chromosome.

The betrayed expression on his face would have made me smile any other time if I wasn't so over the emotional roller coaster I've been on all day.

"No," I exclaim, dropping my hands. "He's in my class and has been since the first grade. Practically harmless. Remember the kid who used to wait with me after school. Him. He was just being nice."

That sates him if only a little. "Does this boy have a name?"

"Yeah. His name is Darren and we take Ms. Wrens English class together." Okay, I'm bending the truth here. Bending the truth and replacing it with an outright lie. There is no Darren and I do not take Ms. Wren's class. I'd never make it in AP English.

"Darren, huh." He grinds out the name of a boy who doesn't exist. The object of my father's fury. Coincidentally taking me out of the hot seat. "Have you been spending a lot of time with this boy?"

I look at the ground, "Really? If you have something to say then just say it."

"Fine." He says. I give him a second as he struggles to put the words together. I suck in a breath, bracing myself for whatever humiliating concerned parent talk he's about to leap into.

After a lengthy throat clearing, he takes the plunge. "I think you're too young to have a boyfriend."

My dad, everybody. Getting a ride home with a boy to him translates into I'm ready to settle down and start a family.

I don't say anything, I only keep my arms crossed. Responding would be detrimental. Any denial from me would only confirm his worst fears and start an argument big enough to rival world war three.

"I would prefer if you didn't even talk to boys but I've been told that's unreasonable. The thing is—"

He stops and with his free hands grabs at his hair, colored brown to match my own, before starting over, "You're my daughter. My only girl, Hazel. You don't know how much you mean to me and— And I'm not ready for you to waste time on a boy who doesn't deserve you and up with a broken heart. Hell, I wasn't even ready for you to go to high school. I don't know how I'll get by when you go to college."

"You said I wouldn't make it to college, remember?" I smile at the floor. I'm never fully prepared for my parents to say nice things about me. I'd rather they remind me to floss and lecture me about violent video games. Compliments throw me off balance.

"Nah," He says. "You're too smart. Smarter than me. You're going all the way to the Ivy League. All I'm saying is I want you to slow down and just be my kid for now. I want you to be my daughter and just my daughter. You can grow up later."

No boys. A logical, sensible ultimatum to give to one's teenage daughter. A month ago, even a few days ago I would have agreed immediately. It was a promise I could keep easily enough. It's not like I had a line of boys asking for my number.

But things felt different now. I felt different.

I look up at him and say at last, "Agreed."

*****

The weekend passes by uneventful until it doesn't.

There's radio silence from Anika. No texts, no calls. Because of that my phone is a social ghost town. Nothing. I can't complain much because I do the same. I miss her but I have my pride and refuse to be the first to break the silence and surrender. It would be a sign of weakness. And even if I did, what would I say? Where do we go from there? She's my closest friend and suddenly I no longer know how to talk to her.

Apart from schoolwork, it's a peaceful break. I only wish I'd been woken up in the same vein. But no. Not in the Monroe-Martinez household.

"Hazel, get out of bed. You know what day it is." Andrea bangs our bedroom door against the wall.

Through my one open eye, I see that Timothy doesn't stir despite the onslaught.

"Timmy, get up. You've got a lot to do." As she says it she peels back our curtains and light floods the room. Killing any hope I had of going back to sleep. In some homes spring cleaning comes once a year, in ours it shows up every Sunday morning.

We clean our rooms then work our way out, through the rest of the house.

Finally, Andrea pulls off our blankets, revealing two bothered, pyjama-clad bodies, and walks out of the room. I glance at my brother who's now awake with one arm twitching and an expression that screams tired middle-aged accountant and I laugh, knowing it mirrors my own.

My legs swing over the bed. I grab my phone and connect it to the speaker propped near my desk. Nothing like a good playlist to get you through the drudgery. We sweep, mop, wipe down walls and look for stains on windows. Andrea bustles through the kitchen, opening and shutting cupboards. Even Dad pitches in, cleaning the yard and washing the car.

When I walk into the kitchen later Andrea is face timing her mom. Timothy's Abuela. When she sees me she hands me the phone and turns away.

"Say hi, and give it to Timothy," she says, staring out the window by the sink. Quiet.

"Hola! Abuela," I say.

"Hola, Hazel" She says. "Te he extrañado. Como es california?"

"California es genial. Muy caliente." I reply

Andrea's mom doesn't care too much for me but she fires questions about school and church with gusto until Timothy gets on the phone.

I'm fluent in Spanish. Somewhere between translating for Andrea when I was younger and helping Timothy brush up his language skills I picked it up and never stopped speaking it. For my troubles, I've got an assured A in all my Spanish classes and I can annoy Taco Bell employees immensely. It's a win-win.

Sunday is still my favorite day of the week in spite of our rigorous cleaning schedule. The one day where we don't eat breakfast at home after church. There's a small diner a few minutes away from the trailer park. One we've made a tradition of eating at every weekend for the past year.

I push my hands into the pockets of my skirt as we walk in and slide into our booth.

The diner is big on breakfast, offering it round the clock. They omelets the size of a hand, sunny-side up specials with trays of eggs, and an all you can eat breakfast platter. It's safe to say that the diner knows how to cook their eggs and not ordering any is a huge red flag. When Andrea only gets coffee and a few slices of sad-looking toast, Timothy and I notice.

"No eggs benedict today?" Timmy asks while squeezing ketchup onto his hash browns.

With Andrea's phone, I take a series of photos of my steaming plate.

"No. I want something different. I'm not feeling up to eggs."

"Breakfast without eggs? Isn't that a crime around here?" I ask.

"She can order whatever she wants," Dad adds quietly. Despite the brevity in the words, I can sense a warning. A warning not to pursue the topic any further.

But Tim doesn't quite catch it and plows ahead, still thinking it's a joke: "Not under the Joseph Monroe code of conduct it's not."

Dad sighs, exasperated at us. "They're just eggs if she doesn't want them—"

"Joseph, you're being loud." Andrea snaps before he can finish. She blows a weighty breath through her mouth, that ruffles her loose dark hair.

I throw a glance at both of them as they stare at each other. They've known me for a good seventeen years I'll give them that but I've known them for my entire life. I know when something is wrong and when they're keeping secrets. A secret important enough to cause friction over breakfast.

"What's really wrong?" I ask softly as I cut into my omelet. "We can't be fighting over eggs for real, right?"

Our booth goes dead silent and I take the opportunity to shovel more omelet into my mouth. If I'm following this conversation correctly then someone is about to say something I won't like. Something that will put me off omelets indefinitely.

Andrea sighs and places a hand onto Dad's shoulder, giving him one last look before turning back to us. I drop my fork and Timothy who has finally caught onto the off mood sits up straighter. Or straighter. Ten-year-old boys have an incurable slouch.

"We both love you very much," Andrea starts but before she can continue—

"No," The sound comes from my brother but matches the train of thought that's come to a screeching halt in my brain. "You are not telling me you're getting divorced in my favorite restaurant. I won't allow it."

Our table goes quiet again and Dad smiles. I release the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. No divorce.

"We're not getting divorced."

"Ohh," Timothy says. The sound is flat but is an adequate representation of our relief. The relief which is displaced by worry as a million other problems make themselves known. Did Dad lose his job? Are we losing our home again? Is Andrea okay? These are the thoughts that chase me around every single day. The only difference is that today I'm paying them attention. Allowing their ugly shapes to take up space in my head.

Andrea looks at us again, "It's early days but I took a few tests and they all came out positive. I haven't gotten anything official and I didn't want to wait to tell you."

All the words she just said are in English but I don't understand. How is it possible to be so confused and know exactly what is happening all at the same time?

Andrea smiles a soft, watery smile and then looks at me reaching a hand across the table to touch mine, "Hazel, I'm pregnant again."

The again is what clues me into thinking she might not be as happy about this and that this isn't the sole option let alone the smartest.

Dad starts talking again at my dumb-founded silence, "It'll be hard at first, we'll have to stretch the money a bit, soon Andrea won't be able to work anymore. You'll both need to help around a bit more. I know it's complicated."

They smile at us, as though they are giving us a gift and not killing my dreams.

"Then why don't you un-complicate things." My voice is small but I don't need to repeat anything, they all heard me.

"What do you mean?" Andrea asks

"I mean you already have enough children, you don't need anymore."

"Hazel," Dad says my name like it is a word of caution.

"I'm serious. It's possible. I'm sure your medical aid can cover it." I keep going and part of me is aware I am navigating dangerous territory and gradually reaching a point of no return.

"You can't mean that. This is your sibling." Andrea says as her small hands twist the napkin over and over again.

"No, not yet. You're still so early along that it doesn't have to be."

I know I'm being harsh but another baby stands for so many things. And none of them are good. I'll need to help take care of Andrea and the child. Stretch more of myself and have less to spare for school and sports

"You..." Andrea's voice sounds like glass to me. "You're being incredibly selfish."

"No, I'm the only person at this table being sensible."

"It's a baby." She says the words as though I should understand. With that one word, everything has changed. But it doesn't have to.

"It doesn't make financial sense right now, you'd lose your job, would we even be able to pay for the trailer?" I am speaking faster and I know that keeping your calm is the only way to win an argument but I am quickly losing mine. They're the adults. They know how hard it is to stay afloat even now. I see the bills that we just manage to pay on time. I see the strain working extra hours puts on my Dad. How could they not?

"That's none of your concern." Dad answers.

"Hazel, I am not getting an abortion."

Now that she's said the words, it seems so permanent. As if what I've been alluding to has come into existence and sits at this very table beside us.

"How could you be having a baby? Why now? I'll be going to college soon. What about that? That doesn't matter now. This baby you've known for a few weeks takes precedence now." I present my last argument and the shaky, high pitch in my voice makes even Timothy flinch.

"Don't you dare say another word."

But I do and my next line is pretty stupid, "Baby's take work and money and time."

I am grasping at straws and my parents stare at me like they don't know me anymore. Eyes wide. Andrea drops the napkin and the glass in her voice breaks.'The rest she says in Spanish so it takes a few seconds for me to resonate. But the disconnect between her words and their translation doesn't spare me from the brutality.

"Don't you dare try and tell me what a child needs because I have raised two of them. And if you can be so cold as to discuss the life of this baby so casually then maybe I raised you wrong."

And maybe you shouldn't have raised me at all. The words sit on the edge of my tongue but I don't speak. No one does. Instead, I stand and walk away from the table.

See Dad, I don't always have to have the last word.