American Sun

[Caesar]

Mete Dlo Sou Difé

The porch boards creaked under his weight, even when he tried to sit light. One of them always did, right near the middle. Caine shifted his foot just enough to quiet it. The neighborhood was still—a rare pause between school buses and somebody’s cousin blasting NBA YoungBoy from a busted-out Corolla.

He had the notebook open across his lap, pages already smudged at the corners. It wasn’t much, just one of those cheap spiral joints from Family Dollar. The first half was stuffed with folded-up letters he’d written on scrap paper in jail. Some were on napkins. One on the back of a commissary list. All of them for Camila.

He was writing again now. Pencil moving slow. The words weren’t pretty. They didn’t have to be.

Camila,
You won’t remember none of this, not really. Not what it smelled like in jail, not the sound the latch made on the door. You won’t remember how I ain’t get to hold you on your birthday or how bad I wanted to. You’ll grow up in a world that says you lucky your daddy even stuck around at all.

He paused. Looked out at the street. A mail truck passed. Tires grinding against the broken concrete.

I don’t know if I’m ever gonna be good. I want to be. But I ain’t never seen good get too far where I come from. I seen good boys get shot for being soft. I seen hard ones get thrown away for not knowing when to stop. Maybe that’s what I am now. One of the thrown-away ones trying to find his way back.

He rubbed the edge of his thumbnail along the spiral binding.

You gonna have it harder than me. That’s just real. Black, Honduran, Mexican. Girl. Poor. With a daddy who already got a number stamped next to his name. People gonna expect you to fail before you ever speak. They gonna say you loud if you stand up for yourself, fast if you smile too long, angry if you cry. You won’t get to mess up without paying double.

Caine blinked hard. The porch was quiet. Somebody’s wind chimes clinked faint in the distance.

I wish I could give you something better. But all I can give you is this—don’t stop fighting. Not even when it feel like the world ain’t worth it. Fight anyway. Even if it’s just to stay kind. Just to stay you. Stay you, mamas. Don’t let them take shit from you. That’s the only way you beat all this.

He sat back, pencil dangling between his fingers, breathing like the air had thickened. The sun was just starting to drop behind the trees, throwing long shadows across the lawn. He tucked the notebook back into his hoodie pocket and zipped it halfway, like that would keep the words safe.

A car passed slowly. Some old lady walking her dog nodded as she moved by. He nodded back.

For a second, Caine thought about going back inside. But he didn’t move.

He just sat there on the porch, hoodie pulled up, heart steady but heavy.

Still trying to believe there was something on the other side of all this that looked like a life.

~~~

The hallway smelled like bleach and sweat, like somebody had tried to drown the day in chemicals and came up short. Sara pushed her cart past a half-closed door and knocked once before stepping inside. Another room. Another mess.

She moved on autopilot—stripping the sheets, gathering the towels, spraying down the bathroom tiles while the fan buzzed above her head like a mosquito that couldn’t die. The window unit rattled in the corner, pushing warm air into an already thick room.

It wasn’t the worst she’d seen. But the bedspread had a smear on it that made her nose crinkle, and someone had spilled Sprite or maybe champagne on the nightstand. The remote control was sticky. She wiped it down without thinking.

She was halfway through changing the linens when the voice came from the hall.

“You behind again, Sara?”

The words were casual. But there was a bite under them.

She didn’t look up. “No.”

“Well, pick it up anyway. They just called down—401 needs turning too.”

Sara yanked the fitted sheet a little harder than necessary, corners snapping into place like slaps. She didn’t answer.

The footsteps receded. She finished the bed, checked the drawers, emptied the trash.

In the linen closet at the end of the hall, she pulled the door shut behind her and leaned back against the shelves. Her fingers found the little Altoids tin tucked behind the bleach. She popped the lid with one thumb. Inside: a single rolled joint, prepped the night before.

She lit it with a disposable lighter and held the smoke deep in her chest. Blew it slow toward the tiny vent above her head. The fan barely worked, but it whined in its effort.

The first drag didn’t do much. The second let her jaw unclench.

Sara closed her eyes.

She didn’t want to be this kind of tired. The kind that made you hate people for needing you. The kind that made you lash out just to feel your own edges.

But it lived in her bones now. It was in her knees when she crouched to clean hair from the drain. In her back when she leaned too long over the cart. In her teeth when she caught herself grinding them in her sleep.

The joint burned low between her fingers.

She pressed one hand over her heart. Then her mouth.

A silent cross.

“Mi hijo está bien,” she whispered. “Mi hijo está en casa.”

Her voice trembled, but only slightly. She said it again. A little firmer.

“Mi hijo está bien. Mi hijo está en casa.”

As if saying it made it true in more than just location.

She finished the joint, pinched the end out against the inside of the tin, and slid it back into its hiding spot. Then she adjusted her uniform, took a deep breath, and stepped back into the hallway.

Room 401 still needed turning.

But her son was home.

That had to be enough—for now.

~~~

The hallway at Karr was humming—locker doors slamming, sneakers squeaking, voices bouncing off tile walls like loose change. Caine kept his head down as usual, dodging eye contact and walking the edge of the current. He hadn’t planned on stopping until the bold gold letters caught his eye:

"TRYOUTS COMING SOON — EDNA KARR COUGARS FOOTBALL"
7-Time State Champions. #TheFreeSmokeTour
Info Meeting: Friday, Feb. 28 After School — Room 112

The flyer was pinned center on the activities board, surrounded by college visit announcements and club posters that looked like they hadn’t been touched since August. But the football one was crisp, clearly just posted. Laminated even. Somebody cared.

Caine stepped closer.

The helmet in the corner of the poster gleamed in the light—a reminder that even in a school full of noise, one game still ruled the heartbeat. He didn’t touch the flyer. Just stared.

“Don’t take too long,” a voice behind him said. “They’re gonna run out.”

He turned. Janae was leaning against the water fountain, backpack over one shoulder, lip gloss just barely catching the light. She gave him a crooked smile.

“I think you have to talk to play football,” she said.

Caine raised an eyebrow. “That right?”

She stepped closer, toe to toe now, eyes sharp but playful. “My brother led won that championship last year. I practically built the playbook.”

Caine snorted. “You teach him how to throw too?”

“Please. He copied my form.”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Yeah, alright.”

She tilted her head, playful and just a little bold. “You thinking about it?”

“That’s why I’m holding the flyer.”

“Well…” she plucked a second flyer from the bottom of the stack, folded it neatly, and held it out to him with two fingers. “Now you got a reminder.”

He took it slow, their fingers brushing—brief but not accidental.

“Let me know if you need pointers,” she added, bumping his shoulder lightly. “I give private lessons.”

“Do I gotta pay?”

She winked. “Nah. First one’s free.”

And then she was gone, turning down the hall with a sway that said she knew he was watching.

Caine didn’t watch her go. He stared at the flyer in his hand, the edge already curling between his fingers. Then he folded it once, tight and clean, and slid it into the side pocket of his backpack.

~~~

The boutique was smaller than Mireya expected. Clean, curated, with racks spaced wide enough to feel intentional. She sat on a padded bench near the back office, trying not to shift too much. Her thighs stuck to the vinyl. Her shoes squeaked faintly when she crossed her ankles.

Arelle, the manager—mid-thirties, neat bun, square glasses—flipped through Mireya’s printed resume without much expression. She wore a necklace with her name spelled in cursive and long almond-shaped nails that clicked softly against the paper.

“You’ve worked before?” she asked, eyes still scanning.

Mireya nodded once. “At a taqueria. In the Bywater.”

Arelle looked up briefly. “That can be rough.”

“Yeah.” Mireya didn’t offer more. She wasn’t here to talk about it.

There was a silence while Arelle tapped her pen against the desk.

“Well,” she said, “this is part-time. Weekends mostly, maybe an evening or two if someone needs coverage.”

Mireya nodded again.

“We pay minimum wage. It’s not glamorous. You’d be folding, tagging, straightening up, helping customers who think they’re better than you. You okay with that?”

“I’ve had worse.”

Arelle gave a thin smile. “That wasn’t a challenge.”

Mireya let the silence answer.

“You’re in school?”

“Yeah.”

“Any other responsibilities I should know about?”

“I have a daughter.”

That made Arelle pause, just slightly. “How old?”

“Almost two.”

Arelle didn’t respond right away. She just slid a folder across the desk and opened it.

“You’ll need to fill these out. Tax forms, emergency contact, availability. You said weekends only?”

Mireya nodded. “That’s all I can do.”

“Alright. Saturday mornings it is. Ten to four.”

Mireya took the pen.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t feel like this was a win.

But it was something.

Not enough to fix anything. Not enough to change the math that haunted her every day.

But something that could maybe go on a timecard. Something she could show if someone ever asked what she was doing to try.

She started filling out the forms. Name. Address. Social.

Arelle leaned back, already turning to her computer. “Welcome to retail,” she said, almost as an afterthought.

Mireya didn’t answer. She was already moving to the next blank line.

A full week there would be about as much as what Leo stuffed in the cup holder sometimes. A full shift here might buy diapers and gas. If she didn’t eat.

~~~

The line at Winn-Dixie moved slow. The kind of slow that tested patience even when you didn’t have a full day of parole visits behind you.

William Roussel stood beside the cart, still in uniform, the polyester collar itching against his neck. His boots creaked every time he shifted. He didn’t bother taking them off after work anymore—he liked the way they made him feel tall. Solid. The badge caught the late afternoon light under the fluorescents, and more than once he caught a sideways glance from someone up ahead in line. That glance always softened when they saw the state patch. Authority softened suspicion.

Behind him, Peyton scuffed along without urgency, thumbs glued to his phone.

“You see the milk?” Roussel asked, not looking.

No response.

Roussel turned slightly. “Peyton.”

The boy didn’t lift his head. His headphones dangled, only one in his ear.

“Peyton.”

Nothing.

Roussel spun all the way around and snatched the phone from his hand in one sharp motion.

“Hey!” Peyton flinched. “What the hell?”

“You hear me talking to you, you answer,” Roussel snapped, finger jabbing the air between them. “You don’t get to ignore me like one of your little hood friends.”

“Alright, bro, chill—”

“Don’t call me that.” Roussel’s voice spiked. “And stop talking like those fuckin—”

He caught himself mid-word.

An elderly Black woman stood two feet to his right, one hand on a bag of rice, eyebrows lifted.

Roussel straightened. Cleared his throat. “Ma’am.”

She didn’t respond.

He shoved the phone back into Peyton’s chest and turned away, pushing the cart forward with a little too much force. A bag of frozen vegetables nearly bounced out.

Peyton walked behind him, sulking. “You always act like somebody done disrespected you.”

Roussel didn’t answer.

He kept his eyes on the register ahead. Kept his hands steady on the cart handle.

Kept the anger low and tight in his chest, where it couldn’t be seen—just felt.

Behind him, Peyton mumbled something under his breath.

Roussel didn’t catch it.

But he didn’t have to.

[Soapy]

this boy thinks he jax teller with these letters

[Caesar]

this boy thinks he jax teller with these letters

I was waiting for someone to catch it It's a great plot device

[Caesar]

Chimen Fasil Pa Veye Lavi Long

The sky outside Mireya’s window was still gray, barely hinting at morning. She heard Camila before she saw her—little feet thudding against the mattress, a soft, impatient whine swelling into a cry. Mireya rolled out of bed slow, every muscle stiff from too few hours of sleep.

She found Camila standing in her crib, holding onto the rail with both hands, her curls smashed to one side and cheeks flushed. “Mommmmy,” Camila called, already reaching.

“Shhh, mamas, I’m here.” Mireya lifted her, heavier now at nearly two years old, all squirming limbs and morning heat. Camila clung with one arm, burying her face in Mireya’s neck before squirming down, demanding to be put on the floor. Mireya set her loose. Camila made a beeline for the half-empty sippy cup on the rug and then tottered straight to the bathroom, tugging at her diaper.

Mireya followed, pulling clean clothes from a drawer, still half-asleep. Her reflection in the cracked mirror looked like someone older—a faded bruise under one eye, dry lips, hair piled messily on her head. She splashed cold water on her face, watching Camila attempt to brush her own teeth with a pink plastic brush, mostly drooling toothpaste down her shirt.

There was no time to linger. Mireya wrangled Camila into a clean pair of leggings and a faded tee, then hurried to pull on her own pants and tug a hoodie over her tank top. She was already thinking ahead—drop Camila with Maria, drive to school, maybe enough time for a coffee if she ran.

In the kitchen, Maria was at the stove, moving slow and sharp, flipping tortillas while the radio crackled in Spanish. “You’re late again,” Maria said, glancing over her shoulder. “You know your manager called last week?”

Mireya bit back a reply, focusing on the task of pouring milk into Camila’s cup, then packing up a half-squashed banana in a plastic bag.

“I told her I’d make up the hours,” she said, too quietly.

Maria shook her head, her mouth twisting. “You need to pick—school or work. You can’t keep falling behind in both, Mireya. You hear me? Life isn’t kind to girls who don’t have anything going for them.”

Mireya kept her eyes down, rubbing Camila’s back as her daughter whined for more milk. “I’m passing,” she lied.

Maria snorted, tossing a tortilla onto a plate. “Barely.”

In the bedroom, Camila babbled at her doll, some words in Spanish, some in English, half nonsense, little voice filling the hallway. Mireya knelt to zip up Camila’s shoes, hands shaking a little.

…

By the time they made it to the bus stop, the street was alive—distant brass bands, early parade traffic, kids running with beads already around their necks. Mireya hoisted Camila higher on her hip, breathing in the sticky morning air, the city pulsing like it was wide awake even if she wasn’t.

After dropping Camila with Maria, Mireya rushed toward school, backpack cutting into her shoulders, every step a little heavier than the last.

First period, she barely made it through roll call before her eyes started to blur. The teacher’s voice sounded far away, words swimming in and out of focus. She tried to take notes, pen scratching nonsense in the margin.

“Mireya?” She snapped upright, heart pounding. The class looked at her—half bored, half curious. Ms. Dufresne stood at the whiteboard, her expression gentle, but not soft. “Can you tell us the main argument from the reading?”

Mireya flipped pages, trying to remember what she’d scanned last night between Camila’s teething and Maria’s lectures. “It was about… people not seeing how hard it is for others,” she managed. Her voice sounded thin.

Ms. Dufresne gave her a small nod. “That’s a start.” She let Mireya off easy, moving to another student.

When the bell rang, Mireya tried to slip out fast, but Ms. Dufresne caught her by the door. “You okay, Mireya? You look exhausted. Your work’s slipping. Is there anything I can help with?”

Mireya forced a smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Just a rough week, miss. I’ll catch up.”

“If you need something, let me know,” the teacher said, and Mireya nodded, already gone before the words landed.

The day stretched ahead, endless. By lunch, she was drifting—half present, half wishing she could be anywhere else. When the bell rang, she grabbed her bag, feeling every ache in her back, every doubt settling in her chest. No easy road, she thought. Not for girls like her.

~~~

Caine sat in the back row, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the scuffed floor tiles of the Edna Karr fieldhouse classroom. It smelled like old Gatorade and detergent, the kind of clean that never quite erased the sweat. The walls were covered in championship banners—last year’s gold and purple still fresh, the faces in the photos all grinning, young and invincible.

Tryout paperwork fanned out on the folding table up front. The head coach—Coach Joseph—stood with his arms crossed, surveying the room with the careful confidence of a man who’d built a winning machine. He let the buzz settle before he spoke.

“I want to welcome y’all to Edna Karr football,” he said, voice booming, but not unkind. “Most of you know the deal. We don’t make a lot of cuts, but just ‘cause you get a jersey don’t mean you’re gonna play. If you want a spot, you earn it every day—on the field, in class, everywhere. You can ask anybody in here. Ain’t no handouts.”

The room was crowded. Some boys were relaxed, joking with friends, others tight with nerves. Caine kept his hands in his lap, pen tapping against his thigh, not looking at anybody unless he had to. It was clear he was new—no school logo on his hoodie, no banter with the old heads.

Coach started passing out forms, assistant coaches weaving between rows, reminding kids to put their real GPA, not just what they told their mommas.

A pair of linemen near the door nudged each other, whispering about something. A boy with dreads and dyed tips and a wide smile slid into the seat next to Caine, sizing him up. “You new?” he asked, voice low.

Caine shrugged. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“What position you play?” another kid chimed in, voice curious but not hostile.

“Quarterback,” Caine replied, keeping it simple.

A couple of them nodded toward the front of the room, where a tall, broad-shouldered guy in a crisp team jacket sat cracking jokes with the coaches.

“That’s Jay. Been starting since sophomore year. Ain’t nobody moving him off that spot. You cool sitting on the bench?”

Caine met the question with silence, letting it hang. He could feel eyes on him, waiting for some flash of bravado or a stammered excuse. He just shrugged, picking up a pen and starting to fill out the form, neat block letters on every line. He didn’t have time to care about their opinions, or what it meant to wait his turn. He knew what was on the line for him—Camila, Mireya, the chance at something bigger than New Orleans.

Coach Joseph called out again. “Don’t forget—grades matter here. Y’all wanna play, you gotta be eligible. We don’t bend rules for talent. You’re a student before you’re an athlete.”

Some of the boys groaned, others just laughed. Caine stayed quiet, folding the form once he finished and passing it up the aisle. He didn’t try to make friends, didn’t show off. He wasn’t here to be anyone’s story.

The meeting wrapped fast. Coach told them to check the bulletin board for posted tryout times and not to “come late, come half-assed, or come with a bad attitude.”

When the room started to empty, Caine lingered at the back, watching the team—last year’s heroes mixing with hopefuls, all of them chasing something.

As he left, a few of the guys glanced his way again, still sizing him up, but he just pushed through the door and out into the muggy afternoon, the sounds of practice whistles and Mardi Gras horns floating in from somewhere down the block.

He walked alone, head down, but the weight of it all—what it meant to make it, what it meant to fail—sat square between his shoulder blades. Out here, you didn’t get easy roads. You fought for every inch, every second, and even that wasn’t always enough.

~~~

Sara sat at the kitchen table, head bowed over a legal pad scattered with numbers, pen tapping against the page as she tried to make the math work. The house was quieter than usual—just the tick of the clock and the distant sound of parade drums rolling through the window.

Bills—electric, water, groceries, rent—all stacked at her elbow. She palmed a faded twenty-dollar bill from the grocery money, sliding it off to the side, saving it to maybe buy Caine’s favorite meal if she could.

The back door squealed and slammed. Hector’s voice carried in from the hall, hard and impatient. “¿Dónde está Caine?” He tossed a bag of cheap Mardi Gras beads and an empty coffee cup on the counter.

Saul wandered in after him, shoving his hands in his hoodie, yawning. “¿Vamos ya?”

Sara kept her eyes on the legal pad, not looking up. She could feel Hector’s stare, searching for a reason to keep pushing.

He looked at the bills, then at her. “You’re still sitting here moving numbers around? There’s money to make at the parades. Me and Saul are about to leave for St. Charles. Caine should be coming with us instead of wasting time. He’s not a kid anymore.”

Sara finally looked up, voice steady but edged. “No te preocupes por mi hijo. He’s at school—football, I think.”

Hector scoffed, shaking his head. “Siempre con la escuela con tu negrito, always something else. He don’t bring nothing into this house but problems. Mami’s too soft on him. Maybe she needs to think about who’s actually helping out around here, and who’s just eating and sleeping.”

Sara’s jaw set. “Don’t start. If you want to say something about family, say it to Mami, not to me. She knows what this house means. She’s not kicking anyone out. We’ve been through this.”

Hector rolled his eyes. “We’ll see,” he muttered, grabbing his keys.

Saul, picking up on the tension, tried to break it. “Tengo hambre. Can we get something to eat before the parade?”

Hector grumbled but nodded, moving to the door. “Yeah, let’s go.” The back door banged closed behind them.

Left alone, Sara exhaled, pressing her fingers to her eyes for a moment. She looked at the twenty she’d set aside. Maybe ground beef, maybe plantains if she stretched it right. It wasn’t much, but it was what she could do.

Through the cracked window, the parade horns blared, distant and bright—a reminder that New Orleans kept moving, even when inside the house, nothing felt like it changed.

~~~

The fieldhouse lights were still glowing behind him, last clusters of boys peeling off in all directions. Caine moved quick, head down, cutting through the side gate. He saw Ramon’s Honda rolling up the block, headlights off, engine rumbling low. Tyree hung out the window just enough to flick his chin up in greeting.

“Aye, come on, son,” Tyree said, voice low and easy.

Caine slid in the back seat, dropped his bag at his feet. EJ was riding up front, eyes on the street, saying nothing.

“You straight?” EJ asked without looking back.

Caine nodded, wiped his hands on his jeans. “I’m good.”

Ramon pulled off, no words needed, just turned down Galvez and let the city slide by outside. Music was barely up—enough bass to feel it, not enough to be noticed. Everybody knew you didn’t talk business with the windows down.

They cut through a couple backstreets, then stopped behind a half-shuttered corner store, the air heavy with fried food and exhaust. Tyree and EJ hopped out first, Caine following, hands in his hoodie, shoulders set.

Down the alley under a flickering light, two men leaned against a beat-up sedan—older, but not old. One wore a Saints skull cap, chain tucked just visible; the other had a limp and watched everything, eyes never still. These weren’t movie villains—just men you listened to.

Tyree dapped them up quick. “Duke. Reek. This the nigga I told y’all about.”

Duke sized Caine up, nodding, slow and deliberate. “You the youngins got them running through Tito now. Out the East, right?”

Caine nodded, keeping his face still. “Tito good peoples. Never did nobody dirty.”

Reek gave a small laugh, the sound scraping his throat. “I ain’t never trusted no niggas out the Melph but he old so he might be alright. You scared of jail, little nigga? Shit get heavy out here.”

Caine looked him in the eye, steady. “I was ready to sit down for the rest of my life and ain’t tell on nobody.”

Duke grinned, gold flashing. “Yeah, I heard. Word get around. You straight, then. Just keep your name good, handle business. You hear something, you see something, you bring it here before it turn into heat. That’s how you stay outside. And watch out for them 110, Byrd and Dooney niggas.”

Reek nodded. “They always wild after the parades like that shit don’t fuck up business.”

EJ nudged Caine, pride in his voice for once. “He was batting the piss out niggas in the bing. He ain’t no ponk.”

Tyree smirked. “Don’t get that nigga head big.”

Ramon gave a quick, downward nod, checking the block. “We done?”

Duke waved them off, already pulling his phone. “Go head. Y’all know how to find us.”

The walk back to the car wasn’t triumphant, just heavy. Caine got in, let the others fill the silence with whatever song Tyree found on the aux, and stared out the window as city lights blurred by. Another door closed behind him; another weight settled in.

~~~

Mireya slipped through the parade crowd, stepping over beads and puddles of king cake glaze, the street ringing with horns and laughter that barely touched her. She was late again, sweat slicking her back, exhaustion weighing her down. Inside the store, the lights felt too harsh, the air stale, the whole place washed in the tired quiet of a holiday nobody wanted to work.

Trina was behind the counter, hood up, scrolling on her phone, barely glancing up as Mireya hustled past. “If Arelle calls, tell her I’m doing inventory,” Trina mumbled, not bothering to check the clock. “Or that I left. I don’t care.”

Mireya just nodded, grateful for the nonchalance. In the back, Paz was half-sitting, half-leaning on a stack of sweatshirts, folding with one hand and texting with the other, music leaking soft from her phone.

“Took you long enough,” Paz said, smirking as Mireya clocked in and slid off her jacket. “I was about to fall asleep standing up.”

“I’d trade you,” Mireya muttered, grabbing a pile to fold. “Didn’t sleep more than two hours last night. My mom’s wilding and Camila was up coughing.”

They worked side by side, the rhythm mindless. Outside, the parade rumbled on. Inside, it was the hum of lights and Paz’s easy laughter filling the dead space.

“You ever think about just leaving?” Paz asked, voice quiet. “Like, for real.”

Mireya hesitated. “Yeah. All the time. I don’t even care where. Someplace quiet. Someplace I could just… breathe.”

Paz nodded, not needing more.

When their break rolled around, they slumped together behind the counter, sharing a honey bun, both scrolling but not really watching. Mireya’s thumb landed on a TikTok: two girls on a pale, empty beach, bikinis bright against the sand, trying the latest dance trend. They fumbled a bit, grinning, bumping into each other as the wind whipped their hair, the water in the background blue and wild. Every time they stumbled or fell out of sync, they laughed harder, sun flashing on their skin.

Mireya watched the video through, then scrolled back and watched it again. The sound of the waves, the way the horizon stretched out behind them, the flash of color and movement—it all looked free, effortless. She watched a third time, caught up in the idea of standing out there herself, bare feet in the surf, no shift to finish, no mother’s voice waiting at home, nothing but wind and space and the taste of salt in her mouth.

She didn’t say anything, just let it loop. Her gaze sometimes followed the swing of a ponytail, the curve of a hip, but mostly she drifted, letting her mind fill in the feeling of escape.

Paz nudged her, smile crooked. “Looks peaceful, huh?”

Mireya blinked, thumb still on the screen. “Yeah. I wish I could be there. Just… anywhere but here.”

Trina poked her head in from the front. “If nobody comes in after the parade passes, I’m dipping. You want to cut out early, just text me.”

Mireya nodded, slipping her phone away, letting the music play in her mind a moment longer before pushing herself up and heading back to work. The city roared outside, beads clattering, floats rolling by, but inside the store, it was just the slow folding of shirts, the ache of longing, and the hope that maybe—someday—she’d get somewhere warm and far and quiet.

~~~

By the time Caine reached the Rosas’ place, Mardi Gras had drained from the block, leaving only the leftovers—the distant blare of a horn, crushed beads in the gutters, the air thick with fryer oil and something tired. He climbed the stairs two at a time, the plastic bag of corner store food warm in his hand, and knocked, soft and low. No need to text or call; he knew Mireya would be waiting, eyes on the clock, the way she always was after a late shift or a hard day.

The door opened almost right away, Mireya in a big LSU hoodie, hair piled up, socks mismatched, face soft with exhaustion but not surprise. She didn’t say anything except, “Come in,” barely above a whisper, slipping back to let him through. Maria’s bedroom door was shut, the apartment dim except for the cartoon colors flickering out of the bedroom. Caine moved through the hall on instinct—this routine had worn its own groove into him, comfortable and a little raw.

In the bedroom, Camila was wide awake, fighting sleep the way toddlers do—on her belly, one sock off, humming to herself, sippy cup dangling from one hand. As soon as she spotted Caine, she broke into a grin and clambered over the blankets, climbing into his lap like it was nothing. He scooped her up, kissing the side of her head, and sank onto the edge of the bed, stretching his legs out with a sigh.

Mireya sat beside him, moving quietly, dividing up the food—half the po-boy, the bulk of the fries for Camila, napkins laid out on the faded comforter. Caine dug into his pockets and passed over a crumpled stack of bills, the week’s earnings from the stand. She took it without looking, sliding it under her pillow, the transaction wordless.

They ate like that, Camila between them, trading bites, every so often pausing to wipe ketchup from her chin or pick up a fry she’d dropped. The only sound in the room was the hum of the TV, the soft slap of little feet, and the city winding down outside.

Nobody talked for a long while. Caine felt the weight of the day sink into his bones—the cold from the walk over, the ache in his back from standing for hours, the dull hunger that never really went away. Mireya’s face was turned to the window, eyes half-closed, fingers drumming on her knee in a restless, absent rhythm.

It was only after Camila drifted off, head heavy on Caine’s leg, that Mireya let the words slip out—soft, flat, like something she barely realized she’d said aloud:

“I don’t think I’m going to survive this.”

She said it to the window, to herself, to the air. The sound of it hovered in the room for a moment, gentle and sharp all at once. If she was waiting for someone to contradict her, she didn’t show it. Caine kept his eyes on Camila, jaw clenched, not moving, not saying anything. There was nothing to say. He just rubbed slow circles on Camila’s back, letting the silence cover them both.

Mireya picked at her food, not eating, not really there. After a while, she got up to put Camila to bed in her crib, tucking the blanket tight and brushing a stray curl from her daughter’s forehead. She stood there a second longer than she needed to, shoulders tense, face hidden.

Caine was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Mireya came back in, standing in the doorway a second, then sat down beside him. He turned his head, just enough to see her. Their eyes met and held—a quiet exchange, old questions and answers neither of them needed to say out loud. She almost smiled, but it faded. He gave a slow nod, and that was enough.

The city was quieter now, just the occasional laugh from a neighbor’s porch or the scrape of a bottle rolling down the sidewalk.

For a while, neither of them moved. The weight of everything unspoken sat heavy between them. They didn’t try to fill the space—not with hope, not with comfort, not with anything false.

Eventually Mireya leaned her head on Caine’s shoulder, her breath slowing, the exhaustion finally catching up. He rested his chin on the top of her head, closed his eyes, and let himself drift, for a moment, in that tired quiet—the three of them together, another night survived.

Outside, the city wound down for real. Inside, they stayed where they were, both awake and already halfway gone, waiting for the day to finally end.

[redsox907]

Maria shook her head, her mouth twisting. “You need to pick—school or work. You can’t keep falling behind in both, Mireya. You hear me? Life isn’t kind to girls who don’t have anything going for them.”

BECAUSE SHE DONE GAVE UP THE ONLY THING SHE HAD GOING FOR HER

Feels like this is setting up for Mireya to dip out.

Also, on the Jax correlation. In the end, everything he was writing about he went against. Before the end, he was more like Clay than he ever was his own father, despite what he tried to change the club into with his fathers "guidance." He had his "redemption" arc at the end and took the steps to make SamCro legit and ensure his sons didn't follow in his footsteps, but it took basically tearing down everything he'd built and erasing his fathers and his legacy to do it.

All that to say, going to be interesting how you turn this into gang banging Hamlet

[Caesar]

Maria shook her head, her mouth twisting. “You need to pick—school or work. You can’t keep falling behind in both, Mireya. You hear me? Life isn’t kind to girls who don’t have anything going for them.”

BECAUSE SHE DONE GAVE UP THE ONLY THING SHE HAD GOING FOR HER

Feels like this is setting up for Mireya to dip out.

Also, on the Jax correlation. In the end, everything he was writing about he went against. Before the end, he was more like Clay than he ever was his own father, despite what he tried to change the club into with his fathers "guidance." He had his "redemption" arc at the end and took the steps to make SamCro legit and ensure his sons didn't follow in his footsteps, but it took basically tearing down everything he'd built and erasing his fathers and his legacy to do it.

All that to say, going to be interesting how you turn this into gang banging Hamlet

Saying that the only thing she had going for her was her body is crazy, sir.

Was he like Clay though? Clay wouldn't have taken the steps to secure SAMCRO's legit future. I think he ended up just being his own man instead of trying to fight Clay or trying to mold the club back into JT's views.

I don't think I'm going for gang banging Hamlet. I would've already introduced a stepfather for Caine

Or is Caine the father and someone else the stepfather???

[Caesar]

Soley Pa Ka Kouvri Avèk Men

The air was thick with music and sweat and the smell of fried everything, the city bright and loose with parade energy. Caine could barely move for the crowd—everybody dressed in beads and purple, green and gold, faces painted, kids running wild between the folding chairs. He held Camila high on his hip, her small hand clutching a shiny purple bead like treasure.

Mireya was sunk low in a cheap plastic yard chair, sipping a daiquiri heavy on syrup and rum, sunglasses slipping down her nose. Every few minutes she reached for Camila, but Camila just clung to Caine’s shirt, grinning and babbling nonsense, shouting “Look!” whenever another float rolled by.

It was Mardi Gras day, and for once, they’d decided to do it all right—family, friends, loud music, plastic cups sweating in their hands. Just one day to breathe, Mireya kept telling herself. Just one.

Caine leaned down so Camila could show him her new bead. “Pretty, huh, mami?” he said, grinning at her little-girl pride. She responded by smacking him on the cheek with the beads and giggling, cheeks sticky with King Cake frosting.

Mireya took a long sip, staring out at the chaos, a lazy smile on her lips. “You know we could be making money right now,” she said, half-joking, half not.

Caine shrugged, still bouncing Camila on his hip. “We’re going to struggle whether you’re here or not, mi vida.”

He looked at her, and for a second, the heaviness of it hovered between them. Then the music blared up louder and Camila squealed, twisting to see a man in a feathered mask dancing down the street.

Mireya just laughed, finishing her drink and setting the cup down by her feet. “Yeah, but if I’m not here, you’re the one running after her all day.”

“She ain’t got get away from the jakes speed yet,” Caine said, just as Camila squirmed down, reaching for the street and more beads.

A few yards away, Angela and Paz wove through the crowd, faces bright, arms full of drinks and snacks. Angela spotted Mireya and beelined over, pulling her up by the wrist. “Get up! We’re dancing—no excuses, girl!”

Mireya resisted for a second, then let herself be tugged to her feet. The beat of the brass band rolled through her bones, heavy and free, the world outside worries for once. Paz took Camila from Caine, spinning her in the air while Angela dragged Mireya into the crowd.

Caine watched them go, a little smile on his face, letting himself exhale. For the first time in months, he felt something close to peace—a flash, a shimmer, nothing lasting, but real all the same. Camila shrieked with joy, beads rattling in her fists, and Mireya danced like the world couldn’t touch her, even just for a song.

The parade rolled by, the crowd lifted. For a little while, they let themselves have a good day.

~~~

The Rosas clan held down a patch of shade under a battered oak, coolers stacked two deep, music bumping from a Bluetooth speaker perched on a folding table. Folding chairs fanned out in a rough circle, half taken up by tias with bright lipstick and uncles in Saints jerseys. The laughter was constant, all voices tumbling over one another—half in Spanish, half in the quick drawl of New Orleans, everyone talking with their hands, shouting over the brass band’s second line in the street.

At the edge of the scene, Sara lingered, posture careful. She kept a half-step back, always mindful not to crowd the Rosas’ space. She’d brought drinks and snacks but set them on the table quietly, avoiding Maria’s eyes. Around her, Mireya’s cousins darted between chairs, kids swinging at each other with bead necklaces, shrieking when a float rumbled by and sent plastic treasures flying.

Caine was hunched low in a faded camp chair, balancing a paper plate on his knee. He laughed at Camila’s attempts to balance a bag of chips and a bottle of water, but his gaze flicked up, scanning faces, always aware he wasn’t family—just tolerated for Camila’s sake. He felt the heat of eyes on his back when Maria was near.

Sara watched the little girl for a moment, then bent to greet Caine, her tone gentle but tinged with nerves. “You surviving, mijo?” she asked, soft but wry, an attempt at normalcy.

Caine just smiled, too tired to say much, and Camila, spotting her grandmother, squealed and ran over, chips spilling behind her. She wrapped her arms around Sara’s legs, and Sara bent down, scooping her up, planting a kiss in her curls, breathing in baby shampoo and sweat and powdered sugar.

The moment was short. Maria hovered at the cooler, her jaw tight, shooting glances at Sara and Caine that landed hard and unblinking. She grabbed a beer, popping the tab loud enough to be heard over the music, and stayed at the edge of the circle, arms crossed, one foot tapping in the grass.

Sara set Camila down, brushing crumbs from the little girl’s cheeks. She caught Maria’s glare, hesitated, then walked over—aware of every eye, every silence in the space between them. She nodded once, a fragile attempt at peace, but Maria only stared past her.

After a long moment, Sara spoke quietly, just for the two of them. “We both want the same thing, you know. What’s best for Camila.”

Maria’s lips twisted. “If you wanted what was best, you would have left him in jail. Your son is going to ruin my daughter, and he’ll ruin my granddaughter too.”

Sara let out a long breath, folding her arms across her chest. “Mireya’s doing the best she can, Maria. And Caine—he’s trying, even if you don’t want to see it.”

Maria shook her head, eyes fixed on the crowd, voice clipped. “You keep making excuses for him. You should have kept him away. Instead, you helped bring this mess into my house.”

Sara’s voice was low but steady. “Camila’s here now. All we can do is help her and Mireya.”

Maria looked at her, hard and unsmiling. “We’ll see who’s right in the end. I just hope I’m not left picking up the pieces when it all crashes and burns.”

They stood there for a moment, the parade’s music pounding from the street, children shrieking as beads rained down and laughter rolled over them in waves. Sara felt the invisible line drawn around her—always outside, always the visitor, no matter how many holidays or afternoons she showed up for Camila’s sake. She wanted to say something else—something softer, maybe an apology, maybe a warning—but the moment passed, and Maria turned away to answer an aunt’s shout.

Sara slipped back toward the chairs, her eyes following Camila’s wild chase after a string of green beads, her heart heavy with hope and dread, every sound and color a reminder of how fragile peace could be.

~~~

The shade of the big tent offered a little relief from the heavy sun and sweat. Markus leaned against a cooler, plastic cup in hand, the condensation slick against his palm. Quentin hunched over the grill, flames flaring now and then as he flipped sausages, talking trash between bursts of laughter. The smell of hot links and spice drifted through the tent, mixing with the sweet stickiness of king cake and the tart whiff of spiked punch.

Their families mingled in and out of the yard. Markus’s youngest chased bubbles with the Harris twins, hands and cheeks already smeared with frosting. A jazz riff spilled from someone’s portable speaker, blending with the distant rumble of a marching band coming down the block. Laughter rolled through the tent in easy waves—cousins gossiping over dominoes, uncles arguing about the Saints, Ashley calling for everyone to get seconds before the jambalaya went cold.

Markus’s son, Miles, lingered near the grill, phone in one hand and a battered basketball in the other, head bent over his screen. “Dad, Coach Cooper from Grambling hit me up again—he wants me to visit next month,” Miles called, bouncing the ball off his foot, pretending not to care, but his grin giving him away.

Quentin grinned, tongs waving. “You better go. Ain’t nothing like Grambling. You’d be the man, trust me. Just don’t embarrass us in the Bayou Classic.”

Markus shook his head, but he was smiling. “Neither of us went to an HBCU, Q.”

Quentin shot Markus a sidelong look, voice dropping so only he and Markus could really hear. “We could’ve, though. Might’ve done us both some good. Lot fewer headaches.”

Ashley, Markus’s wife, wandered over with two fresh drinks, rolling her eyes with a practiced smile, hip bumping Markus out of her way. “Don’t start, Quentin. You’ve been on your HBCU soapbox all day—Miles is gonna start reciting it in his sleep.”

Quentin shrugged, laughing, and handed off the tongs. “Somebody’s got to tell these boys. It’s about time they get the speech. Especially before all these recruiters come sniffing around promising them the world.”

Markus just chuckled, accepting the drink from Ashley and pressing a kiss to her temple. “That’s nothing new. He’s been preaching this since we crossed over.”

Miles glanced up, grinning, eyes bright with both nerves and possibility. “So where did y’all really want to go?”

Quentin shrugged again, this time more gently, glancing out at the floats rolling by, the gold and purple and green ribbons waving in the breeze. “Man, doesn’t matter now. The main thing is you go somewhere you can be yourself. Just don’t forget where you came from—or who you got cooking for you on the weekends. And definitely don’t end up like Robert Griffin. That brother’s weird.”

Ashley raised her cup, and Markus clinked it, both of them taking in the scene—their kids laughing, old friends circling back for seconds, the music swelling from the parade into the heart of the block. “To good times, then,” Ashley said. “And to doing better, however we can.”

For a moment, the noise and possibility of the afternoon drowned out everything else—no bills, no news, no weight of the world pressing in. Just barbecue smoke, family, and a bright slice of time that felt like it might stretch out forever.

~~~

The street felt electric, a river of people and noise that pushed at Ramon’s shoulders and pressed sweat to his skin even in March. The air was thick with smoke—grill smoke, weed smoke, the ghost of fireworks set off too early—riding over the brass bands’ squall and the shouts of hustlers selling everything from cold drinks to plastic bling.

Ramon led the trio with his chin up, shades low, red cup in hand—liquor sharp under the taste of cheap juice. Tyree was right at his elbow, hands always moving: waving at old heads, sliding a folded bill into a palm, dapping up girls who called his name from porch stoops. E.J. trailed a half-step behind, tall and lean, always scanning—sometimes for trouble, sometimes for a party, sometimes for nothing at all.

Their world was in motion. Every five steps, somebody called out:

“Y’all good?”

“Hey, lemme hold that!”

“Boy, you too old to be chasing beads!”

Kids darted around their legs, the parade floats creeping by with DJs blaring and queens tossing moon pies, the sky littered with purple and green and gold.

Tyree barely broke stride, his hand-to-hands tucked in the shadows of every quick conversation. Nothing flashy—just work. At one point, he sold to a boy in a Pelicans hoodie, then greeted an auntie he knew from the block like he was just buying a soda.

At the intersection by Claiborne, Tyree made a sale to a quiet kid in a varsity jacket. As they parted, a mounted NOPD officer eyed the exchange. Tyree just grinned, wide and boyish, raising his red cup. “Happy Mardi Gras, officer!”

The cop’s gaze lingered but he didn’t move—there were too many people, too many worse things to do today.

Ramon’s senses were on high. He caught sight of a crew in red and black posted up by the corner—Byrd soldiers, posted hard, mean-mugging anyone who looked too long. Down by the bus stop, he clocked some Dooney niggas, mostly younger, arms folded tight, watching the crowd for opportunity or drama.

He locked eyes with one of Byrd’s soldiers—a silent standoff in the sunshine. Ramon shook his head: not today. The boy’s mouth curled but he looked away, everyone knowing Mardi Gras was a truce nobody wanted to be the first to break. Still, Ramon kept his eyes moving, the back of his neck prickling with the knowledge that a parade was only peaceful until it wasn’t.

E.J. clocked the whole thing, a quiet chuckle under his breath. He nudged Tyree, pointing with his chin at a group of girls leaning out a shotgun window, one of them waving a bandana like a flag. “We gotta find some bitches out here, man.”

Tyree snorted, rolling his eyes. “Nigga, you Soulja Slim. Talking ‘bout I’ll pay for it, I’ll pay for it. You got trick written on your forehead.”

E.J. just grinned, unbothered. “Don’t matter, as long as these bitches eat the meat.”

They all laughed, but it wasn’t loud—just the way boys like them laughed when the city was watching, always with one ear for trouble.

Ramon, never too loose, poured out a splash from his cup for luck and dead friends, murmured something under his breath that sounded like a prayer. His gaze swept the street: beads bouncing off hoods, a little girl sitting on a milk crate waving a homemade flag, the brief hush when a float blared a new song and the whole block started dancing. He let himself relax for a second, almost believing the truce would hold.

For a while, it was good—music and sunlight and city heat, no one dead, no one running, just the wild joy of Mardi Gras making them all forget, for a heartbeat, that the war would start up again tomorrow.

But Ramon’s eyes never left the crowd. He watched every move, every color, every cop on horseback—just in case.

~~~

For once, Mireya let herself forget. The city was alive—music pouring out of floats, the sun blazing off beads tangled in her hair, the crush of bodies on all sides. Angela spun her by the wrist, cackling as they stumbled over the cracked sidewalk, while Paz whooped, tossing a moon pie that bounced off someone’s shoulder and landed at Mireya’s feet. Mireya scooped it up and pretended to curtsy, making her friends double over. For a second, she was just another girl in the parade, every worry out of reach.

But even in a crowd, she could feel a shadow when it landed. Kike’s voice came slicing through, louder than the music, thick with his usual mockery.

“There she go! Throwing ass like a pro, Reya.”

She froze, pulse quickening as she turned. Kike swaggered over, two cousins in tow, all of them broadcasting a show of bravado that reeked of cheap cologne and trouble. Mireya didn’t even dignify him with a smile. “What do you want, Kike?”

He grinned, wide and predatory. “You been cold lately. Forgot who hooked you up?”

Mireya’s jaw flexed. “You got me stuck in that shit ass job at the yard because you didn’t tell me everything. Don’t act like you did me a favor.”

Kike let out a loud, performative laugh for his cousins, throwing his hands up. “I didn’t know you’d start fucking white boys at the office. I thought you liked them chocolate.”

Angela stiffened at Mireya’s side, but Mireya’s voice cut sharper than any glare. “I’m not fucking anyone. Keep my name out your mouth.”

The group fell silent for a breath. Kike’s grin faded, but he tried to save face, backing away with his hands raised in mock surrender. “Aight, Mireya. Message received.” His eyes lingered on her, a challenge and a warning, before he turned, cousins already nudging him back toward the crowd.

Mireya spat on the pavement by his shoes, the gesture hard and final. Her hands shook as she wiped them on her jeans. For a beat, everything slowed—the music distant, the bodies blurred, the old feeling of being watched and judged pressing at her chest.

Angela slipped an arm around her waist, tugging her back toward the dance. “Ignore that clown,” she whispered, fierce and protective.

Paz pressed a cold bottle of water into Mireya’s palm. “He wishes he could.”

Mireya breathed deep, steadying herself. “Yeah. He’s nobody.”

Angela and Paz closed ranks, making space for her to breathe. Mireya let them pull her back into the fray. She forced herself to move, the drumline thumping beneath her feet, the crowd swallowing her again. She held her head up and didn’t look back—refusing to let Kike or any of his shadows steal this moment.

For another song, she let herself belong to the noise and the light, determined not to let anyone—especially him—decide who she was.

~~~

The city was a blur of sound and color—Mardi Gras at full blast, bands howling and floats crawling through the smoke and sunlight. Percy moved like a ghost through it all, keeping to the edge of the sidewalk, hood pulled low, backpack pressed tight to his side. Every step he took felt dangerous and too loud. He was half-hungry, half-scared, but mostly just tired of running.

He hadn't meant to come out, not really. But the noise and the crowd drew him, the promise of disappearing—just for a day—among faces who didn’t know or care about what he'd done. He let himself believe for a minute that he could be one of them: a boy laughing with friends, hustling beads, eyes lifted to the sky for the next plastic treasure.

He kept walking, hands in his pockets, trying to catch pieces of conversations, snatches of music, the quick flick of sunlight off a trombone. But everywhere he turned, he felt watched: the ghost of every threat, every secret he’d tried to leave behind.

Up ahead, he saw Tay—a flash of her profile, hair pulled back, her head thrown back in laughter as she walked with two other girls. For a split second, Percy’s heart leapt and then crashed. He edged sideways, ducking his head, praying she wouldn’t spot him. If she did, he knew the look she’d give him: confusion first, then recognition, then that cold, heavy silence he’d been carrying for months.

He slipped off the sidewalk, letting a crowd of tourists pass, his eyes on the ground, wishing he could fold himself into the cracks. The parade seemed to tilt around him, a carnival of strangers spinning too fast.

Then a voice snapped him back:

“Aye, Percy! That you, bitch?”

It was one of Tito’s guys—big, jaw set, Saints cap pulled low. His voice carried above the music, too loud, drawing eyes.

Percy didn’t wait. His body took over—fight-or-flight. He broke into a sprint, ducking between a cluster of lawn chairs, nearly knocking over a toddler who shrieked with delight, not fear. He hurdled a cooler, the world a swirl of color and noise behind him. In his chest, his heart slammed so hard it hurt.

He darted behind a food truck, slipped through a narrow alley, the sound of his own breathing drowning out the parade for a second. Every siren in the distance made him flinch. Every laugh sounded like it could turn sharp at any second. He crouched behind a battered trash can, knees to his chest, sweat trickling down his back. The crowd swallowed up whoever had called after him, but Percy didn’t risk a look.

For a moment, he pressed his face to his hands, letting the city’s noise rush over him. “Do Whatcha Wanna” blared from somewhere close—horns shrieking, the crowd’s joy so sharp it almost hurt.

He squeezed his eyes shut and wished, just for a second, that he could lose himself in that song. That he could be just another face in the celebration. Not the boy everyone was hunting, not the snitch, not the ghost.

But even hidden, he knew better. The city never let anyone disappear for long.

~~~

Caine felt Camila’s weight growing heavier in his arms as the afternoon wore on. The sun was sliding lower, shadows long and blue across the lawn chairs. “Do Whatcha Wanna” blasted from the intersection—trombones bright, people wild with energy, beads raining down in a blur of green and gold. Camila giggled, mouth sticky with moon pie, waving a battered plastic sword at anyone who got too close.

He was laughing with her, shaking the beads from her hair, when he heard a familiar shout behind him. “Ayo, Caine!”

He turned to see Ramon, Tyree, and E.J. snaking their way through the crowd. They looked the same as ever—Tyree with his sly smile, Ramon stone-faced, E.J. giving dap to everyone they passed. They slid up beside him, half-mocking, half-genuine in their greeting.

“Boy, you hiding out or what?” Tyree grinned, eyeing Camila. “You a whole family man now, huh?”

Ramon nodded at Camila. “She look just like you, dog.”

E.J. laughed, tilting his head. “That’s a lot to hold down, bruh.”

Ramon leaned in, voice low. “You thought about what we talked about? Running with us again?”

Caine shifted Camila higher, not meeting Ramon’s eyes. He shrugged, the answer caught between pride and resignation. “PO watching me like I fucked his wife.”

Just then, Mireya appeared, making her way over, eyes scanning the group. She switched to Spanish, voice edged: “¿Quiénes son ellos?”

Caine replied just as quietly, “Some guys from the jail.” He kept his arm around Camila, not letting go.

E.J. clocked Mireya, nodding with a certain respect but keeping it to himself.

Mireya’s eyes flashed with warning. “Dame la niña.” Give me the baby.

Caine shook his head, voice calm. “She’s fine. Just watching the parade.”

Mireya walked off but not before a lingering glance at Ramon, Tyree and E.J.

Ramon grinned and nudged Tyree. “Damn, bro. Didn’t know this nigga was El Chapo—speaking Spanish and all that. You moving that cocaina?”

He threw his chin up, putting on his worst Spanish accent, and said, “My amigo, necesito... uh... mo tacos, por favor.”

Tyree doubled over, cackling. E.J. just shook his head, grinning.

Caine rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the crooked smile. “Man, get the fuck on.”

Ramon held up his hands, still laughing. “I’m just saying, you got all international on us. Next time we see you, you gonna be out here with a sombrero and everything.”

Tyree’s phone buzzed—he glanced at the screen and nudged Ramon. “We gotta roll. Parade almost over anyway.”

Caine dapped each of them up, the motions quick and practiced. “Y’all be safe out there.”

As the crew melted back into the flow, Camila caught a moon pie thrown from a float and squealed, “More! More!” The moment loosened something in Caine. He smiled, shifting her on his hip, wishing—just for a second—that he could freeze this feeling.

Then another voice called his name. He turned to see Janae, Tasha, and two other girls from school waving, a streak of glitter across Janae’s cheek. “Didn’t know you were a Mardi Gras type,” Janae teased.

Caine grinned, a bit of his old self slipping through. “I’m so fucking New Orleans, baby.”

Tasha looked at Camila and raised an eyebrow. “That your little sister?”

Caine shook his head. “Nah. This my daughter.”

The girls’ faces changed—surprise, maybe respect, maybe something else. Janae asked quietly, “You still with her mom?”

He nodded, and almost as if on cue, Mireya called his name, switching to Spanish again: “Tráeme la niña. She needs to eat.”

“Bueno, ya voy,” Caine said.

Janae looked at Caine for a long moment—eyes holding something unreadable, almost a question of their own. Then she just nodded, lips pressed together and glanced away as if tucking something back inside.

Caine told her and Tasha, “See y’all in class,” and walked back toward Mireya, pressing a kiss to Camila’s cheek before handing her over. Camila wrapped her fingers around Mireya’s hand, chubby and sure.

He watched them for a heartbeat, letting the last light of the parade soak in, holding the moment tight before it slipped away.

[redsox907]

Maria shook her head, her mouth twisting. “You need to pick—school or work. You can’t keep falling behind in both, Mireya. You hear me? Life isn’t kind to girls who don’t have anything going for them.”

BECAUSE SHE DONE GAVE UP THE ONLY THING SHE HAD GOING FOR HER

Feels like this is setting up for Mireya to dip out.

Also, on the Jax correlation. In the end, everything he was writing about he went against. Before the end, he was more like Clay than he ever was his own father, despite what he tried to change the club into with his fathers "guidance." He had his "redemption" arc at the end and took the steps to make SamCro legit and ensure his sons didn't follow in his footsteps, but it took basically tearing down everything he'd built and erasing his fathers and his legacy to do it.

All that to say, going to be interesting how you turn this into gang banging Hamlet

Saying that the only thing she had going for her was her body is crazy, sir.

Was he like Clay though? Clay wouldn't have taken the steps to secure SAMCRO's legit future. I think he ended up just being his own man instead of trying to fight Clay or trying to mold the club back into JT's views.

I don't think I'm going for gang banging Hamlet. I would've already introduced a stepfather for Caine

Or is Caine the father and someone else the stepfather???

But that's what I meant - before his redemption at the end he had become more like Clay than his father by a long shot. John sought to pull the club away from guns and drugs, but every decision Jax made put them further into it. Even though he tried to justify it by saying he doing the right thing.

To be fair though, its been quite sometime since I watched SOA and I was heavy into drinking back then so I may be mis-remembering some of it. But wasn't that the whole point of the ending? Him telling Nero to tell the kids he was a criminal, burning the manuscripts, pulling all of SamCro into the porn biz and getting them out of the bullshit with the Mayans/Marcus/whatever else I'm forgetting. He realized how deep he had gotten and knew the only way to go back to how "he" was, or what he wanted, was to pull the plug on it all. There was no saving it without destroying it

also spoiler I haven't read the new update - just wanted to respond while it was fresh

ALSO ALSO
I didn't mean to say her body was all she had going for her necessarily - more her innocence and the fact she hadn't turned grimey yet good sir. Her giving up her body for money was just the exchange that happened, but what was really lost was heavier than that

[djp73]

Maria, Mireya, another Maria
i need a cheat sheet

[Caesar]

Maria, Mireya, another Maria
i need a cheat sheet

viewtopic.php?p=81058#p81058 There is only one Maria in the story.