American Sun
American Sun
Finally caught up in this MF
American Sun
Dèyè Tout Sourire Gen Doulè
Coach LeVeon Joseph sat at his battered desk, coffee gone cold in a Saints mug streaked with chalk dust and last year’s game plans. His office smelled of turf and liniment, old paper, and the faint tang of sweat that seeped in no matter how often the floors got mopped. The only light was a flickering bulb overhead and a shaft of morning sun sneaking through a broken slat in the blinds.
Outside, the muffled shouts and laughter of boys running drills floated in from the field, but the old air conditioner in the window rattled so loud you could almost pretend there was peace here. Joseph thumbed through a stack of progress reports, making mental notes on grades and weight-room attendance, already composing next week’s speeches in his head.
A knock at the door pulled him back. Coach Eugene Smith, sleeves rolled, clipboard tucked under his arm, poked his head in. “Got a minute, LeVeon?”
“Yeah. Pull up,” Joseph grunted, motioning to the old plastic chair by the window.
Smith sat, dropping a slim file on the desk. “That Guerra kid. You wanted background. I got it.”
Joseph leaned forward, elbows on the wood, curiosity flickering behind his tired eyes. “Let’s hear it.”
“Was at Carver. Started the last few games freshman year and all sophomore year—quarterback, sometimes slot when they moved him around. Solid numbers—over 2,100 yards passing, 21 touchdowns, five picks, plus another 600 yards and seven touchdowns on the ground sophomore year. Kid was their offense most nights.” Smith flipped a page. “Disappeared last year. Not on any rosters, nowhere in the system.”
Joseph raised a brow. “Grades?”
“Fine. Not a genius, not dumb. Just…gone.”
Joseph drummed his fingers on the desk. “Word on why?”
Smith hesitated, glancing at the door, then leaned in. “Word is he did a little time. OJJ. Rumors on the East Bank said it was for running with some carjackers. Attempted murder was floated, but he’s not listed on anything open source.”
Joseph’s jaw set. He’d seen this story too many times—talent in the wrong place, wrong crowd, second chances earned in sweat and silence. “Anything with kids? Or weird shit?”
Smith shook his head. “Nah. It’s all street stuff, by the sound. He ran with some boys who are locked up now. Not much else.”
Joseph stared at the file, letting the silence settle. The office clock ticked. “We got others on this team who ain’t saints either,” he said at last. “Comes with the city. Sometimes those are your best players, if you keep ’em pointed straight.”
Smith grinned, tapping the file. “He ain’t got nothing to lose, either. Saw that look at tryouts. Quiet, but—hungry. Jay noticed too.”
Joseph allowed himself a half-smile. “Might light a spark under Jay if he knows that kid’s behind him. Let him sweat a little.”
Smith stood, tucking the folder under his arm. “You want me to run a background for the board?”
Joseph waved him off. “Not unless they ask. Far as I’m concerned, the kid’s got a shot. We keep an eye out, make sure his paperwork’s clean.”
Smith nodded, already backing out. “I’ll keep an ear to the ground. You want the stat sheet?”
Joseph took it, squinting at the numbers. “Hell, maybe this season’ll be more interesting than I thought.”
Smith chuckled and slipped out, leaving Joseph alone with the file, the echo of boys’ voices, and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he’d found something worth the trouble.
Caine sat in the back of English, desk kicked out just far enough to let him stretch his legs, the battered plastic cool against his shins. Ms. Johnson’s voice ran on in the background, but it barely registered. Most days he just let the noise of the room slide past—loose conversation, sneakers squeaking, the smell of pencil shavings and somebody’s too-sweet body spray.
He didn’t need to be seen here. He took up his space, but no more than that—body loose, eyes half on the clock, half on the page. The edge of his notebook was filled with names and numbers, Camila’s name written small in the corner, reminders to pay a bill or call Sara, a tiny play diagram only he could decipher. School was just another part of the routine. It had its place.
Janae tapped on his desk—just twice, sharp enough to cut through his haze. “Hey. You hear me?”
He looked up, steady. “What?”
She gave him a look—half playful, half real challenge. “I really thought I was starting to get you to come out of your shell.”
Caine let the corner of his mouth twitch. “Ain’t no shell. I just keep to myself.”
She snorted. “That’s what a shell is, dummy.” She eyed his notebook. “You make the team or what?”
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
There was a pause, just the faint scratch of pens and the low murmur of Ms. Johnson’s lesson. Caine asked, not trying to hide the question, “Jay… that’s your brother, right?”
Janae’s grin was quick and full of history. “Yeah. Jamarious. Only his little friends call him Jay. I’m the only one still calls him by his real name—unless he’s getting cussed out.”
Caine shook his head, let a real smile slip. “Jamarious. Alright.”
She turned back toward the front, then said over her shoulder, “My offer to give you some pointers still stands. He gets all the shine, but I taught him most of what he knows.”
Caine shrugged. “I’ll pass. Got enough going on.”
She lowered her voice a notch. “Your kid?”
“Yeah. And my girl. Lot to keep up with.” His tone was matter-of-fact, no flex, just life.
Ms. Johnson called on Janae before she could say anything else, and the moment faded. Caine watched her answer—quick, sharp, like she was always ready for more. He respected that.
He sat back and let the next ten minutes slip by, eyes on the clock, not really hearing the lesson. It was all just background. The things he had to care about were outside this room—Camila’s shoes, Mireya’s work schedule, how many hours he could pick up, practice after school. The rest was just noise.
When the bell rang, Caine closed his notebook, got up smooth, and moved down the hall—no hurry, no wasted motion, just a body cutting through the crowd. He nodded at a couple faces he recognized, didn’t stop, didn’t talk. Out in the sunlight, he paused, took a breath, and rolled his shoulders back.
Mireya sat hunched over a scarred table at the back of the library, elbows digging into old laminate that had peeled at the corners. The air was cold from an overworked AC vent, but it couldn’t clear out the musty smell of yellowed pages and the tang of sanitizer that clung to everything this time of year. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered, making her eyes ache.
In front of her sat an ACT prep book—at least a decade old, the cover faded and curling at the corners. The pages inside were marked up, answers circled, some formulas scribbled out and replaced with other ones. Half the sample questions had answers missing from the back, and when she found the “score scale,” the numbers were wrong—a curve that hadn’t matched the test in years.
She rubbed her hand down her face, frustration simmering. She’d been at this for forty minutes already and her mind was mush. No matter how hard she tried, the math looked wrong, the reading sections blurred together, and her anxiety about the cost and the deadline kept humming under everything.
She looked up, blinking herself back into the world. Across the library, a group of boys crowded around a table with two open laptops—one of them was Matt, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing the same school-issued hoodie he always did, hair twisted up tight, laugh a little too loud for the quiet rules posted at every table.
She watched for a minute, weighing her options, then snapped the old prep book shut. No use beating a dead horse. Mireya stood and walked over, her sneakers silent on the carpet, shoulders squared.
“Matt,” she said, letting just enough warmth into her tone.
He looked up, a little surprised, then smirked. “Hey, Mireya. What’s up?”
She nodded toward the laptop. “Can I use your computer for a sec? I just need to look up something for the ACT.”
Matt hesitated, eyeing his friend.
She tipped her head, let a sly, easy smile play at her lips—just enough to make him feel seen. “C’mon, Matt, do me a favor? I promise I’ll only be a minute. I might even owe you one.”
Matt glanced at his friend, who elbowed him, grinning. That was all it took. Matt sat up straighter, suddenly showing off. “Aight, go ahead. Just don’t mess up my tabs.”
Mireya let out a light, practiced laugh before sliding into his seat and pulling the laptop close. It was a performance she’d perfected—charming, quick, and gone before anyone could expect anything real.
She pulled up the ACT website, searching for free online prep and fresh practice tests, copying links, downloading what she could, and firing them off in a quick email to herself. Her fingers were quick, efficient—a hustle born of always having to make do.
Matt leaned in, trying to keep the vibe going. “So, you and Caine still together, or…?”
Mireya answered without missing a beat, still focused on the screen. “Yeah. We are.”
He tried anyway, voice dropping. “If you ever need help—”
She cut him off with another smile—friendly, but final this time. “I’m good, Matt. But thanks for letting me use your computer.”
He nodded, trying not to look shut down. She finished, slid the laptop back, and stood.
“Appreciate it,” she said, voice polite but cool now.
As she walked back to her table, she felt Matt’s gaze on her but didn’t turn around. She gathered up the battered prep book, her old pencil, and her notebook with its dog-eared corners, and headed for the door.
The hallway outside was warm and bright, sunlight streaming through the windows, a band of girls laughing down by the water fountain. Mireya let herself stand for a moment, letting the warmth sink in before she headed to her next class—thinking about the money she still owed for the test, the hours she’d have to work, and the endless little ways she had to scrap and hustle for every inch.
But she’d gotten what she needed.
Percy stepped off the bus with a cheap duffel slung over one shoulder, the engine coughing behind him before rattling back toward the highway. The stop was just a patch of cracked blacktop outside a faded convenience store—no sign, no crowd, just the hush of rural Louisiana stretching out in all directions. Leesville smelled like pine needles, hot tar, and something fried from the diner across the street.
The air felt heavy and still, nothing like the sticky chaos of New Orleans. Out here, you could hear yourself breathe. There were no sirens, no horns, just the faint screech of a rusty flagpole swinging in the breeze and the distant rumble of a lawn mower. The town looked like it’d been plucked from another decade: pickup trucks parked at angles, a courthouse dome poking above low roofs, American flags sun-bleached and limp in the midday heat.
Percy wiped his forehead, feeling sweat gather under his hair. He crossed the narrow street, gravel popping under his sneakers, and ducked into the diner. A bell jingled over the door, sharp as a shout in the quiet.
Inside, the place was a time capsule—red vinyl booths, faded photos of high school football teams, a jukebox against the far wall playing an old Conway Twitty song. The cool air hit him first, chased by the smell of fryer oil, coffee left too long on the burner, and something sweet—maybe a pie, maybe a cheap air freshener. Heads turned. A couple of old men at the counter gave him the slow once-over, eyes lingering a beat too long. He looked down, used to it.
He slid onto a stool at the counter. The waitress—gray hair teased up high, glasses on a chain—looked him over with that same narrow-eyed curiosity. Her name tag read “Doris.”
“Afternoon,” Percy said, keeping his voice even.
Doris wiped her hands on her apron. “What can I get you?”
“Just a Coke, please.” His mouth felt dry as chalk.
She poured it from the fountain, glass clinking with ice. “You ain’t from ‘round here, huh?”
He shook his head, tried a small smile. “Nah, ma’am. Just got in.”
She pushed the drink across the counter, nodding toward the window. “That bus don’t bring many new folks. You passing through, or…?”
“Probation transfer,” Percy said, quiet. There was no use lying out here—everybody would know by tomorrow.
She sucked her teeth, not unkindly, and pointed across the street. “Courthouse is right over there. Can’t miss it. They’ll have you sign in.”
“Appreciate it,” Percy said, sipping the Coke. It tasted like syrup and melted ice.
One of the old men at the end of the counter cleared his throat. “Where you from, son?”
“New Orleans.”
The man nodded, like that explained everything. “Thought so. Sound like them boys from the city.”
Percy glanced at the faded trophy case by the door, the grainy team photos—kids who’d never left, kids who probably grew old in the same booth. He finished his Coke, thanked Doris, and stepped back outside into the blinding afternoon.
For a moment, the silence felt like a hand on his shoulder—heavy, familiar, and just a little bit lonesome. He squared his shoulders and walked across the street, ready to face whatever waited in that courthouse, and whatever this strange new place would ask of him.
Caine sat, legs stretched out, on the thin rug at the foot of Mireya’s bed, Camila snuggled against his chest, heavy with sleep. The small bedroom was dim, lit by the glow of a cheap lamp on the dresser and the blue-white haze of Mireya’s cracked phone screen. The air felt close, thick with the faint scent of baby powder and the grease from whatever Maria had cooked earlier. A fan hummed on low, stirring the curtains but never quite reaching the corners.
Mireya was sprawled across the bed, her knees drawn up, a battered notebook balanced on her thighs. She chewed on her pencil, lips pressed together in concentration, as she scanned through a list of ACT practice questions she’d printed from the library. Her hair was twisted up in a lazy bun, shadows under her eyes. She looked tired, older than seventeen, shoulders tense from a day that never seemed to end.
Caine watched her work, feeling Camila’s breath rise and fall, her tiny hand fisted in his shirt. He tried not to think about all the things that needed doing tomorrow, or the weight of the months behind them, or the way the bills were due again. For a moment, it was just this—Mireya’s quiet focus, Camila’s soft snore, the world paused outside the window.
“How’s the studying going?” he asked, voice low so he wouldn’t wake the baby.
Mireya blew out a sigh, dropped the pencil onto the notebook. “It’s in a couple weeks. I don’t even know if I’m ready. I can’t focus half the time—I’m too tired.” She glanced at him, then looked away. “I wish I could just take a few days off work to get my head right, but…”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.
Caine nodded, then stood up in one smooth motion, careful not to jostle Camila. He tucked her into her crib, pulling the blanket over her and brushing a curl off her cheek. The room felt smaller, safer, with just him and Mireya.
He crossed back, eased himself down on the bed beside her. She looked at him, her eyes ringed with exhaustion and worry.
He took her phone from her hand, setting it aside. “I love you, you know that?”
Mireya didn’t answer right away. Her gaze flicked down, then back up, and she nodded. “I love you, too.”
Caine leaned his head back against the wall, silent for a long moment. Then, without looking at her, he said, “I never thanked you. For holding me down. When I was inside. You ain’t have to.”
She blinked, not used to hearing him say it out loud. Mireya just shrugged, her face softening, but she didn’t answer—words sticking, too many feelings packed tight behind her ribs.
He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “We’re gonna make it out, Reya.”
She snorted, a rough, honest sound, but there was no meanness in it. “I don’t know about all that.”
He squeezed her hand, not pushing, not needing to convince her. “¿Confías en mí?”
She hesitated, then nodded, letting her head drop against his shoulder. “Si. I trust you.”
Caine pulled her closer, cupping her chin. She met his eyes—tired but certain—and he leaned in, kissing her slow, full on the lips, letting it linger. There was no hurry in it; just the quiet promise that came from everything they’d already survived.
For a minute, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the steady rush of the fan, the hum of the city beyond the walls, and Camila’s breathing—soft, steady, a reminder of what they were fighting for.
Mireya shifted, turning into his chest, letting herself lean on him in a way she didn’t let herself do with anyone else. He wrapped an arm around her, settling deeper into the mattress.
They didn’t say anything more. Didn’t need to. In the quiet, Caine pressed his cheek to her hair and closed his eyes, letting the rest of the world fall away.
Coach LeVeon Joseph sat at his battered desk, coffee gone cold in a Saints mug streaked with chalk dust and last year’s game plans. His office smelled of turf and liniment, old paper, and the faint tang of sweat that seeped in no matter how often the floors got mopped. The only light was a flickering bulb overhead and a shaft of morning sun sneaking through a broken slat in the blinds.
Outside, the muffled shouts and laughter of boys running drills floated in from the field, but the old air conditioner in the window rattled so loud you could almost pretend there was peace here. Joseph thumbed through a stack of progress reports, making mental notes on grades and weight-room attendance, already composing next week’s speeches in his head.
A knock at the door pulled him back. Coach Eugene Smith, sleeves rolled, clipboard tucked under his arm, poked his head in. “Got a minute, LeVeon?”
“Yeah. Pull up,” Joseph grunted, motioning to the old plastic chair by the window.
Smith sat, dropping a slim file on the desk. “That Guerra kid. You wanted background. I got it.”
Joseph leaned forward, elbows on the wood, curiosity flickering behind his tired eyes. “Let’s hear it.”
“Was at Carver. Started the last few games freshman year and all sophomore year—quarterback, sometimes slot when they moved him around. Solid numbers—over 2,100 yards passing, 21 touchdowns, five picks, plus another 600 yards and seven touchdowns on the ground sophomore year. Kid was their offense most nights.” Smith flipped a page. “Disappeared last year. Not on any rosters, nowhere in the system.”
Joseph raised a brow. “Grades?”
“Fine. Not a genius, not dumb. Just…gone.”
Joseph drummed his fingers on the desk. “Word on why?”
Smith hesitated, glancing at the door, then leaned in. “Word is he did a little time. OJJ. Rumors on the East Bank said it was for running with some carjackers. Attempted murder was floated, but he’s not listed on anything open source.”
Joseph’s jaw set. He’d seen this story too many times—talent in the wrong place, wrong crowd, second chances earned in sweat and silence. “Anything with kids? Or weird shit?”
Smith shook his head. “Nah. It’s all street stuff, by the sound. He ran with some boys who are locked up now. Not much else.”
Joseph stared at the file, letting the silence settle. The office clock ticked. “We got others on this team who ain’t saints either,” he said at last. “Comes with the city. Sometimes those are your best players, if you keep ’em pointed straight.”
Smith grinned, tapping the file. “He ain’t got nothing to lose, either. Saw that look at tryouts. Quiet, but—hungry. Jay noticed too.”
Joseph allowed himself a half-smile. “Might light a spark under Jay if he knows that kid’s behind him. Let him sweat a little.”
Smith stood, tucking the folder under his arm. “You want me to run a background for the board?”
Joseph waved him off. “Not unless they ask. Far as I’m concerned, the kid’s got a shot. We keep an eye out, make sure his paperwork’s clean.”
Smith nodded, already backing out. “I’ll keep an ear to the ground. You want the stat sheet?”
Joseph took it, squinting at the numbers. “Hell, maybe this season’ll be more interesting than I thought.”
Smith chuckled and slipped out, leaving Joseph alone with the file, the echo of boys’ voices, and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he’d found something worth the trouble.
~~~
Caine sat in the back of English, desk kicked out just far enough to let him stretch his legs, the battered plastic cool against his shins. Ms. Johnson’s voice ran on in the background, but it barely registered. Most days he just let the noise of the room slide past—loose conversation, sneakers squeaking, the smell of pencil shavings and somebody’s too-sweet body spray.
He didn’t need to be seen here. He took up his space, but no more than that—body loose, eyes half on the clock, half on the page. The edge of his notebook was filled with names and numbers, Camila’s name written small in the corner, reminders to pay a bill or call Sara, a tiny play diagram only he could decipher. School was just another part of the routine. It had its place.
Janae tapped on his desk—just twice, sharp enough to cut through his haze. “Hey. You hear me?”
He looked up, steady. “What?”
She gave him a look—half playful, half real challenge. “I really thought I was starting to get you to come out of your shell.”
Caine let the corner of his mouth twitch. “Ain’t no shell. I just keep to myself.”
She snorted. “That’s what a shell is, dummy.” She eyed his notebook. “You make the team or what?”
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
There was a pause, just the faint scratch of pens and the low murmur of Ms. Johnson’s lesson. Caine asked, not trying to hide the question, “Jay… that’s your brother, right?”
Janae’s grin was quick and full of history. “Yeah. Jamarious. Only his little friends call him Jay. I’m the only one still calls him by his real name—unless he’s getting cussed out.”
Caine shook his head, let a real smile slip. “Jamarious. Alright.”
She turned back toward the front, then said over her shoulder, “My offer to give you some pointers still stands. He gets all the shine, but I taught him most of what he knows.”
Caine shrugged. “I’ll pass. Got enough going on.”
She lowered her voice a notch. “Your kid?”
“Yeah. And my girl. Lot to keep up with.” His tone was matter-of-fact, no flex, just life.
Ms. Johnson called on Janae before she could say anything else, and the moment faded. Caine watched her answer—quick, sharp, like she was always ready for more. He respected that.
He sat back and let the next ten minutes slip by, eyes on the clock, not really hearing the lesson. It was all just background. The things he had to care about were outside this room—Camila’s shoes, Mireya’s work schedule, how many hours he could pick up, practice after school. The rest was just noise.
When the bell rang, Caine closed his notebook, got up smooth, and moved down the hall—no hurry, no wasted motion, just a body cutting through the crowd. He nodded at a couple faces he recognized, didn’t stop, didn’t talk. Out in the sunlight, he paused, took a breath, and rolled his shoulders back.
~~~
Mireya sat hunched over a scarred table at the back of the library, elbows digging into old laminate that had peeled at the corners. The air was cold from an overworked AC vent, but it couldn’t clear out the musty smell of yellowed pages and the tang of sanitizer that clung to everything this time of year. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered, making her eyes ache.
In front of her sat an ACT prep book—at least a decade old, the cover faded and curling at the corners. The pages inside were marked up, answers circled, some formulas scribbled out and replaced with other ones. Half the sample questions had answers missing from the back, and when she found the “score scale,” the numbers were wrong—a curve that hadn’t matched the test in years.
She rubbed her hand down her face, frustration simmering. She’d been at this for forty minutes already and her mind was mush. No matter how hard she tried, the math looked wrong, the reading sections blurred together, and her anxiety about the cost and the deadline kept humming under everything.
She looked up, blinking herself back into the world. Across the library, a group of boys crowded around a table with two open laptops—one of them was Matt, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing the same school-issued hoodie he always did, hair twisted up tight, laugh a little too loud for the quiet rules posted at every table.
She watched for a minute, weighing her options, then snapped the old prep book shut. No use beating a dead horse. Mireya stood and walked over, her sneakers silent on the carpet, shoulders squared.
“Matt,” she said, letting just enough warmth into her tone.
He looked up, a little surprised, then smirked. “Hey, Mireya. What’s up?”
She nodded toward the laptop. “Can I use your computer for a sec? I just need to look up something for the ACT.”
Matt hesitated, eyeing his friend.
She tipped her head, let a sly, easy smile play at her lips—just enough to make him feel seen. “C’mon, Matt, do me a favor? I promise I’ll only be a minute. I might even owe you one.”
Matt glanced at his friend, who elbowed him, grinning. That was all it took. Matt sat up straighter, suddenly showing off. “Aight, go ahead. Just don’t mess up my tabs.”
Mireya let out a light, practiced laugh before sliding into his seat and pulling the laptop close. It was a performance she’d perfected—charming, quick, and gone before anyone could expect anything real.
She pulled up the ACT website, searching for free online prep and fresh practice tests, copying links, downloading what she could, and firing them off in a quick email to herself. Her fingers were quick, efficient—a hustle born of always having to make do.
Matt leaned in, trying to keep the vibe going. “So, you and Caine still together, or…?”
Mireya answered without missing a beat, still focused on the screen. “Yeah. We are.”
He tried anyway, voice dropping. “If you ever need help—”
She cut him off with another smile—friendly, but final this time. “I’m good, Matt. But thanks for letting me use your computer.”
He nodded, trying not to look shut down. She finished, slid the laptop back, and stood.
“Appreciate it,” she said, voice polite but cool now.
As she walked back to her table, she felt Matt’s gaze on her but didn’t turn around. She gathered up the battered prep book, her old pencil, and her notebook with its dog-eared corners, and headed for the door.
The hallway outside was warm and bright, sunlight streaming through the windows, a band of girls laughing down by the water fountain. Mireya let herself stand for a moment, letting the warmth sink in before she headed to her next class—thinking about the money she still owed for the test, the hours she’d have to work, and the endless little ways she had to scrap and hustle for every inch.
But she’d gotten what she needed.
~~~
Percy stepped off the bus with a cheap duffel slung over one shoulder, the engine coughing behind him before rattling back toward the highway. The stop was just a patch of cracked blacktop outside a faded convenience store—no sign, no crowd, just the hush of rural Louisiana stretching out in all directions. Leesville smelled like pine needles, hot tar, and something fried from the diner across the street.
The air felt heavy and still, nothing like the sticky chaos of New Orleans. Out here, you could hear yourself breathe. There were no sirens, no horns, just the faint screech of a rusty flagpole swinging in the breeze and the distant rumble of a lawn mower. The town looked like it’d been plucked from another decade: pickup trucks parked at angles, a courthouse dome poking above low roofs, American flags sun-bleached and limp in the midday heat.
Percy wiped his forehead, feeling sweat gather under his hair. He crossed the narrow street, gravel popping under his sneakers, and ducked into the diner. A bell jingled over the door, sharp as a shout in the quiet.
Inside, the place was a time capsule—red vinyl booths, faded photos of high school football teams, a jukebox against the far wall playing an old Conway Twitty song. The cool air hit him first, chased by the smell of fryer oil, coffee left too long on the burner, and something sweet—maybe a pie, maybe a cheap air freshener. Heads turned. A couple of old men at the counter gave him the slow once-over, eyes lingering a beat too long. He looked down, used to it.
He slid onto a stool at the counter. The waitress—gray hair teased up high, glasses on a chain—looked him over with that same narrow-eyed curiosity. Her name tag read “Doris.”
“Afternoon,” Percy said, keeping his voice even.
Doris wiped her hands on her apron. “What can I get you?”
“Just a Coke, please.” His mouth felt dry as chalk.
She poured it from the fountain, glass clinking with ice. “You ain’t from ‘round here, huh?”
He shook his head, tried a small smile. “Nah, ma’am. Just got in.”
She pushed the drink across the counter, nodding toward the window. “That bus don’t bring many new folks. You passing through, or…?”
“Probation transfer,” Percy said, quiet. There was no use lying out here—everybody would know by tomorrow.
She sucked her teeth, not unkindly, and pointed across the street. “Courthouse is right over there. Can’t miss it. They’ll have you sign in.”
“Appreciate it,” Percy said, sipping the Coke. It tasted like syrup and melted ice.
One of the old men at the end of the counter cleared his throat. “Where you from, son?”
“New Orleans.”
The man nodded, like that explained everything. “Thought so. Sound like them boys from the city.”
Percy glanced at the faded trophy case by the door, the grainy team photos—kids who’d never left, kids who probably grew old in the same booth. He finished his Coke, thanked Doris, and stepped back outside into the blinding afternoon.
For a moment, the silence felt like a hand on his shoulder—heavy, familiar, and just a little bit lonesome. He squared his shoulders and walked across the street, ready to face whatever waited in that courthouse, and whatever this strange new place would ask of him.
~~~
Caine sat, legs stretched out, on the thin rug at the foot of Mireya’s bed, Camila snuggled against his chest, heavy with sleep. The small bedroom was dim, lit by the glow of a cheap lamp on the dresser and the blue-white haze of Mireya’s cracked phone screen. The air felt close, thick with the faint scent of baby powder and the grease from whatever Maria had cooked earlier. A fan hummed on low, stirring the curtains but never quite reaching the corners.
Mireya was sprawled across the bed, her knees drawn up, a battered notebook balanced on her thighs. She chewed on her pencil, lips pressed together in concentration, as she scanned through a list of ACT practice questions she’d printed from the library. Her hair was twisted up in a lazy bun, shadows under her eyes. She looked tired, older than seventeen, shoulders tense from a day that never seemed to end.
Caine watched her work, feeling Camila’s breath rise and fall, her tiny hand fisted in his shirt. He tried not to think about all the things that needed doing tomorrow, or the weight of the months behind them, or the way the bills were due again. For a moment, it was just this—Mireya’s quiet focus, Camila’s soft snore, the world paused outside the window.
“How’s the studying going?” he asked, voice low so he wouldn’t wake the baby.
Mireya blew out a sigh, dropped the pencil onto the notebook. “It’s in a couple weeks. I don’t even know if I’m ready. I can’t focus half the time—I’m too tired.” She glanced at him, then looked away. “I wish I could just take a few days off work to get my head right, but…”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.
Caine nodded, then stood up in one smooth motion, careful not to jostle Camila. He tucked her into her crib, pulling the blanket over her and brushing a curl off her cheek. The room felt smaller, safer, with just him and Mireya.
He crossed back, eased himself down on the bed beside her. She looked at him, her eyes ringed with exhaustion and worry.
He took her phone from her hand, setting it aside. “I love you, you know that?”
Mireya didn’t answer right away. Her gaze flicked down, then back up, and she nodded. “I love you, too.”
Caine leaned his head back against the wall, silent for a long moment. Then, without looking at her, he said, “I never thanked you. For holding me down. When I was inside. You ain’t have to.”
She blinked, not used to hearing him say it out loud. Mireya just shrugged, her face softening, but she didn’t answer—words sticking, too many feelings packed tight behind her ribs.
He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “We’re gonna make it out, Reya.”
She snorted, a rough, honest sound, but there was no meanness in it. “I don’t know about all that.”
He squeezed her hand, not pushing, not needing to convince her. “¿Confías en mí?”
She hesitated, then nodded, letting her head drop against his shoulder. “Si. I trust you.”
Caine pulled her closer, cupping her chin. She met his eyes—tired but certain—and he leaned in, kissing her slow, full on the lips, letting it linger. There was no hurry in it; just the quiet promise that came from everything they’d already survived.
For a minute, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the steady rush of the fan, the hum of the city beyond the walls, and Camila’s breathing—soft, steady, a reminder of what they were fighting for.
Mireya shifted, turning into his chest, letting herself lean on him in a way she didn’t let herself do with anyone else. He wrapped an arm around her, settling deeper into the mattress.
They didn’t say anything more. Didn’t need to. In the quiet, Caine pressed his cheek to her hair and closed his eyes, letting the rest of the world fall away.
American Sun
Jamarious about to be QB2 with his sister coaching up his replacement.
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Chillcavern
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American Sun
Mireya might be starting to learn how to use her appearance to her advantage now.
Though, does their library not have public computers? That’s pretty brutal
Caine’s being brought in to push the starter huh? Let’s see how quickly that changes.
And what are you cooking with Percy of all characters here? I’ll admit to being a bit surprised to see him still. But he’s gotten a fair amount of screen time since the trial
Though, does their library not have public computers? That’s pretty brutal
Caine’s being brought in to push the starter huh? Let’s see how quickly that changes.
And what are you cooking with Percy of all characters here? I’ll admit to being a bit surprised to see him still. But he’s gotten a fair amount of screen time since the trial
American Sun
Chillcavern wrote: ↑16 Jul 2025, 14:08Mireya might be starting to learn how to use her appearance to her advantage now.
Though, does their library not have public computers? That’s pretty brutal
Caine’s being brought in to push the starter huh? Let’s see how quickly that changes.
And what are you cooking with Percy of all characters here? I’ll admit to being a bit surprised to see him still. But he’s gotten a fair amount of screen time since the trial
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Chillcavern
- Posts: 952
- Joined: 07 Dec 2018, 23:38
- Contact:
American Sun
All I meant is that that’s the first encounter where she’s purposefully using her body to get what she wants (as well as greatly reducing what she had to “pay”), rather than the much more mentally passive / victimized role in it that she’s had up to this point.Soapy wrote: ↑16 Jul 2025, 14:09Chillcavern wrote: ↑16 Jul 2025, 14:08Mireya might be starting to learn how to use her appearance to her advantage now.
I tried to leave my own judgement out of it (hence the bland comment), but leading a guy on for less than the length of a conversation and honestly shooting him down when he asks isn’t exactly sex work. It’s a de-escalation in grime and an escalation in giving herself control.
American Sun
American Sun
How is this either of those things :pdead:
Caine don't want that girl, bruh
#nooticerStatusChillcavern wrote: ↑16 Jul 2025, 14:08Mireya might be starting to learn how to use her appearance to her advantage now.
Though, does their library not have public computers? That’s pretty brutal
Caine’s being brought in to push the starter huh? Let’s see how quickly that changes.
And what are you cooking with Percy of all characters here? I’ll admit to being a bit surprised to see him still. But he’s gotten a fair amount of screen time since the trial
because why fight for the public computers when you can just use the one right in front of you.
We
thoughWhy you got a problem with this???Soapy wrote: ↑16 Jul 2025, 14:09Chillcavern wrote: ↑16 Jul 2025, 14:08Mireya might be starting to learn how to use her appearance to her advantage now.
Though, does their library not have public computers? That’s pretty brutal
Caine’s being brought in to push the starter huh? Let’s see how quickly that changes.
And what are you cooking with Percy of all characters here? I’ll admit to being a bit surprised to see him still. But he’s gotten a fair amount of screen time since the trial
#nooticerstatusChillcavern wrote: ↑16 Jul 2025, 14:24All I meant is that that’s the first encounter where she’s purposefully using her body to get what she wants (as well as greatly reducing what she had to “pay”), rather than the much more mentally passive / victimized role in it that she’s had up to this point.Soapy wrote: ↑16 Jul 2025, 14:09Chillcavern wrote: ↑16 Jul 2025, 14:08Mireya might be starting to learn how to use her appearance to her advantage now.
I tried to leave my own judgement out of it (hence the bland comment), but leading a guy on for less than the length of a conversation and honestly shooting him down when he asks isn’t exactly sex work. It’s a de-escalation in grime and an escalation in giving herself control.
How is she acting and talking like a ho?