"And…we are done." Exhausted, I leaned back on the couch. Chelsea, CJ, and I were in CJ's living room, completing Mr. Davis' project. We had always done our homework together since 9th grade.
"Finally," grabbing the TV remote, CJ turned on the TV and scrolled through various channels. He was a handsome black kid who had moved to America from Nigeria when he was younger. His mom was white resulting in his clear blue eyes.
CJ switched back to the previous channel, which was airing a news report. "...birdwatching in the woods. There, they were attacked by what seems to be a new species of birds of prey," the female news reporter stated before showing a clip of censored victims.
"That's so awful," Chelsea exclaimed. "Well, they asked for it. What kind of sissy activity is birdwatching?" CJ said, leaning back in his bean bag.
"What do you mean? Birdwatching is a great activity!" I interjected, feeling somewhat annoyed at him. He was always like this; anything that seemed outside the norm for a guy or girl struck him as bizarre.
"Yeah, you know, getting in tune with nature and all that," Chelsea added. She also wasn't a fan of his viewpoints. CJ wasn't a bad guy, but he had his flaws—and we all do. Some more than others, I thought, as my mood began to plummet.
"If I wanted to get in 'tune' with nature, I'd go hiking or something. Maybe som—" he started to say.
"Shh!" Chelsea interrupted. "…the mayor asks everyone to be vigilant and avoid being out late in the woods," the reporter concluded. At that moment, all three of us glanced at the clock. It was thirty minutes past seven. Oh no! I had to go; I was already late for dinner.
I hurriedly stuffed my things into my bag and looked over at Chelsea, wondering why she wasn't in a rush as well. She avoided my gaze, looking uncomfortable, and shot a glance at CJ, who had returned his attention to the TV.
I had suspected that they had something going on a while back, but I assumed it was over. Well, it didn't involve me. Saying goodbye, I walked out the door and into the busy streets of New York City.
The streets of NYC were as crowded as ever. A siren wailed in the distance, a rising and falling pitch that threaded through the city's thick air. My feet kept a rhythm against the pavement, a steady tap-tap-tap, but my mind was on a different tempo altogether.
I didn't want to go home but I had to. I quickened my pace, already picturing Dad's silent stare, wondering what I had been up to to make me come back so late.
The house felt like a tomb of expectations. It was a place filled with hushed voices and sideways glances, where every action of mine was scrutinized. I hated it—the suffocating silences, the relentless expectations, everything. But I had nowhere else to go.
As I arrived home, I saw the familiar houses on the block, their lights shining warmly from within. I opened the door and stepped inside, putting on a mask and becoming someone else—the son they thought they deserved.
The aroma of chicken tinga and warm tortillas hung heavily in the air, but it did nothing to lighten the mood at the dinner table.
My father, Pedro, a man whose hands were calloused from years of construction work, meticulously cut his chicken into small, uniform pieces.
He didn't look at his wife, Carla, or at me, his son. Instead, he simply stared at his plate, the quiet clinks of his fork on the ceramic the only sound that filled the space.
Carla, with her soft eyes and worried expression, fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth. She kept opening her mouth as if to speak, then closing it, a quiet battle playing out on her face. She glanced at me and then at Pedro.
I prodded a piece of avocado with my fork. They never allowed me to leave until they finished eating. I could sense what was on Mom's mind; she probably wanted to ask how my day went. I hoped she wouldn't, as I wasn't in the mood to lie.
Each time I shifted in my seat, the subtle creak of the chair echoed the discomfort in the room.
Finally, Carla cleared her throat. "The tinga is good, Pedro." My dad nodded once, still not looking up. "It is."
His comment ended the conversation abruptly. Mom's shoulders slumped slightly, and she returned to her nervous fiddling. The silence engulfed us again, more deafening than before, with each person trapped in their own orbit, circling the strange space between us.
After dinner, I went straight to my room, and the door closed with a quiet click that felt more like a cage locking than a room offering privacy. I didn't turn on the light, letting the faint glow from the streetlights filter in through the windows. With a sigh, I collapsed onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling I had known my entire life.
I didn't hate them. It was just that everything changed after… I couldn't continue down that train of thought, so I turned to memories of the past.
I remembered my dad's laugh, the way he would tell stories and make himself the butt of the joke. He loved Mom's cooking and how she could tell if he was upset just by the look in his eyes.
I thought about how Mom would pack my favorite snacks in my lunch when I was younger. Deep down, they probably loved me. Maybe it would be better if I just left, I considered—thoughts I had entertained before.
Every day was the same: the same questions, the same expectations, the same table where we ate the same food and sat in the same awkward silences.
I longed for the noise of the city, the freedom of a bus that could take me anywhere—a place where I could exist on my own terms.
Imagining what it would be like to just pack a bag and leave, stepping out into the night and finally breathing air that was entirely my own, I closed my eyes. The thought was a sweet ache in my chest, and for a moment, I felt as if I was already gone.