After Wade retreats to his room for the night, I finish my coffee to avoid going upstairs. Some days, my room just feels suffocating.
It's already pretty small for one person, but having to split it with Leon and Milo makes it nearly impossible to even pretend I have an inkling of privacy.
They have bunk beds shoved in one corner, and my twin mattress is crammed in the other. We share a dresser, which means our clothes are usually just strewn across the floor. I mean fuck, if one of us breathes out, the other two are already inhaling it.
If social services were cool with foster kids of the opposite sex sharing, they may have even dumped Gracie in here with the rest of us. I don't envy her too much, though, since her room is basically a glorified walk-in closet.
Still, as much as I like to bitch, it's better than the other homes I was thrown into before this.
I had just turned thirteen when I was placed with Taylor and Wade Mitchell after the previous home didn't work out. It's a bare bones house, falling apart at the seams.
They don't have much, don't talk much, and don't ask for much.
Wade works construction and always has some kind of project going on while he's home to try and fix up this shit hole. As I zone out on the wooden boards he has lying across the floor, my throat begins to constrict.
It's an all too familiar feeling. One that reminds my ass to not get comfortable where I'm at. So I shoot out of the seat and leave the house again, disregarding the whole conversation I just had with Wade.
I know Gills will be hanging out in front of the Quik-Mart right about now, and I don't really like him being there alone. He abides by a strict schedule that always places him there during the shadiest hours of the night.
As I walk up, some scrawny white dude with craters dotting his face is shoving a wad of cash in Gills' palm, playing it off as a handshake. Once the exchange is complete, I lean against the crumbling brick wall next to him.
"You might wanna find a new spot soon. Cops have been patrolling over here ever since the liquor store got robbed last week." I give him the quiet warning as he counts his money.
"Fuck 'em."
Justin Gil is a careless motherfucker. He does what he wants, when he wants, with no concern for the consequences. Which is why the rest of us are blown away that he's only gotten busted once.
It's no secret that the cops frequently target our area, but Gills manages to fly under the radar without even trying. Maybe there's a method to his madness.
"Pinche pendejo," I mumble.
"The fuck did you say? You know I can't understand that shit."
"I said you're lookin' good tonight, big boy."
"Oh shut the fuck up!" Gills backhands my shoulder. "Come on, what'd ya say?"
"Nothing, man. How's business tonight?"
"Slow. Haven't even made my money back on this shit yet." He dangles a tiny bag of powder in front of his face.
"Put that shit away!" I lunge for him, forcibly lowering his hand while I frantically check our surroundings to make sure nobody saw him. It's a fucking wonder he hasn't been robbed yet.
"Calm the fuck down," he replies, squirming away.
"Maybe business has been slow because of the fucking cops I just told you about. Dios mío," I hiss, running a hand through my hair, a sad attempt to contain the stress levels. "When did you even start fucking with blow? Nobody around here can afford that shit."
"Guess that's why I'm not seeing a return on my investment." He squints his eyes like he's deep in thought.
Tucking the drugs into the front pocket of his jeans, he lights a cigarette before changing the subject.
"You seen Oggie or Slim at all today?" he asks, puffing little rings of smoke into the air.
"Nah, you know Slim turns into a choir boy on Sundays. Up his mom's ass all day, baking cakes for Jesus and shit. Haven't seen Oggie around in a while."
He snickers at my response and whips his phone out, shooting off a quick text.
"Why don't you just get a phone? A lot easier than wandering around until you run into someone."
"Hm, never thought of that before. Let me just pull some cash out of my ass and go get one."
I proceed to pretend I'm reaching into my back pocket and whip my hand out in front of me with my middle finger sticking up.
"Damn, man. Forgot you waste all your money on food and shit."
"Yeah, not like I need it to survive or anything. Guess I should get my priorities straight."
We exchange amused grins before he goes back to checking his phone, the light from the screen dancing across his face.
"Oggie's on the West Side right now. Not gonna make it out tonight," he informs me after tucking his phone away.
"What the hell is he doing over there?"
"No clue," he says with a shrug.
There's no point in questioning what Oggie does or why he does it. He never bothers explaining himself to anyone.
I don't know how it happened, but we kind of became this weird crew. When Oggie, Gills, Slim, and I all crossed paths, we had our circle, and that was the end of it. We don't bring in strangers, and we don't turn our backs on each other.
If one of us goes down, we're all going down. As wholesome as it sounds at times, it's a dangerous dynamic. Especially when all of us have our own outlets, different ways of getting ourselves into deep shit.
We've never had a leader in a traditional sense, but if we had to pick one, it would be Oggie. Hands down, no doubt about it.
He used to raise hell with the rest of us and ended up forming deep ties with some of the most notorious gangs in our area because of his recreational activities and constant stints in juvenile facilities.
But, one night, one of our usual outings went sideways when a gun was pulled and held against my head. I was laughing, egging the guy on, thanks to a wave of adrenaline, while Oggie was negotiating for my life. For the second time during the course of our friendship, he thought he was going to lose me.
It changed him.
He's admittedly the wisest one of the group, but he became ruthless, too.
If he feels one of us is being threatened - especially me - nothing is off limits. We never saw the guy who pulled the gun walking the streets again, and we don't question him about it. The less we know, the better. From a legal standpoint, at least.
To us, he's just Augustus Ward. The goodhearted, well-intentioned softie. To the rest of the streets, he's El Diablo Blanco - The White Devil.