Whenever a teacher says my last name out loud, my stomach twists. Blood fills my mouth before I even register that I’ve bitten my tongue. I never answer to that name. It doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to the man who walked out the door and never looked back. 

I grew up in Dallas, Texas. I am thirteen years old. My skin is the color of café con leche and my hair is black as asphalt after rain. It always falls into my eyes, like it’s hiding me on purpose. I move quietly, carefully. Some people learn to speak up; I learned how to disappear.

     When I was ten years old, my father left my mom, and everything in my life came crashing in.  

     Mom didn’t break all at once.  Drugs filled her up where love used to stay. Lies hung in the air like smoke, coating everything, even the walls.

Outside, sirens howled so loud they vibrated in my chest. Red and blue lights flickered through the blinds, staining the floor. 

The front door burst open.

“Police! Get down!”

Boots thundered against the ceramic tile as men in black vests poured into the apartment, shouting over each other. The air turned thick, heavy with dust and panic.

They ripped the place apart, slashing open couch cushions and dumping out drawers. The sound of things crashing felt endless. Small baggies filled with powder spilled out of cabinets like tiny ghosts. There was more hidden in the walls. A pistol wrapped in newspaper.