This Is Why They Hate Us by Aaron H. Aceves

“How do you like that fancy school of yours?” It didn’t take long for the windshield to fog over. His breathing was impossibly silent, mine laborious, rasping against my eardrums. He pulled into the parking lot of a church across from it and cut the engine. This time, I’d go where I wanted to go, which was wherever he wanted to take me. It took me a few moments to realize I’d already made a decision, answered a question not asked yet. He got in the truck, closed the door, and I stood outside, my heart racing. “I’m saving up for something better,” he said before pressing the back of his freezing hands to my neck. I don’t know why I thought anything would’ve.

Nothing had changed-the chipping burgundy paint, the muddy tires, the blistered, tinted windows. I stopped on the driver’s side of his Chevy. He walked past me without a word, and I followed him. Instead of an apron, he wore a padded flannel shirt. It was cold outside, but I didn’t shiver until I saw his emerging shape. He handed me a bag with the eggnog and looked to the next customer. I glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. He stared at me, unblinking, unspeaking, and I felt blood rush to my face. “How long you been back?” he asked, handing me my change. He nodded, scanned the carton, and tapped a couple of keys on his register. “If we don’t have any in the house, my abuela will disown my mom. I placed the carton on the conveyor belt, and it rocked forward to him.

It made the green of his apron look absurdly artificial, poisonous. Other times, they belonged to a familiar stranger whose life I’d been consigned to follow. Recently, I’d begun to notice that my actions were only sometimes my own. The word flew out of my mouth like a bird into a sliding glass door.

This Is Why They Hate Us by Aaron H. Aceves