Get Out If You Can

Prologue

                       D I E G O' S     P E R S P E C T I V E                           

Empa Mundo's like a piece of Heaven that lost its way and landed on Earth.

I've always spent a lot of time at this quaint, aroma-adorned Argentinian café. I don't know why — maybe it's just the feel of the place. The walls are covered in flags and posters of concerts and plays from ages gone by, and there're so many of them that the deep red wallpaper only just peeks out from the gaps. Every table has a distinct set of chairs to it, and though my mother thinks it disorganized, I like the non-uniformity. I like to have the option of sitting on an armchair or a barstool instead of an obligation with no choice.

I tap my pencil against the graph paper I'm working on, trying to figure out which would be the best equation for this problem. I love physics, really, it's why I signed up for that extra-study course at Callenfield University — but sometimes, it gets on my nerves. I guess everything you love gets on your nerves at some point.

Well, whatever. I'll simply use the —

"Mijo?" I turn around to look at Augusta, the kind, silver-haired lady who runs this little café. She's holding a telephone in her hand. The old kind — the one with the curly, insulated wire and a numeric keypad. A landline phone. Something that'd find a place in a museum a few years from now.

"You have a call." She hands me the phone.

"Thanks," I tell her. I press the phone to my ear. I already know who it's going to be, and Augusta does too. She's been calling me for ages, one ring for every hour I'm not at home.

"Hi, Mom."

Bristly static fills my ear in the while she takes to respond. Damn, why are these things still being sold? They're so ancient!

"Diego? Is that you?"

"Who else would call you 'Mom'?" I laugh. Who else would, really? It's not like I —

Oh shit.

I shouldn't have said that.

"I'm sorry, I, um — yeah, Mom, it's me. I'm safe. Thanks for call —"

"No need for that," Mom says, and I exhale as I hear her tone ease on the tension. "You're fine there, right?"

"Yeah," I say, my hand trembling slightly. "Yeah. I'll be fine. I am fine."

"Good," she says. "Your grandmother will be coming home for dinner today, so make it back home by seven-thirty, okay?"

"Okay," I breathe into the little dots on the receiver. Thank God she changed the topic. "I'll be there by then."

"Good," she repeats. "Bye. Take care, Di. Love you!"

"Love you, too," I say, and wait for her to hang up.

When she does, I hand the phone to Augusta.

"Why does your mother call on my phone?" she asks, setting the phone back in its place with a light clatter. "Is it because of —"

"Yeah," I say, my body tense. I mindlessly tap the tip of my pencil on the table. For some reason, the hardwood chair I'm sitting on feels harder than it really is. "Yeah, that's why."

"Then she's doing the right thing, mijo," Augusta says, her big, dark-brown eyes flashing slightly. She knows what it was like for us. What it is like for us. "I'm sorry. Here, have some." She empties some tortas fritas in my empty ceramic plate. The smell's enough to draw me in.

I take a greedy bite. "Thank you," I say, munching away the uncomfortable thoughts. 

They'd told me not to think of him. I should listen. We all should listen.