The Disappearance of Valentina Moreno

Chapter 8 ~ Man Sandwich

              By the time I left Redding, twilight had filled the morning sky with deep hues of rust and amethyst as emerald treetops whipped past me. I slipped away before my father awoke and left a note on the fridge saying I had to leave early. 

For four hours, the hair I ripped from his scalp burned a hole in my pocket as I drove back to San Francisco. Then I handed it off to Moses with a sample of my own, and he promised to take care of the rest.

But now I sit here on the couch in the living room, with an envelope in my hand from Julian. He pushed it under the door while I was gone, and it says, please open it, in his perfect penmanship. So I’ve been avoiding it for the last few hours while trying to watch Netflix. 

Except, I’ve gone through three episodes of Breaking Bad and have no idea what’s going on, so I might as well confront this mysterious envelope. My skin crawls as if locusts have swarmed my limbs as my finger slides across the flap, severing the seal. 

Folded squares of paper fall out when I shake the envelope over the coffee table, and I sit back as if they’re laced in arsenic. 

I wish Moses were here. 

Glancing at the window facing the courtyard, I spot the closed drapes on his apartment. 

I miss him already.

Holding my breath, I unfold the pieces of paper. One is a photo of me from my first year in high school. I don’t even remember taking the picture, yet I am cheesing at the camera with two Princess Leia buns. I look like a child, but it was Star Wars Day, and Julian is standing next to me as Han Solo. The other photo, however, makes my stomach reach for the core of the earth. It’s a snapshot of Javier, Amelia, baby Rosalinda, and four-year-old Valentina at Yosemite Falls. 

Although I’m significantly older than her in the photo, we look like twins as Valentina stares back at me with two buns atop her head. 

This is too much.

However, not as much as the next photo, which is a mugshot of my father as a young man.

“What. The. Hell!?” 

The photos slip from my fingers and land on the fluffy area rug at my bare feet, so I bring my knees up to my chin, not wanting the images to touch any part of me. What the hell is this? Julian has some explaining to do.

With each screen swipe, my fingers tremble while punching out a text message. I used to believe our friendship was infrangible, but these days we’ve never felt further apart. Julian was the only person to pay attention to me when I moved to San Francisco, and I began attending Balboa High. 

The morning we met, I arrived late, and it was my first time attending a real school after being homeschooled while growing up, so I got lost. When I finally found the classroom, the door slammed behind me, and like a slingshot, all eyes catapulted toward me. 

With one scrutinizing glance, the girls let me know I wasn’t welcome. They were glamorous in tight jeans, heels, and crop tops. But I was an insect in a plain white tee, straight leg jeans with rips at the knees, and my wild curls tossed into a messy bun. 

Then, I found a seat next to a cute boy with a deep natural tan and a tight fade. And then that boy said something to me in Spanish, except the only thing I understood was his name—Julian.

Even to this day, he won’t tell me what he said. Instead, he throws his head back in a laugh when I ask. But from that day forward, he and I were sewn at the ribs. So, this chasm between us needs to shrink. 

The phone beeps in my hand, and the screen says, be there in fifteen mins. 

However, more than thirty minutes pass by when I hear the knock on the door. To my surprise, Julian isn’t alone as he pushes into the apartment with Moses in tow.