Back on the Block | On My Block fanfic

Buttwipe

Welcome Home Monse!  Screamed a paper banner hanging from our kitchen ceiling, flapping around pathetically in the breeze brought in by the front door. Two semi-deflated balloons rolled around on the floor below it, the only other guests at my so-called homecoming party. On the counter sat a blue-frosted cupcake nearly as big as my hand, sprinkles and everything. 

"You got me a cupcake?!" I dropped my bags and ran over to it to savor a bite. After a five-hour-long drive, I was starving. "Dad, this is so extra and you know it."

Dad smiled, coming over to wrap an arm around me in a bear hug. "Aw, I just wanted to spoil my baby girl. It feels like you were in diapers the last time I saw you."

I laughed and wiped a smear of blue frosting from the corner of my mouth. "Well, thanks. But the last time I saw you was winter break, and I sure as hell wasn't wearing diapers then!" 

I swatted at him and he chuckled, shaking his head. That man can be so overdramatic, I swear. Taking another bite of my cupcake, I went to pick up my bags and resumed carrying them to my bedroom. 

. . . 

Ever since I started going away to school, first at Mayfield, now college, I forget for a moment what my life in Freeridge was like. I step through the door of my room, and it's like, bam, a wall of memories hits me so strong it feels like I might fall to my knees. And I remember, sometimes it's easier to forget. 

It's like there's my bed and all I can see is Cesar, kissing my neck, fumbling with my bra straps as we fall back into the sheets, and I think you can guess what usually happened next. 

And then I see him holding me as we drift into sleep, my face burrowed into the crook of his neck. I always had to be the tough girl of the group, but alone, I could be weak in Cesar's arms. Of course, I would never admit that to his face -- I would just punch him on the shoulder and call him a buttwipe or whatever stupid shit you call your crush when you're fourteen. 

It's not just memories of Cesar, either. I remember us the four of us, me, Cesar, Ruby, and Jamal laughing and cramming fast food down our throats when we celebrated finding the Rollerworld money or getting the Prophets put away for good. When Olivia was still alive, we used to hang here sometimes if Ruby's house was getting too hectic and she would attempt to do my hair and I would tweeze her brows for her and end up making her look like a Chola.  

But then Olivia died and I went away to Mayfield and god knows what became of the other three. Last I heard Jasmin and Ruby were still getting it on, Jamal was actually, and don't laugh at this, popular, and Cesar... he fell further on the wrong side of the block. After we stopped talking, I tried to coax more information out of Ruby about it but he wouldn't budge, saying that It wasn't important and it would only upset me. 

For the first time, I didn't push it, and I think it was because a part of me was too scared to know what he'd become. Did he knock up some white chick? Did he start using? Did he kill someone? Kill several?

I laid sprawled on my bedsheets, examining the cracks in the ceiling. Damn, it's hot in here, I thought, somebody better crank up the AC. I wipe a sheen of sweat off my forehead. 

As I drifted in and out of daydreams, dad walked in carrying the last of my bags from the truck. He stopped at the foot of my bed and squinted his eyes at me, a look I'd come to know as his Concerned Fatherly Expression. "Everything alright, Monse?"

I sat up, shaking my train of thought. "Yep. All good. I was just thinking of maybe calling Mia from school."

He nodded. "Oh. Mia. That's right. Hey, did she ever get back to you about staying here for a few nights? I know you and your old friends aren't all that close anymore and I know it might get lonely here with me on the road and all."

Mia Burke, one of my best friends from Mayfield. We're each other's lock screen and her baby blue friendship bracelet has clung to my wrist since the spring of our Sophomore year of high school. It's hard to forget her sweet, heart-shaped face, framed by princess-like blonde locks and sparkling blue eyes. She's lived a very un-Freeridge life, one marked by years of esteemed private schools and holidays in Aruba and Switzerland. She's never had to worry about running from gunshots or getting rolled up on by some scary-ass looking gangbangers just walking down the street. But we never really talked about that stuff. 

I shifted uncomfortably on my bed, remembering those plans we talked about so many weeks ago, now gone to dust. "Yeah, Mia talked to her parents about it, they don't really feel comfortable with Mia coming here to the Ridge for, I don't know, safety reasons and stuff. But they said I'm always welcome up there." 

Dad opened and closed his mouth like he was about to say something, but he just nodded. I didn't need to tell him any more, he understood. 

"Well, we can always talk about that later, but right now, I'll just let you unpack and relax for a while. Take-out in a few hours sound good?" He said. I nodded.

He took a few steps towards the door before something stopped him, and he turned abruptly, one hand resting on the handle. "Monse?"

"Yeah?"

"Look, I know word will probably get around that you're back in town, and you might want to get back in touch with some old friends. But I don't want you talking to that Cesar boy again."

Cesar. My heart started pounding. 

He continued. "I don't know when you last talked to him, but that boy across the street is not the same Cesar as the one you knew when you left for Mayfield. He's, well, baby, he's changed and not in a good way. He's done some bad things since you've been gone, and I think you'll be much better off if you stay away from him when you're here.  You just can't trust him."

With that, Dad shut the door behind him with a soft click. But my heart didn't stop banging in my chest long after he left. I could feel the cupcake creeping back up, sickly sweet blue frosting gurgling in my tummy. 

To distract myself, I reached down into my backpack and fingered the worn manilla envelope. It burned like a hot coal in my hands. Slowly pulling it into my lap, I lifted the flap and slid a thick stack of paper out of hiding. 

In a tiny, secretive font was printed the words: Untitled Girl by Selena Whitman.

In my hands was the last story my mom wrote before killing herself.