Even their community name was bullshit. The name itself was an affront to the Spanish language – at least that’s what he heard his dad say once. The fields around it were mostly used for grazing, and usually a shade of yellow rather than green. And none of the houses had anywhere near an acre of land. It was all a bunch of bullshit, and it filled Q with a sense of outrage. It definitely fed his anti-societal behavior.
Down with the man!
Surprisingly, nearly all the residents of Verde Acres were happier than pigs in shit.
Most of the hundred and fifty or so houses held one, and in some cases two, families. Ninety percent of these people originated from Mexico or Central America. They were hard working people.
Q couldn’t stand most of them.
Who works all day in the fields and goes home to work their yards every evening? What the fuck, guys... Go watch some Netflix or something, Q thought as he passed the first few houses, their immaculate front lawns only improved by the lush gardens in the backyards.
Something felt different, though. Q had a distinct cold sensation as he felt eyes on him. He cast a furtive glance around but couldn’t see anyone. The feeling of being watched made the hair on his neck rise, so he hastened his steps. Q had sped up to a jog by the time he caught sight of his street.
C’mon, Q. You got to nut up, dude. He forced himself to slow back down to a walk.
The appearance of his own house helped. There stood the only home he had ever known: 16 Shady Lane. As he got closer, he could make out details of the slightly worn yellow siding with the fake brick façade around the bottom. He caught sight of the tiny wooden porch with the often-patched screen door, and of the homemade curtains inside the windows, and forgot about whatever was bothering him.
“Mom!” he called out as soon as he walked into their house.
He let the screen door slam shut behind him with a loud clack, then grimaced slightly. His mom hated it when he let that door slam. It was the damn springs. The entire house had issues and was starting to show its age, but the springs on that overly used screen door were as tight as they were on the day his parents moved into the place.
His grimace turned to a frown when no yell of admonishment came.
He stood at the door silently for a moment, but the house was silent.
“Mom?” Q called out again, this time a bit more hesitantly.
Was there something wrong?
“Out here!”
Q sighed with relief as he heard his mother’s voice from the back yard. He jogged through the long hallway that ran the length of the house, past the living room on his left and the kitchen on his right, past the master bedroom on his left and the bathroom on his right, and finally past the small spare bedroom on the left and his own room on the right to end up at the back door.
He pushed the screen door, careful to halt it by catching the frame before it could slam shut.
Q looked out over their back yard. If you could call it that. The fenced-off yard reminded Q more of a miniature farm. They had a small chicken coop inside a wire enclosure to his right, and a herb garden to his left. The rest of the yard was covered with row upon row of greenery.
It was his parents’ pride and joy, that miniature farm. They grew potatoes, corn, peppers, carrots, onions, beans, peas, broccoli, cauliflower, limes, oranges, and avocados. They also grew an assortment of herbs. That was his favorite part of the yard. Not because he was into growing stuff. He had no desire to be a farmer and had made it abundantly clear to his parents that he had set his sights higher. It was the smell.
His window happened to be right above that herb garden, and he used to love the smells of the fresh herbs as they wafted into his room. He had many memories of lying in bed and luxuriating in the smells — especially after a rain shower. It drove away the dust, and left the fresh air laced with smells of cilantro, dill, rosemary, and thyme. They were so vivid he could almost feel the soft embrace of his blankets every time he caught one of those smells.
“Over here, Quentin!”
His mom’s voice broke him out of his reverie. He looked out and saw her, bent down in a deep squat, pushing dirt around. She probably wasn’t actually pushing dirt around, but Q didn’t care or know much about gardening.
No. That wasn’t true.
He’d been raised in that garden and knew just about everything there was to know about growing vegetables and the like. He pretended to be ignorant. His mom was hilling potatoes. Which involved building up the dirt around the plant to encourage the potatoes to grow larger.
Q sauntered into the garden and approached his mom.
“Quentin!” she looked up at him and smiled. Her heavy accent gave his name a uniquely Latino flavor. He always liked how she said his name.
Yet they never spoke Spanish at the Espinosa household. His father strictly forbade it. He seemed to be under the misguided belief that knowing Spanish was a direct ticket to poverty and strife.
Q kind of agreed with his dad. He certainly felt superior to most of the other people in Verde Acres. Yes, there were other kids his age or near enough there. No, Q did not hang out with them.
Ever.
“Hey, Mom.” He tried not
