I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to apologize for what I’ve done.
What I do know is that things are going to get much worse before they get better.
Chapter 9
Ignacio
I know finding Alex by driving up and down the streets in the neighborhood is a long shot. The chance is greater that he went to a friend’s house or is hiding out in one of the plentiful abandoned properties around here, but I can’t not look for him.
I spend the next twenty minutes driving around, up and down streets so slowly, if I were in a nicer area, several calls about a suspicious man would’ve already been called into 911. The people around here don’t care. Unless I’m bothering them directly, then they don’t pay much attention. It’s how so many crimes go unsolved. People have too many of their own problems. Worrying about others just isn’t a priority.
Somehow, though, luck seems to be on my side because I find the angry boy leaning up against the large window of a shabby convenience store. The scowl on his young face is so familiar it’s like I’m looking at myself in the mirror. How did I miss the resemblance when he knocked into me at school? It just solidifies that people see what they want to see, unable to read into much of anything unless they’re specifically looking for it.
Parking my truck within my line of sight, I turn off the engine and climb out, making sure my truck beeps in confirmation that it’s locked. Getting broken into around here wouldn’t be surprising, and although I have great insurance, just the hassle of having to deal with something like that makes me more cautious.
I don’t speak to him when he notices me as I approach, and he doesn’t cuss me out and dart away either. As far as I see, that’s some form of progress already.
I may have been a wild, pissed-off teen once before, but I never tried to reason with one. If memory serves correctly, there is no reasoning with an emotional young person with out-of-control hormones. Puberty for me was brutal, and I imagine it is for Alex as well.
Several older-looking boys exit the store, stopping for a moment to talk with Alex. Something I did more times than I can count happens right before my eyes. They chat, give bro slaps on each others’ back as they lean in close to each other. The knowledge that my twelve-year-old son could be dealing drugs hits me in the chest like an anvil. It’s not unheard of around here for kids so young to be tangled up in something so criminal because this area breeds shit like that, but knowing my son could be in the middle of something so harmful and devious is an eye-opening thing to observe in person.
It makes me wonder as I close the distance between us if things would be different if I was around from the beginning. I know Tinley does her best. The information Wren sent proved that she’s just as determined now as she was when we were younger. She’s always kept a job, sometimes working more than one to make ends meet after her dad passed. I know she’s taking care of her sick mother all the while trying to get control of a child that already thinks he’s too old to be parented.
I know all of this just as much as I know that being in his life from birth would mean that my child wouldn’t be outside shooting the shit with deviants when he should be in school. He wouldn’t be in my old neighborhood acting the exact same way I did even without my influence.
The older guys look me up and down, assessing me, no doubt trying to figure out why a man in designer clothes, having climbed out of a damn nice truck, is walking up to this gas station like he owns the place. I know approaching Alex while he’s in front of peers is risky. I know it’ll make him stand taller, act differently than he would if he were alone, and I’m prepared for that.
The other guys grin at me, one rubbing his hands together like he has set his eyes on a chump that’s about to be rolled, but he cowers a little when my steps don’t falter. I show no sign of fear or anxiety as I step up to them.
But before I can open my mouth to greet the small group, Alex speaks up. “I’ll catch you guys later.”
When the other guys nod and walk away, I realize things are much worse than I thought. From the actions of the others, it’s clear my twelve-year-old son has more power in this situation than I gave him credit for. He isn’t the follower. He isn’t the one being manipulated. There’s a good chance he’s some sort of ringleader, and that idea kills me because I know what it takes to be in that position of power in an area where every person is fighting and clawing to make a name for themselves.
This place breeds criminals, giving those without a voice, those without the chance of a better future something to work towards. I hate this for him. I hate everything about this situation, and it all boils down to the hateful words I said that night in my truck. Not only did I break both my and Tinley’s hearts, but I also set into motion the situation that has the power to ruin the life of
