The kitchen is half of our living area, so Dad and I usually eat sitting on the couch. The window over our sink faces east, and in the morning rays of sunshine beam through the small rectangle. Whenever I can't sleep, I get up extra early, make a pot of coffee, and stare out of the window for long periods of time with a warm mug between my hands, like today.

We have a small balcony to the side of the apartment, but I remember being small and seeing my mother do the same at our old house, holding her cup of coffee and taking the morning light by the kitchen window. Two birds are perched on the high wires that pass above the duplex. Breathing out close to the glass, I carefully draw a third one over the fog.

"Buenos días."

One of the birds flies away.

"Buenos días." Yawning, I turn to look at my father as he walks over and places a good morning kiss on my cheek.

"It's Monday. Why you look so tired?" He smiles and moves over to the counter where a green mug is already waiting for him next to the pot of coffee.

Trying not to think of all the shenanigans I got up to last night, I take a sip from my own cup. "Mondays are reason enough to look tired."

My father has an uncanny ability to crave work like an addict, working forty to fifty hours a week on construction projects and finding little things he can do on the weekends to make himself busy. Thankfully, he sleeps like a rock, so I didn't have any problems last night when I snuck into the apartment around two in the morning.

"Morning classes, huh?" He's already dressed in work attire even though it's six thirty in the morning.

"Mm-hmm." I have class around nine, but considering I bike to school, I need to leave home about eight thirty. Sometimes it feels as though the school only has a rack for twenty bikes or so. Students compete for them, especially during morning classes, and this is not ideal when you're running late. If I can find a pole close to my building and not get a ticket, that is a blessing.

I once saw a bike chained to a bush outside the nursing building. Nursing kids aren't messing around with their education, I'll tell you that.

"At what time do you get home?" he asks.

"I should be back by five."

"You work today?"

"If I want to eat out, I do." I work at the library as an aide, shelving books, helping people find that text that is obviously right in front of their faces, signing people up for library cards.

"There's plenty of food at home." Dad points to the fridge.

"You won't go hungry for days."

"I haven't gone grocery shopping, actually."

"You won't go hungry for a day."

"For hours, probably. There was a little carne seca, so I made you some tacos for lunch." I walk to the microwave and extract the small bag I'd wrapped for him minutes before he entered the kitchen. (I did not microwave them, I left them there so they'd stay warm. I'm not that bad of a cook.) Mom used to wake up early every morning to make him lunch, so I do whenever I can so he won't have to eat fast food every day. "See? I'll make a good housewife."

Dad chuckles, taking the bag. "Thought you didn't want to be a housewife."

"I don't, I'll make my husband do half of the work like it's meant to be. But I know abuelita asks you about how I cook." My grandma has not seen me since I was a baby, and we seldom talk. But from what I know, she understands the world is different these days, though she still thinks I should cook and clean for my dad since Mom is gone.

Dad places a hand on my head and messes my hair up. I move away, playfully swatting his hand as he finishes his coffee.

"Gotta go or else the boss gets angry."

Dad's broken English is something he hasn't fixed throughout the years; in fact, it's something that bothers his boss because it keeps him from moving up in the company, but I doubt he ever gets angry at my father. He's a hard worker. Dad used to be very fair skinned when he was younger, but after years of working under the cruel California sun his skin darkened, nearly matching my own skin color, though I got mine from my mother's side of the family.

"Okay, be careful."

After Dad leaves I consider going back to sleep for thirty minutes or so, but I'd probably snooze my alarm five times before actually getting up again, and then be really late. Instead, I hop in the shower, cursing when the cold water hits my skin, and wash my body as fast as humanly possible. Once that's done, I brush my teeth, hop into some jeans, struggle to get the button to close, put on a sports bra—because a girl can't deal with underwire today—and find a random shirt from the pile I washed last week and haven't put away yet.

I am halfway on my way to the front door when a key aspect of my life makes me stop in my tracks.

"Michi? Michi?" I put my backpack down and wait for her to meow back at me.

As I check her water and food bowls to make sure they're full, she comes, purring, between my legs. Assuring myself she won't die without me here, I put on my backpack once more, grab the key for my bike lock, and head out the door.

Westray is a fairly small town; people say that it'd be even smaller if not for the opening of the community college in the '80s. The city is located an hour and twenty minutes northwest of Chico and really close to the mountains, which look blue in the distance. A lot of people who have lived here all their lives know each other, especially in smaller neighborhoods like the one I grew up in, but the college brings in more people from the areas around the town. The downside to Westray is that it is a hilly ho, and biking up and down those rises does become a chore.

The sound of screeching tires followed by a honk nearly throws me off my bike. My heart jumps to my throat as I look up at the shining pedestrian crossing sign and then back at the gray sedan that nearly ran me over seconds ago.

"I have the right of way, asshole." It's a mumble, not the shout I want to give the driver, but there's no time to throw it down a couple of blocks away from school.

I continue pedaling to the other side of the intersection before someone else tries to kill me, my mind reeling back to the last time a car did not miss.

Considering I'm earlier than usual, I find a decent spot for my bike. We got Starbucks vending machines last fall, so the students always hog those, but the Social and Behavioral Sciences Building—the SBS—also has a small coffee shop owned by the college. I get a cup before class, making it my second one of the day. My record is twelve in under twenty-four hours.

"Caffeine already? You're going to get the jitters." Diane hits my shoulder with hers as soon as I'm out of the coffee shop, the weight of her backpack nearly knocking me off my feet.

"Dude, this is my second cup of the morning."

"You're an addict." She recently changed her wig style from wavy hair to long braids that nearly reach her lower back, and they look gorgeous as she pushes them off her shoulder as we walk to class.

"I'm a normal student. You, on the other hand, are superhuman."

She pushes a braid behind her ear. "I already know that."

Diane and I met last semester, but we're already on cursing terms, which means we're pretty close friends in my book. We had three core courses together and spent more nights than we can remember going over materials and cramming study guides, including crying over exams that we completely failed.

"I feel so dead, I don't want to go to class," I say.

"Don't do it, skip."

"The semester just started, woman. I don't want to fail yet."

She laughs as we enter our American Heritage 102 class. "Oh please, I know you're only coming to class because of . . ."

There is no need for her to signal for me to know she's talking about the guy sitting in the last seat of the second row. I made a comment about him being good looking once and so she teases me about him every now and then. In reality, though, I like the class—the material is rich and the professor is funny, which usually keeps me from falling asleep.

"I'm not the one who stayed up messaging someone all night."

We sit in adjacent desks, waiting for the class to start, as the room slowly fills with more classmates.

"Excuse me? I go to sleep at a decent time. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Diane, you messaged me at two in the morning asking whether or not to send her a good night text."

Diane began talking to Natalie two weeks ago and it looked like they were really hitting it off. Diane, however, is the kind of person who falls really easily, if the dopey grin on her face is any sign of that.

"She's so fine, I can't help it."

"Then tell her."

With a huff, she smacks my hand with her pencil.

"Ow!"

"You didn't tell me how it went last night."

If she thinks I didn't catch the change of topic she's really underestimating my powers of intuition. She hits my hand again.

"Ow, calm down." Taking into consideration the bruises I discovered on my torso this morning, I can now start a grunge blog on Tumblr. My ankle was also possibly sprained and pedaling was a bit of a struggle, almost car accident aside. "I was very nearly murdered last night, if that serves as a summary."

"What?" Diane says.

"Don't look at me like that, it's freaking me out. Murdered might be a bit of a stretch, but I did fall out of a tree."

"I can't say I'm surprised. You broke into someone's house—"

"Who broke into someone's house?" asks the guy who sits in front of me, his eyes shining with interest.

"My uncle." It's a quick save, and Diane ignores my dirty look by pretending to be scrolling on her phone. "Someone broke into his house last night."

"Wow, that sucks, man."

"I know."

The professor enters the room, and my chest feels lighter as she places her bag on top of the desk at the front of the classroom.

"I keep telling him to move."

"Where does he live?"

Fuck.

"Minnesota."

It's clear in his eyes that he's ready to shoot another question.

"Good morning, class," says Dr. Olivarez.

My interrogator turns away from me and I turn my attention

back to Diane, who gives me an apologetic look. If I end up going to jail it will be her fault.

◾

I clock in around eleven. The second floor of the library is bursting with so many people that the teeny space of the sweatshop we call the back room is like a little piece of heaven to me. Here we have all the damaged books and the ones that need to be shelved; in other words, my job. It's the wet dream of an English major, being surrounded by books all of the time.

Last November I joined the library staff more out of need than want. Dad was struggling with paying our bills, and I felt like I wasn't giving enough to my family, so I decided to try to do more. A lot of places turned me down for not having previous experience or a reliable source of transportation, so I looked for things within the school that would allow me to study and not have to worry about not making it to work on time. My English 101 professor, Dr. Mendoza, overheard me and Diane after class one day and mentioned one of her master's students worked at the library, and that they had some openings.

At twelve dollars an hour, twenty-five hours a week, it's about enough money to help out with groceries and a couple of utility bills. Furthermore, Dad was able to take whatever he was saving in money and send it to Mom.

Pushing the cart marked Sol out of its rack, I blow a kiss to Matilda, whose shift just ended, and who replies by cupping her hands on her face.

"Have fun!" she calls.

"You know I will."

Students flock to the library the first two weeks of school looking for books and materials they need that will surely break the bank. The campus bookstore is on the first floor, so the rest of the building being busy really cannot be avoided. The flux of people in and out of the building is stressful enough the first week, but the second one drags out even more. It'd be nice if it was only the bookstore that was busy, but a lot of people also go looking for books on the other floors, so the peaceful halls of the library become akin to a mosh pit.

Now that it's the beginning of the third week of the semester things should simmer down a bit more, but from the number of students still looking around and trying to find free cubicles, I have a bad feeling that this week will still be a bit hectic.

I place a large tome of the DSM-IV back on its shelf.

"Sol, can you help Karim at circulation?" Miranda asks as I'm returning the cart to the back room.

"Sure."

The circulation station is literally a desk in the shape of a circle in the middle of the library, where students can get information and library cards. Usually we don't have many students come to us, and I spend my time spinning around in my chair while Karim pretends to look busy.

Karim is talking with some students when I push open the small door that leads to the inner circle of the desk. I grab my chair and tell the next set of students that I can help them, settling into the calm drag the day has fallen into.

Fifteen minutes later I see him.

To be honest, I don't recognize him right off the bat. What I remember from last night is his dark-brown skin, short curly hair, and, more than anything, his voice.

Lifting one accusatory finger at me, he shouts, "You!"

That's when I scream. Karim jumps in his seat, turning fully to look at me, but I know my job well enough to know what I've done is verboten, the golden code of the building we're all currently in broken.

Rule number one of the library: no screaming.

Rule number two of the library: no running.

Rule number three of the library: no losing your shit.

Okay, I made the last one up, but case in point: I'm so getting fired.

"Sol, are you all right?" Karim eyes me curiously when I stand up and push my chair to the side.

"I forgot something in my backpack, I must go." I sprint out of the circular desk, nearly falling over the door.

"Wait, come back!" says the guy from last night.

David, who was by the photocopier, hushes him and I pick up my pace, bookshelves and students becoming blurs until my destination is within hands' reach. My entrance is rewarded by Frank and Olga stopping their conversation, but I wave them off as the door closes behind me with a quiet click.

"I'm fine, ignore me." This is said while I find a good shelf on which to rest my back and raise my hands to cover my burning face—something that to anyone listening to me would not look fine, but I appreciate the fact they go back to what they were doing before.

The door opens and I stop myself from saying, "Chingada madre" out loud. It's not language you want to spew out in front of your supervisor, who is the person that walks in.

Miranda is a five foot, thirty-seven-year-old woman who has two cockatoos and five lizards. She told me the names of all of her pets when she was passing me books or hanging out with me on our lunch break, usually accompanied by laughter and photos of said pets. She's not laughing now.

"Sol, what happened?"

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have screamed. I saw someone and he brought back bad memories."

"The young man outside?"

"We didn't exactly meet under the best circumstances. It won't happen again, I promise."

Nothing really happens with me in general. I'm good at keeping a low profile when it comes to work and classes, hell, even in high school I wasn't a popular or unpopular kid in school, I was just Soledad.

"Make sure it doesn't happen again," Miranda says. "You freaked some people out, myself included."

I can feel my face becoming hot and my stomach twisting. This is possibly the most publicly embarrassing thing that has happened ever since I fell during recess in middle school. Like straight-up face-planted the ground. You never get over something like that, not with the cute guy from fourth period watching.

"Don't worry, it won't."

"Okay, but that was pretty funny."

"You're laughing at me?"

"A little."

I try to laugh it off, too, but I can't get the image of him out of my head.

"Can you help Karim? You left in the middle of your shift." Miranda holds the door open for me. "By the way, if you have any trouble with the guy from before, tell me. We'll get security to boot him out."

It'd feel wrong to ask that of her, in every possible way. I should be the one getting in trouble and not him.

When I walk outside, a few students look my way, hushed laughter audible from behind their hands, but I ignore them as I make my way back to the inner circle of the circulation desk. Karim is finishing up with someone as I sit. The guy from before is nowhere to be seen.

"What happened?" Karim asks, rolling around to grab some papers from the printer.

"I didn't get fired," I say.

"I mean with the guy. That was some Cinderella moment right there." He gives a quick scan around the library, then takes out his phone and passes it to me. "Someone put you guys in the school's story."

My blood runs cold. I quickly open up his app and move past the camera option and into the stories he's following. Sure enough, I find the video. It starts right after the guy points his finger at me and says, "You" way too loudly. Then I'm screaming and running away. The girl taking the video laughs and mutters, "Oh my God, what?" as she follows me with her phone. The short video finishes before I enter the back room, though this doesn't matter because the following video is also of me and the guy, from a different angle. No wonder everyone was staring at me.

"What if you become a meme?" Karim takes his phone back.

Internet fame, the most sought out and yet most despised thing a young person these days really cares about. There is no way that little video will ever compete with the true overlords of the internet, cat videos, but it's an interesting thing to consider nonetheless.

"If I become a meme I'll get rich, and I won't be sharing any of my money with you."

"Salty."

I throw the nearest paper clip at him, and fake a smile as a student approaches the desk.

◾

I'm stepping out of the elevator when I remember I have to go grocery shopping. It's not really a hassle, considering the nearest supermarket is two blocks away from the north side of the college. The problem is getting all I need into the basket on my bike.

I don't bike to be eco-friendly. Dad and I don't have enough money to get another car so I'm stuck with biking; at least it keeps my legs looking hot. I can't wait for summer so I can wear shorts and dresses.

Waving a quick good-bye to Linn at the main desk of the bookstore, I push past the glass doors of the library and welcome the cool January air as it hits my cheeks. The sun peeks through the trees planted outside the library, which offer enough shade for it to feel like it's colder than fifty degrees.

"Hey."