A single light bulb cast long shadows across the cramped storeroom. Boxes of inventory lurked in the darkness. A dead cockroach lay belly up in a dusty corner. 

“I dare you,” Marty hissed. Stringy long hair hung in his eyes. 

Seth Jenkins saw his father through the office window. He talked on the phone. The old man wouldn’t even notice.  

Helping at the convenience store owned by his parents had its advantages. Seth slid a cardboard box across the cement floor. Glass clinked. Marty tore into a box. The sound ripped through the silence, but didn’t alert Seth’s dad. 

The two friends peered over the edge. Light glinted off a half dozen bottles of whiskey. 

“Score.” Marty’s eyes shone from the excitement of the forbidden. He pumped a meaty arm in victory. He was bulking up for freshman football. 

Seth slid his fingers around the neck of a bottle. Dark amber liquid sloshed inside. He licked dry lips. 

A door opened. 

“Quick!” Marty unzipped his backpack. Seth stuffed the whiskey into the bag. 

“Seth, Marty?” Seth's father walked out of the office. “I need to run downtown.” He didn't notice the open box. Or the missing bottle. 

“Want us to finish stocking?” Seth asked. 

“Yeah. I'll pay you this afternoon.” He left through the back door. 

Marty let out a deep breath. “Dude, that was close.” 

Seth shrugged. “Pure adrenaline, Marty. That's just part of the rush.” 

The two slapped hands. Seth grinned. “Party at the river.” 

* * * 

A sound broke the silence. A mallard rose over the water. Brendan scanned the distance and saw his friends. He reeled in his fishing line. A small clump of worms lay forgotten in the sand. 

“B-man!” Seth called out. He was shirtless. Sweat beaded his tanned back. A gold chain glimmered in the sunlight. 

“Catch anything?” Marty slung a camouflaged backpack in the sand. 

“A crappie.” Brendan’s baseball cap cast a shadow across his gray eyes. His sleeveless shirt revealed a muscular outline. 

“Heads up.” Marty yanked off Brendan’s hat and tossed it to Seth. 

"Want this?" Seth took off running. 

“Give it back.” Brendan charged after his friends. Sand kicked out behind his heels like a truck spinning cookies. 

The three had been friends since elementary. Football and baseball cemented their friendship. 

Seth whooped like a wild man and rushed into the shallow river. Marty and Brendan splashed behind him. Marty lost his footing and fell into the mild current. Seth roared in laughter. Brendan grabbed his cap and jammed it on his head. Water streamed down his face. 

“Water fight!” Seth yelled. He lunged for Brendan. Marty sent a monsoon of water into the air. Soon it was every man for himself. 

Brendan kicked up water. His shorts gave him the advantage. Jeans weighted Seth and Marty. 

“Admit it. I'm the man!” Brendan raised his arms in victory. 

“Think fast.” Seth grabbed Brendan, and they hit water. Marty jumped into the dog pile. The three surfaced, spitting water and howling with laughter. They slowed to catch their breath. 

“Truce,” Marty called. 

“Wus.” Seth splashed him. 

Marty cursed. 

Brendan pulled off his wet shirt and tossed it on the bank. He laid on the warm sand and closed his eyes. 

“No time for sleep.” Marty shook water from his hair. A droplet rolled off one of his earrings. “Time to celebrate.” 

Seth grinned. “Bring it on, my man.” 

Marty grabbed his backpack and took out the bottle of whisky. Brendan frowned. Marty had gotten probation last month after taking a joyride in his brother's convertible. This couldn't be good. 

“Drink up, boys.” 

Seth took the bottle first. He untwisted the cap and took a long swig. 

“Save some for the rest of us.” Marty grabbed the bottle, then chugged the drink. He burped in appreciation. Seth howled. “Your turn.” He pushed the bottle toward Brendan. 

Brendan hesitated. His dad had been sober for two years. He didn't like to remember the years before that. Too many broken promises. 

“Come on, B-man.” Seth read his thoughts. “You won’t turn into a drunk like your old man.” 

Brendan took the bottle and pressed it to his lips. Sour liquid burned his throat and made him sputter. His friends roared. 

“It goes down easier the next time.” Marty grabbed the whiskey. 

Brendan forced a smile. He knew better. His dad nearly lost the battle. 

* * * 

Tito pulled on a hoodie despite the heat. Chills woke him up when his mamá left for the early shift at the plant. The laundry mat could wait. The twins were tired of cartoons. They wanted to go to the park. 

Francisco ran out of the trailer while Luciana held Tito’s hand. She stopped to look at a rock. Tito yawned. He wanted to sleep. But toddlers made that impossible. If only his older brother Paco was still around. 

“Hey, homie.” A voice made him turn. Joaquin emerged from the shadows. Baggy jeans rode low on his hips. A scar ran down his cheek. 

“Quépasa?” 

Joaquin slapped Tito on the back. “Babysitting again?” 

They crossed the street and passed a mother with a stroller. Francisco ran for the monkey bars. Luciana pulled Tito toward the swings. He helped her into a seat and gave her a push. 

“Higher,” she squealed. 

Joaquin sat on the next swing and eyed the action on the basketball court. “Junior’s back.” 

Tito’s jaw clenched at the news. Paco’s best friend got sent to juvie after their stunt. 

“That’s him.” Joaquin nodded. “With the long hair. He grew it out in detention.” 

Tito watched Junior make a half-court shot. “Homie can shoot.” Joaquin cursed in Spanish. “Want to join their game?” 

“Tito!” Francisco called from the monkey bars. “I’m stuck.” Tito had to climb to the top of the equipment to rescue his brother.  

“Come with me,” Joaquin said. “Junior misses Paco, too.” Hatred swelled inside Tito. “Later then.” Joaquin saw Tito’s eyes. “You hungry?”  

“Ice cream,” Luciana piped up. 

Tito frowned. “No, Luci. I don’t have money.” 

“No problema.” Joaquin patted his pocket. A smirk crossed his face. 

Luciana took off before Tito could argue. He chased after his sister and called out to his brother. “Vámonos, Francisco.” 

They headed across the park to the convenience store. Tito groaned. One twin headed right. The other bolted to the left. “Dulces! Candy!” 

Tito tackled Francisco first. He fisted a lollipop in his hand. Tito put the candy back on the shelf. An angry voice in the next aisle made him freeze. “Shoplifting’s a crime.”  

“I didn’t take nothing,” Joaquin argued. 

Tito looked around the corner to see the manager confront Joaquin. His name tag read “Max.” 

“Tito!” Luciana ran from behind Joaquin's jeans to her brother. The store man turned. “You in it, too?”  

“My brother…” Tito began. 

“Using little kids is low,” the man hissed. “No wonder our crime rate has soared. 

“Since when?" Joaquin spit. “Since all us Mexicans swam across the river?” 

Red flooded the manager’s face. “Consider this your warning. Next time the police will be involved.” 

Joaquin grabbed his crotch and muttered something in Spanish. 

“What’s that?” The manager narrowed his eyes. 

Joaquin spit on the floor and sauntered out the door.  

“Get out! Both of you,” the manager yelled. 

Tito felt sick. His mother had enough heartbreak. One son was dead. Tito couldn’t get locked up. 

Brendan took off his football helmet and felt the sweat roll down his face. He jogged across the field toward the locker room with the rest of the team. 

“Nice work today, Stewart.” Coach patted his shoulder. “That’s the kind of defense we need to see at the game tomorrow.” 

“Thanks.” Brendan kept a straight face even though he felt like doing a victory dance. He lifted weights all summer so he could play more this season. 

“Wait for me.” Marty caught up with Brendan before they reached the school. “Did you hear about Joaquin and Tito?” He raised his voice over the sound of cleats clicking on the pavement. 

Brendan opened the door. Tito was in Brendan’s computer class, but they never talked. 

Marty lowered his voice inside the building. “They caused some trouble at the Pump on Saturday.” He followed Brendan through the mass of bodies to their lockers. Seth’s family owned the convenience store. 

Brendan unlaced his cleats while Marty continued.  

“Max gave them a warning.” Marty leaned closer. “But get this. Max told Seth’s dad the store has a thief. He thought it was one of the employees stealing inventory. Until now.”

“Tito and Joaquin?” Brendan breathed. 

“That’s the beauty of it.” Marty smirked. “No one suspects the real criminals.” 

Brendan thought about the river celebration. His eyes widened. “You stole the whiskey?” 

Marty laughed. “A bottle here or there. Don’t look so surprised.” 

“But what about Tito and Joaquin?” 

Marty shrugged. He hated Mexicans ever since his dad left for a dark-haired Latina beauty. “Not my problem-o.” 

* * * 

Tito hated school. No one saw past the brown skin. Past Paco’s reputation. Tito wasn't a gangster. Even if everyone thought he was. Mexicans like Humberto and Gabriel avoided Tito. 

They were nice kids who worked hard and stayed out of trouble. Kids without reputations. 

Tito lowered his head as he entered the trailer court. A voice called out his name. Tito felt his blood chill. He looked up to see Junior holding a cloth in his hand. His low rider shone behind him. 

“Aren’t you going to welcome a brother home?” Junior grabbed Tito in a man hug, and they bumped fists. “You been working out, homie?” 

Tito’s lips tightened into a line. “A little.” He thought about his brother. Paco would’ve been 17. The same age as Junior. 

“Heard what happened at the Pump.” Junior clenched a fist. “Sounds like someone needs a lesson.” 

Tito jerked his head up. Junior's words came out like venom. 

"Don't worry, homie," Junior hissed. "Me and Joaquin will take care of that gringo manager." 

Tito gulped. Things were spinning out of control again. Just like with Paco. He hurried to Mrs. Rosario's trailer. She watched the twins when he went to school. 

Mrs. Rosario scowled at Tito. “Were you talking to that no-good gangster?” She went off in Spanish. 

Little kids looked at Tito like he was a monster. He grabbed his sister. 

“Your mamá doesn’t need another dead son,” Mrs. Rosario spit out. 

Tito bit his tongue. “Másrápido, Francisco!” He pushed his brother out the door and bolted for their trailer. 

Mrs. Rosario yelled something, but Tito pretended not to hear. He turned on cartoons and gave the twins a cookie. He needed to start supper. His mamá had one hour between her job at the plant and her second job cleaning. 

Tito fell onto his bed. He had a killer headache. Sometimes Tito dreamed of escape. He looked over at the empty spot where Paco slept. It had been a year since his death. Why didn't the pain feel any better? 

Tito would give anything to have his brother back. He reached under his mattress for an old photo he kept hidden. A picture of him and Paco. The last one of them together. 

Paco grinned in the photo. They'd been shooting hoops that day. Paco had grabbed Tito around the neck after he won. “Smile, loser.” He snapped the shot with his phone. 

Loser. Tito was Paco's brother. The druggie. Tito didn’t have a chance. Everyone thought he was a loser.  

Brendan almost ran into the wall when he saw the new girl. 

“Dude, there’s a wall.” 

Seth steered Brendan into homeroom as the tardy bell rang. Brendan gave a dumb grin. Her image burned itself onto his mind. Ebony eyes. Caramel skin. Long hair that fell halfway down her back. 

“Did you see that girl?” Brendan glanced back into the hall, but she was gone. 

Seth smirked. “Which one?”  

Brendan leaned back in his seat. He’d seen her before. Last summer. The present faded as a memory filled his mind. 

Crack. The baseball made contact with the bat and flew toward left field. Brendan hesitated, then raced toward the chipped plate. Shouts rang out. Players ran after the fly ball. Brendan put on speedand slid into second base. The ball landed in Seth's glove a moment later. 

"Who’s the man?”Brendan laughed between breaths. 

“Whatever.” Seth grunted. “That was just plain old luck.”  

Marty pitched the next ball. Brendan inched from base. Whack. The sound echoed through the air like the snap of a whip. 

Brendan kicked up dirt. The brown cloud didn't settle until he crossed home plate. 

Applause broke out. The lot next to the Pump often drew an audience of customers. Brendan waved to the fans. And that’s when he saw her. The girl with the long hair. She carried a gallon of milk across the parking lot toward the field. 

“Strike three,” Marty called out. “We’re up.” 

Brendan didn’t move. The girl must live close enough to walk. Her cheeks got red when she noticed him watching her. 

“You little dog.” Seth slapped Brendan on the back. “I didn't take you for a Mexican lover.” His voice was loud. Too loud. Her smile disappeared. Brendan wanted to deck Seth. 

“Wake up.” Someone thumped Brendan in the head. He scowled. “What’d you do that for?” 

“You’re drooling.” Seth laughed. “The bell rang.” 

"Really?" Brendan glanced around the empty classroom. 

"Must be some girl." 

Brendan ducked into the hall. He didn't have a chance, thanks to Seth. He hated the racism. Ever since the meat packing plant opened in the spring, Brendan heard the same talk around town. Bruner needs jobs. Just not the migrants. 

The size of Bruner mushroomed overnight. Three new trailer courts popped up like a carnival at the fair. Latinos composed the biggest group. Refugee groups made up the rest. Brendan wasn’t surprised by Seth. His dad hated kids translating at the registers. “Talk English if you’re going to take our jobs.” He complained, but still took the money. 

Business boomed at the Pump. Otherwise Seth and his family would have packed up and moved. Like most of their neighbors. White flight the newspaper called the trend. It was enough to make Brendan hate the color of his own skin. 

* * * 

Tito couldn’t sleep. He pushed off the covers and walked through the dark. Tito didn’t want to wake his mamá or the twins. He grabbed a mango aqua fresca from the refrigerator and sat outside. 

A full moon lit the night. The same moon hung in the sky when Papito took Tito and Paco fishing. Back home in Mexico. They would fish until the sun rose above the pond. Blood red rays dyed the water in a vibrant display. Papito would sing old songs in Spanish. His deep base added to the magic. 

Tito sighed. He missed his grandfather. His no-good papá took off after they moved to the States. Leaving his mamá alone to raise four kids. 

A noise made Tito turn. Two figures stumbled in the dark. 

"Silencio!"  

Someone turned on a light and called out an open window. Their drunken laughter got louder. A familiar voice cursed in Spanish. 

“Joaquin?” Tito narrowed his eyes to make out his friend’s face in the dark. 

“Tito.” Joaquin staggered toward the trailer. Alcohol stung Tito’s nostrils. “You should’ve been there, homie.”  

Junior flashed a rare smile. He passed the bottle to Tito. “Tequila?”  

Tito crossed his arms. Joaquin laughed. “You don’t want to join our little celebration?” 

“Our artwork will be all over the news tomorrow.” Junior’s voice was low and gravelly. He tipped the alcohol to his lips. 

Tito didn’t understand. 

“We sprayed graffiti all over the Pump,”Joaquin burst out. 

“What?” Tito’s eyes widened. 

“Just a little display of brown pride.” Junior and Joaquin slapped hands. 

“A warning.” Junior’s eyes narrowed. “No one messes with us.” 

Tito shivered as the two disappeared into the shadows. This couldn’t be good. 

Tito took off running. Bare feet pounded the cement. His heart raced in his chest. He had to see the Pump for himself. This had to be a cruel joke. 

Joaquin was a fool to hang out with Junior. The promise of power and pleasure was an illusion. A trap. Death waited to take Joaquin. Just like Paco. 

Tito gasped when he reached the Pump. Spray paint covered the store. “Brown Pride” stood out from the brick in bold bright letters. Paint splattered the glass windows. The two vandals had left nothing untouched. 

He walked toward the mess in shock. An empty spray can rolled when his foot made contact. He bent over to pick it up. Junior and Joaquin would leave no fingerprints. An engine roared. Tito froze. Headlights illuminated him. 

“Hey! You!” A voice called out. 

Tito dropped the can and took off. He ran across the vacant lot toward the line of trees. 

“Stop!” A car door shut. Tito didn’t turn around. He could hear the footfalls. Someone thudded after him. But Tito was faster. 

He dove into the trees and ducked to avoid an overhanging branch. His chest heaved. Twigs snapped underfoot. Rasping breaths filled his ears. A branch slashed Tito under his eye. He swiped away the blood and cursed at the pain. 

The line of trees stopped. Tito crouched down and scanned the street. The headlights had blinded him so he hadn't seen the make of the car. Had the runner given up? Was he driving the streets looking for Tito? 

The trailer park was two blocks away. Did Tito risk being seen? Did he dare run home? Tito weighed his options. Sleeping under the trees wasn’t ideal. But he feared the alternative. 

Laying low would buy him time. He could slip home in the early morning hours before his mom left for the plant. Tito cleared the debris beneath him and settled down to wait.