I wait until I can't hear them to rustle around.

My bedroom is lit a soft yellow by the curtain-less window beside my untouched desk. It spares me the need to turn on the light and get the full-unadulterated view of my off-white walls, dirty tan carpet, creaky-old bed, and abandoned stuffed animals. Personality is not something this room has...unless the personality is meant to reflect that of the women in my living room.

I’ve thrown and donated what I no longer want, and what I no longer want is the memory of my childhood in this apartment complex. It’s a needless anchor dragging me knee-deep into the dirt that our building rests on. (Where’s my spade to dig me out?) The greatest step I’ll take by the end of the year is to move out, somewhere, anywhere, that’s not here. And no one but me knows that.

Right, let’s run it down. More pens and pencils. More clothes. Journals. Chargers. Safety razors. Toothpaste. Toothbrush. Pillows since I don’t have a backpack. Need a backpack. Need a backpack. Need a backpack.

While I’m reciting, I’m also shuffling through my desk, shoving utensils inside the brown paper bag Gina entrusted to me. My fingers slide over discarded assignments and dusty office supply. Little crumpled post-it notes of blue, pink, and yellow are scattered on top of the white desk, the last remnants of color in an otherwise blank canvas, on which the goal is to erase imagination rather than to add it. Some books that I’ve read are begging to be picked up for a cleaning, but I’ve decided to never touch another novel given to me by Linda’s children. I’m not a huge fan of fiction. Not a huge fan of reality either.

I haven’t touched my favorite book since I was in elementary school. The Grand Encyclopedia of Butterflies, it’s called. The butterfly book for short. As a child, one of the things I wanted to be so badly was a wildlife expert, specifically a Lepidopterist. Imagine, Mariposa the Butterfly Collector. Couldn’t make that shit up nowadays even in my dreams.

From memory, I can recite fifty species of common butterflies out of the seven hundred and fifty there currently are. It’s useless information, but I don’t forget, and when I least expect, I’ll cross paths with one species and murmur its local name

When I open the topmost drawer, the book is there covered in mossy gray dust. I can see the image of a large conifer printed on the hardcover. Dark branches harbor a massive roost of monarch butterflies, and the tree stands firm to protect them from the wind that carries away the weakest leaves. Younger me used to love drawing myself among them, adorned with two large monarch wings, holding onto a tree as the breezy cold tried to blow us all away.

My mom used to tell me that butterflies need each other when the weather gets harsher. She told me that people are the same way when life becomes a storm and that you can always count on family to keep you safe. Home is the tree anchoring you from the harshest winds and rains. Needless to say, I’d rather let go than remain anchored to this tree.

Wiping off the gray filth from the cover, I place the encyclopedia under my arms and continue searching through discarded supplies, grabbing anything I might need to survive an academic apocalypse. I spend a good twenty minutes searching for a bed sheet to wrap my clothes and my larger stuff in, hoping the size of my things doesn’t surpass its allocated space in the back of my van. But who am I kidding, I’m sleeping in clutter tonight.

I figure, after about five more minutes of tying sheet ends together to make a bag, it’s time to head out and face whatever inquiries the four horsemen will throw at me. 

But to my surprise, the hall is silent, and when I step out and close the door loudly...the hall remains that way.

Like I’m Santa Claus, I place the make-shift sack over my back with one hand and hold Gina’s paper bag in the other. The light to the kitchen is on, and I can see that the corner of the couch where Trinidad sat upon is now empty. 

I’m about to consider this a huge win when all of a sudden I hear her.

“You think it’s funny?” Her accent isn’t as thick as she’d have her friends believe. Trinidad puts her teacup down in our sink and fixes me with her most impatient gaze. “You show up here after weeks, and you don’t even have the decency to say hello.”

“Came by to get my stuff.”

“What stuff?! Eh?” Trinidad crosses her arms then jabs her chin in my direction, the silent equivalent of well? “No, no, Mari.” She says. “You’re not leaving with the things I bought you.”

My stuff. She knows it’s all my stuff and anything she bought me is in the trash or somewhere hidden away where nobody can see it. I don’t open my mouth to correct her though. It just gets worse.

“Look at you. You’re a damn mess. Dios Mio, Mari. Don’t you know how embarrassing it is to have you walk in front of my friends after God knows how long? And don’t think for one second I didn’t see that one of my bins went missing. Do I look like a restaurant? I don’t buy food just to give it away.”

I can’t hold the thought that slips off my bitter tongue. “Maybe if you had told Rosario to stop being a pig and stay out of my shit, I would — .”

“Cállate! Have some respect. Those women know real struggle, not like you, Mari, not like you think you do.”

Oh yeah, must be tough getting their asses out of our cozy chairs. If you're wondering, Rosario, Estela, and Linda are all women who crossed to get here, and I respect them for that. The problem is Trinidad. Half the stories she tells about their lives are used to justify her judgments of other people. Her judgments of me.

“I’m leaving.”

“You’re not leavin’. Ha, vaya! Who is gonna take you in?”

“I’m leaving,” I repeat. I take a step forward, but she blocks me, and we stand in front of each other, just staring.

“What about her?” Trini says quietly, tilting her head towards the phone. The red light is on. “You don’t bother to pick up her calls. I’m the one who has to talk to her and you think I’m gonna tell her you’re leaving? No, Mari.” Her voice gets louder, and she's shaking her finger in my face. Her dark eyes stare into my own. “The next time I catch you trying to take shit out of this house -”

“You’re gonna what...hit me. Go ahead. Been a long time.”

Her shoulders straighten, and she snaps away from me. “I don’t hit you.”

“Not anymore, but I know you’re itching to do it,” I say. 

"Don't say that."

“Trini, I’m leaving. You can tell her whatever lie you fucking want cause I know you ain’t telling her the truth.”

I hoist the two sacks in my possession and move, but Trinidad is anything but slow. Her fingernails clip the end of Gina’s bag and the contents go tumbling out. Paper, journals, and pens go scattering onto the floor between our feet. I swear I whirl to face her with enough anger to keep hell alive for twice an eternity.

But the anger fades when I see her pick up the box to one Gina’s pregnancy test. “Mariposa, que es esto?”

“It’s nothing. Not even mine.”

She flings the box at me. It hits my chest.

“Qué?! Cómo que no es nada? This isn’t nothing. Estas embarazada, Mari?”

Not a shred of leniency can be found on Trinidad’s face. For a moment, I wonder if this is what Gina Oleander will get from her family. If it is, it’ll suck for her no doubt.

“Out of all the stupid things you’ve done. I can’t believe this,” she says.

I tear the brown bag from her fingerprints without a seconds hesitation. “I’m not pregnant. Stop shitting yourself.”

“Who is he? Have you been working corners? Some gangster, some miserable vagabundo got you pregnant, didn't he?” Her face is getting red and puffy with every quick accusation, and the fact that she’s yelling louder the harder I stare her down lets me know that my face is not any better. Her hand lands over my arm, fingernails digging hard until I’m forced to pull away.

“I’m not pregnant!”

“Don’t lie to me! Vos me ves la cara de tonta!” She's managed to tear the bed sheet from my back. The brown paper bag and the butterfly book are all I have left.

I’m a small girl again, being accused of doing things I’d never done, from smoking to skipping to cheating to anything else. If I say one thing more, my voice will break and my eyes will betray me, and I'd be dead first if this woman thinks I’m going to shed a tear for anyone. 

“Leave me alone."

“Where are you going?”

I’m walking, shaking off the hand she uses to grab me once, twice, three times 'til she eventually gives up. My pace increases gradually...then I’m running through the alleys, getting as far away from my apartment as possible.

“Mari!”

Forget Gina’s pregnancy tests, I’ll give her the ten bucks back or take her to a freaking doctor myself. I should have just turned around the moment I heard Rosario. I’m so stupid. I’m so stupid.

I keep thinking these things to myself until I’ve reached the parking lot. I can hear my name being called distantly, but there’s no way I’m looking back.

Granny decides I’ve had enough unpleasantness for today and mercifully starts when I turn my key in the ignition. I’m gripping the steering wheel like I’m trying to choke it, allowing the powerful vibrations of the engine to drown the other movements in my chest. So many years, and it’s the same. Always the same way, same pattern. The pregnancy was a new one.

When I see Trini walk out of the small alleys that lead into the parking lot, I’ve already let my fury pass. It gets better. Is all I can tell you. After quite a while the anger becomes a dull ache at the back of your throat. You learn to swallow it down to the pit of your stomach.

As I’ve done since the moment I turned eighteen, I drive out to where Trinidad and her friends won’t find me, in some random neighborhood or near some random highway, park as close to a desolate location as I deem safe, and remain awake for as long as the sun does.

If it’s a choice between having my body and my wings battered by the wind and remaining anchored to a dying tree, my choice is to let go.