12. Julian
12
JULIAN
THE PAST: St. Dismas Home For Boys
E verything feels too big.
I clutch the straps of my too-big backpack as tightly as I can, my hands trembling.
The cab ride from the city felt like it lasted forever, the world outside growing gloomier the closer we got to St . Dismas ’ Home for Boys .
Now , standing at the tall, rusted gates, I feel swallowed whole by the sight of the towering gray building. It’s like something out of the scary stories Mama used to tell me, with its pointed rooftops and windows that look like empty, staring eyes.
My throat burns as I fight back tears. No llores, Julian . Don’t cry.
The woman who brought me here—a social worker whose name I’ve already forgotten—nudges me forward gently. “ Come on, sweetheart. They’re waiting for you.”
The gates groan as they open, and I step through, my sneakers scuffing against the cracked stone path. A man in a black sweater, his face wrinkled and pale, greets us at the door. He introduces himself as Father Calloway , the head of the orphanage. His voice is soft, like he’s trying not to scare me, but it doesn’t help. Nothing about this place feels safe.
The social worker leans toward him, lowering her voice to a whisper. I fixate my eyes on the floor, pretending not to notice, but her words still reach me.
“ This is Julian . He’s six, recently orphaned. His mother was killed just over a week ago. The horror, Father . He saw everything.”
I grip the straps of my backpack tighter, the plastic cutting into my palms.
“ He doesn’t speak much English ,” she continues. “ Just enough to get by, but he’s very quiet. Withdrawn . I don’t think he’s said more than a few words the entire time I’ve been with him.”
My cheeks feel hot. I understand every word she says. Even though English still feels like a puzzle I can barely piece together, I know enough.
Father Calloway nods. “ Poor boy,” he murmurs. Then , he turns to me, his expression kind. “ Welcome , Julian . You’re safe here.”
Inside , the hallways are dark. I can hear laughter echoing from somewhere deeper in the building, probably other boys who live here. I catch glimpses of a group huddled together in a corner, but they don’t notice me.
“ This will be your home for now,” Father Calloway says as he leads me to a small room at the end of the hall. “ We’ll make sure you’re looked after.”
The room is tiny, with plain white walls and a single bed pushed up against the corner. A blanket covers the mattress, and there’s a small dresser against the wall. It smells a little like soap. My suitcase, containing the few things I have left, sits at the foot of the bed.
“ Thank you, Father ,” the social worker says before she kneels to my level. “ You’re going to be okay here, Julian . You’ll make friends, and they’ll take good care of you.”
I don’t respond. I only nod.
Father Calloway pats my shoulder gently. “ We’ll let you settle in. You’re welcome to join us in the dining hall when you’re ready.”
He leaves, and the door clicks shut behind them.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my fingers brushing against the zipper of my backpack, and I pull it open just enough to see the photograph tucked inside—me and Mama at the park, her arm around my shoulders, both of us smiling.
A sob catches in my throat, and I press my hand over my mouth to keep it in.
* * *
That night, I can’t sleep.
The bed feels strange, the air too cold. The other boys’ laughter and whispers come through the walls. I curl into a ball, clutching the blanket around me.
Eventually , I drift off.
I see Mama again, walking on the sidewalk, under the yellow light. She’s wearing her favorite jacket, the one with the worn-out elbows. Her purse is hanging over her shoulder, her hands gripping the strap tightly as she walks home. The sound of her boots thumping against the pavement echoes in the air.
Then , they appear. The men. Shadows at first. They surround her, yelling words I don’t understand. She tries to run, but they grab her, one of them striking her across the face. She falls, her head hitting the ground with a sickening crack.
“ Mama !” I scream, but she can’t hear me. I try to run to her, but my feet won’t move. The scene replays over and over, her body crumpled on the pavement, blood pooling beneath her.
I wake up in a startle, tears streaming down my face. I want her. I want her to hold me and tell me it’s just a bad dream, but she’s gone.
I’m alone.
I pull the quilt tighter around me and bury my face in my knees.
I’m not sure how long I sit like that before exhaustion finally pulls me under again. But even in my sleep, the ache in my chest doesn’t go away. It remains a constant pain that reminds me of everything I’ve lost.
* * *
Days turn into weeks. Weeks turn into months.
Time passes in a way I can’t quite measure, each day blending into the next like the smudged pages of my notebook.
Over time, I’ve found a new normal at St . Dismas . I wake up to the same creaking floors and drafty halls. Eat meals in the crowded dining room where the other boys laugh and joke. Sit outside in the small, overgrown courtyard, where weeds grow through cracks in the pavement.
It’s not home, but it’s all I have.
I keep to myself mostly, talking only when necessary.
Now , I can speak English fluently—it wasn’t so hard once I really started listening. I don’t use it much because the more I use English , the more I feel like I’m losing something else.
Spanish is my last connection to Mama . The language sounds like her voice, soft and warm, like the way she used to call me mi corazón . I can’t let it go.
So , I start writing her letters in Spanish .
In my notebook, the one they gave me when I arrived, I write to her every night before bed. Sometimes , I only write a few lines. Other times, I fill the whole page. It makes me feel like she’s still there, like I can still talk to her.
I randomly open a page.
Dear Mama ,
I hope you’re okay. I miss you so much. Today , I had oatmeal for breakfast, and it made me think of how you used to make it with cinnamon and sugar. They don’t make it like that here, but I remember how you did. I always will.
I tried to draw you again today. I think I got your eyes right this time, but I’m not sure about your smile. It’s hard to remember everything, and I hate that I’m forgetting little things about you. I try not to, I promise.
Sometimes , I think about that night. About the bus stop. About how I should’ve stayed home like you always told me. Maybe if I had, you’d still be here. I know you’d tell me that’s not true, but I can’t stop thinking about it.
Lo siento, mama.
Voy a portarme bien aquí. Te seguiré escribiendo. Seguiré recordando.
Te quiero. Siempre te voy a querer.
Tu Julian
I fill the rest of the pages with random little sketches.
In the margins, I draw funny faces like the ones Mama used to doodle for me on scraps of paper when I was little. Sometimes , I draw things I see in the courtyard, like birds or stray cats. Sometimes , I draw her.
I don’t want to forget my mother’s face. The soft curve of her cheeks, her bright eyes, the way her hair always looked a little messy after work. Over the years, I’ve drawn her repeatedly.
It’s the only way I know to keep her close. Even if she isn’t here, even if she never would be again, I have the letters and the drawings.
And as long as I have those, I still have her.
The door bursts open without so much as a knock. I sigh, already knowing who it is.
“ Do you ever knock?” I groan, snapping my notebook shut and tucking it under my pillow.
Maxwell strides into the room like he owns the place, grinning from ear to ear. He’s tall for his fifteen years, lanky, with a mop of hair that always looks like he just rolled out of bed. His uniform shirt is untucked, one of the buttons missing, and there’s a smear of dirt on his cheek. He looks like trouble. He is trouble.
“ Why bother knocking when I know you’re here?” he says, plopping down on the foot of my bed like it’s his own.
I cross my arms, leaning back against the wall. “ Maybe because it’s my room?”
Maxwell shrugs, completely unfazed. That’s the thing about him: he doesn’t take a hint. I can’t tell if he’s genuinely clueless or just doesn’t care. Probably the latter. Either way, it doesn’t matter. He does whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and no amount of sighing or glaring on my part seems to change that.
“ Whatcha writing?” he asks, craning his neck toward my pillow like he’s trying to see what I’ve hidden.
“ Nothing .”
He raises an eyebrow, clearly not believing me, but thankfully, he doesn’t press. “ Well , nothing sure seems to keep you busy a lot. Don’t you ever get bored of being all... I don’t know, mysterious?”
“ Mysterious ?” I snort, shaking my head. “ I’m not mysterious, Maxwell . I just don’t talk to people who annoy me.”
“ Ouch .” He clutches his chest like I’ve just stabbed him. “ That’s cold, Juju . Really cold. Good thing I’m tough.”
I don’t bother responding. Instead , I grab my sketchbook off the nightstand and start flipping through the pages, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave. Of course, he doesn’t.
No matter how much I push him away, he sticks around. He’s one of the only people who has tried to be my friend since I got here, and even though I’ve rarely given him the time of day, he has never given up. It’s annoying, and, if I’m being honest, kind of impressive.
“ What do you want?” I ask finally, looking up from my sketchbook.
He grins, pleased to have my attention. “ We’re playing soccer in the courtyard. Thought you might wanna join.”
“ I don’t.”
“ Come on, don’t be such a hermit. You can’t stay cooped up here forever. It’s not healthy.”
I sigh again, pinching the bridge of my nose. Maxwell leans back on his hands, watching me with that stupid, persistent grin on his face.
“ Fine ,” I mutter, closing the sketchbook and sliding off the bed. “ Just for a little while.”
Maxwell whoops like he just won some grand victory. “ Knew you’d come around, man. Let’s go!”