Page 5 of Hunter
I’m trying to run as fast as I can down this back alleyway, but my new backpack is making it difficult. This huge ass black bag is almost half my size, and it's making it hard for me to keep my balance.
I couldn’t believe that it was just lying on top of the trash behind one of the dorms today. I cleaned it off with a shit ton ofLysol wipes that I found in the library bathroom before stuffing all of my crap inside. It’s better than carrying around two bags all the time.
It’s in perfect fucking condition aside from a dislodged zipper on the outside pocket. Otherwise, this looks like some asshole used it a couple of times, was fucking careless, and broke it before throwing it away.Spoiled dickhead.
This school is full of them. I’ve never seen so many selfish, privileged, and ungrateful pieces of shit in one place before, and I went to a private high school on scholarship in the Upper East Side. And yes, it was just like that show, Gossip Girl.
They’re all the same, whether it’s King’s Preparatory High School or here at Havenwood University; they’re all privileged assholes who don’t give a shit about anyone. Each and every one of them has this extra-inflated opinion of themselves that I can’t fucking stand.
I don’t trust anyone, and I'm not that approachable on purpose. I had one person in my life back home in New York, and when it came down to it, I chose me over him. People are garbage, me included.Animals are better.Los animales son mejores.
I’ve met a handful of decent people since coming here. The social worker who runs the shelter does her fucking best to bend the rules for me. There are also a couple of librarians who look the other way and let me hide out in a private tutor room after the building closes so I can sleep in fucking peace. I’ve also got some people from the street who keep an eye out, and Evie. Her roommate, too. They’re fine.
I don’t give off a friendly sunshine vibe like Evie and Sloane do, though. Even with all the obvious baggage they’re both carrying, they’re both still sunny. I think that’s part of why I like them, honestly.
There’s also the tattoo guy. He stands outside his shop and says hello with a nod of the head or a chin lift. He’s got kind eyes and looks like one of those hipsters from Brooklyn that I used to see all the time in the city. He looks outta place here in Virginia. But then again, so do I.
Everyone else can get fucked. Especially all those dumbass athletes that I tutor.Especialmente ese pendejo Hunter Wilton.Especially that asshole Hunter Wilton.I fucking hate him.
I only applied to this prissy-ass school because my high school guidance counselor went here. She was the only person I trusted in my old life. I was in her office, and we did a virtual tour of Havenwood University on her computer. I liked that it was far away and that they gave me a full ride to go here.
The way I saw it, I had two shitty options: disappear or die. I could either run as far away as I could and try to survive out on my own, or stay in New York and end up a statistic.
Where I’m from, happily-ever-afters don’t exist. I didn’t have the privilege of “reaching for the stars” and “shining bright” like the posters in the guidance counselor’s office encouraged students to do. There’s never been anything shiny or star-like about me.
I was born into the LatinX and grew up in gang life. My mother was a dancer at one of their nasty strip clubs and got pregnant with me unexpectedly. She wasn’t sure which banger knocked her up and didn’t care enough to figure it out. She had me, and that was that.
I grew up in a project in X territory and was raised by a fewAbuelitas. They weren’t your typical loving Hispanic grandmothers, though. I was a job to them.Y una que odiaban. And one they hated.
The X ran it all. It didn’t matter if you owned a twenty-four-hour spot, a salon, a tire shop, or a fucking hot dog stand. Youpaid dues to the X, and your doors were always open to them. You didn’t say no.
They need to clean money; you run it. They need to stash product; you clear out a storage closet. They need cars chopped; you open up your garage. They made everyone guilty. No one was innocent.
In return, you got protection. You were a part of a network that they owned and operated. No one fucked with you from the outside. You were fair fucking game on the inside, though. As soon as you turned fifteen, you were theirs. They tattooed black and bold Xs on your body so that you and everyone else knew it, too.
For the longest time, my future wasn’t mine to dream about. They put a roof over my head, fed me, and put clothes on my back. I belonged to the X, and I had a debt to pay off.
And according to the OG’s, the leaders of the X, I owed them from the day I came home from the hospital. Knowing what I know now, I wish I had grown up in the fucking foster care system.I would’ve been better off.
They own you. You work for them, you do what’s expected, and above all else, you stay loyal to them.Yeah, fuck that. I broke every single fucking rule.
When you grow up like I did, you know what’s expected of you. Girls work the clubs, cook, clean, and are treated like shit. It’s fucking disgusting. Boys sell drugs, collect debts, and run the streets. They fight and defend the block. And then, we’re expected to open our mouths and legs for them.
The OG’s have a long fucking reach. It goes deep in New York. Towards the end, they got involved in some messed-up shit. They didn’t just sell pills and powder. They sold people, too.
If you show them that they can profit off of you, they’ll latch on and bleed you dry. I’ve seen them exploit the shit outta people. You’re good at science, and they need a nurse? Youbecome one for them. That’s your job now. You’re good with history and English? You’re now on track to be a lawyer for the X. Math and Engineering like me? Money and Tech.
School has always been easy for me. When I was younger, it was where I always wanted to be. It was an escape from my fucked up ‘home’ life. I got to leave for hours every day and sit in classrooms that explored the world outside of the war zone that I lived in.
My elementary and middle school state testing showed that I was smart.Demasiado inteligente. Too smart. My name was put on a list where top area high schools select a poor minority middle school student and give them a free ride. And to the OG’s, it was an opportunity.
They agreed for me to go and forced me to sell their shit, and these preppy kids fucking loved their drugs. It’s the only time that I was allowed to talk to my classmates. Otherwise, I kept my head down. I had nothing to say to them anyway.
I had an escort to and from school. Gabriel was two years older than me and asoldatofor the X. He was in charge of me. And according to theabuelitas, he was also my mother’s sister’s son. That made us cousins.Primos.
I met him on my first day of high school. We didn’t say a word to each other, but I knew he was my cousin. We had the same eyes. They were pitch black like mine. It’s the first time that I looked at another human being and thought that we could be family. Dark eyes and shitty circumstances weren’t the only family genes that we shared, though; I later found out that he was just as smart as I was.
Everyone played a part. Gabriel took me to school, I’d tell him what I needed, and he’d supply it. I’d sell it, and because we all had our hands dirty, we all kept our mouths shut.
