"Of course. I'm taking full responsibility."
There is a beat. Then—
"You fucking bitch."
Before any of them recognize what's happening, Ryan lunges at Ms. Charlise.
Karen screams. Peter and Felipe both cry out, but by the time Peter rushes forward, Ryan has Ms. Charlise on the ground, his legs straddling her hips. Her arms fly up, trying to protect her face as Ryan rains down one punch, then two.
Peter shoves past Karen, who is screaming for Ryan to stop and grabs Ryan by the arm as he raises it for another blow, but he only manages to slow him down; Ryan flings Peter away as though he's made of straw and Peter falls back, his head jarring against the metal bed frame hard enough that his vision whites out for a second, his glasses falling off his nose. By the time his sight comes winking back Felipe has wrapped himself around Ryan's neck, but he has as much success as Peter did: Ryan just shoves him aside, sending him sprawling beside the locked fridge.
Ryan cocks his fist back again and Ms. Charlise, wild-eyed, throws her hands over her face in a last pitiful attempt at self-defense.
But instead of the sound of a clenched fist on flesh, there is a crackle of electricity, followed by a choked-off scream as Ryan goes rigid and falls sideways off of his target.
Everyone looks up.
Mr. Leonard is standing over all of them, a taser clutched in one hand, a nearly-spent cigarette still clenched between his teeth.
Outside, the wailing sirens reach a crescendo. There is a sound of tires on gravel once more.
The police are here.
The police question everyone. But in the end they only take Ryan, though one officer stays behind to escort Karen off the premises.
It's okay, she mouths at Peter and Felipe as they watch her go. And then she smiles.
Peter tries to return it, but isn't sure he pulls it off. Beside him, Felipe is stone-faced, even though tears pour continuously down his cheeks as the door slams over her.
In the dark, Peter watches Arnold's back until it stops quaking with silent tears and his breathing evens into the rhythm of sleep. It's well past midnight when this happens, so Peter assumes Felipe is asleep as well until his bunkmate drops quietly onto the ground beside him.
Felipe sits at the end of Peter's bunk.
Peter sits up. Felipe's face is swollen from crying, but there are no longer tears coming from his eyes, which regard Peter in the pale moonlight with a hardness Peter can't interpret. It's not the dislike Felipe has been radiating for the past two days, but it's nowhere near the companionability they used to share.
When the silence has dragged beyond what Peter can stand, he says, "Felipe, I—"
"I ever tell you why I'm here, Pedro?"
Felipe's voice is soft—too low to wake Arnold—but Peter still closes his mouth immediately. It's rhetorical, this question: Felipe knows he's never told. But Peter still shakes his head.
The moonlight turns Felipe's eyes into shining pools of tepid white as he regards Peter.
"My mom," he says, "is a really good mom. When we were little, you know, she used to work three jobs. She could've worked two and we woulda been okay, you know, paying the rent and all that—but she took that third job because she wanted us to have more than just a roof. She worked all the time, yeah, but whenever she wasn't working she was hanging out with us—me and my little sister—cooking for us, taking us to the movies, helping with homework. Just doing mom shit."
"Felipe—"
"I'm telling you," says Felipe, "because I want you to know that—that my mom is a good mom. She is. Just… not when Uncle José is around.
"José isn't my real uncle. That's just what he made us call him after he started dating my mom. Even when I was just some twelve-year-old little kid I knew this guy was an asshole. He was always making my mom feel bad about herself and shit, like yelling at her for the dumbest stuff. Like, she would load the dishwasher a way he didn't like and he'd chew her out for it. Just fuckin' scream at her. Who gives a that much of a shit about a dishwasher, you know?"
Felipe pauses. His eyes flicker away just a bit, so he's looking into the distance rather than at Peter's face, and the moonlight drains out of them.
"But my mom, she was lonely. She was raising two kids by herself, and when José wasn't screaming at her he'd bring her presents, make her feel special. So she kept him around. And José, he was a smart guy—he knew my mom would eventually catch wise, realize she could do better. So besides the gifts and stuff, he also got her into some bad shit. You know, drugs. Stuff you try once and then can't say no to, 'cuz you need it even while it's killing you. So then my mom had two drugs: she had José and she had smack."
"Felipe, I'm so—"
"Simmer down, white boy. You got shit of your own, and I'm not looking for pity."
Peter sits back. Felipe twists the sheets between his hands.
"I told you I got a sister, right?"
Peter nods.
"Mariña. She's eight now, but back when José was first coming around she was only six. But like a really smart fuckin' six year old. Smart as you are, Pedro, doing math and reading and all that even though she was only in kindergarten. But when my mom started—when she stopped being such a good mom, Mariña took it really hard. She stopped sleeping good, started sucking her thumb again even though she hadn't done that since she was two… and she started wetting the bed."
He glares at Peter, as though he expects him to say something cruel. But Peter just stares at him until he continues.