"At first it wasn't a big deal. I'd just change her sheets, right? But after a few times of that happening we ran out of clean ones. At that point my mom had stopped doing laundry, and José sure as shit wasn't going to help. So we had to keep these piss-stained sheets, 'cuz it was too cold to just sleep without them, and I couldn't wash them by hand because our water kept getting turned off.
"This goes on for a little while. And one day Mariña, she comes home crying. She tells me the other kids are making fun of her at school, calling her 'piss-head' and shit like that—because of the smell. She says she doesn't want to go back.
"Now, I put up with a lot of shit, Pedro, but I wasn't gonna let a bunch of little punks make my smart-ass sister hate school. I wasn't gonna let them ruin that for her. So first I try to talk to my mom and José, but they're both passed out—whatever. So I go into José's wallet. He doesn't got much, but he's got a few bucks, so I take them and I put them in my pocket and I grab my sister's fuckin' pee-stained princess sheets and I say, 'Mariña, stay here. I'll be right back.' And I go to the laundromat.
"At first it's all fine. They got a change machine, so I get a bunch of quarters. But as I'm dropping 'em into the slot I realize: I don't got any detergent. So I go to the front desk. They don't got any, they say, but I can try the convenience store across the street. I go over there, but the fuckin' detergent is ten bucks, and I only got about three in quarters."
Peter is starting to feel sick, and not just because Ms. Charlise sent them to bed without dinner. He holds his breath, forcing himself to keep looking at Felipe as Felipe twists the sheets in his hands harder, almost tearing.
"I stuffed it under my jacket, Pedro. It was so obvious, man, I can't believe they let me get as far as I did. But what do I know about stealing shit? I just wanted to wash some fuckin' princess sheets."
Now Felipe is crying again. It doesn't enter his voice, but fat tears drip down his nose, staining Peter's bedspread.
"State gave me a lawyer. She thought I'd get off easy, because it was my first offense and I was pretty young, but the judge—this old white dude—he took one look at me and said, 'You mark my word, son, you'll be back here in two weeks if I don't set you straight right now.' And he gave me three months." He looks up. "You ever been to juvie, Pedro?"
Peter shakes his head again.
"Avoid it, if you can."
Felipe falls silent, stops crying. He stays silent for so long Peter thinks he's done, but just as he's about to ask, Felipe starts up again.
"When I got home," he says, "Mariña was gone. I guess my abuela figured out what was going on, came to get her while I was locked up. But she didn't have room for both of us, so I was stuck. It was bad enough when I had my sister, but when she was gone it was" —he swallows— "it was real bad. My mom and José had both gotten worse, and all they did was fight and take smack and pass out and then fight some more. I tried to stay away during the day, but I needed somewhere to sleep at night. And that's when they would really go at it."
Felipe takes a deep, steadying breath, as though he has to steel himself for this next part more than what preceded, though Peter can't imagine that what comes next can possibly be more horrible than what's already been said.
"One night I came home and they were sleeping on the couch—unconscious. But this time, they'd left their stash on the coffee table. And I—I don't know what I was thinking. I guess I thought if my mom could get off the drugs she'd go back to being the mom she used to be, or maybe that I could get José to leave if I pissed him off enough... so I took it, and I left.
"I didn't have a plan, Pedro. I thought maybe I'd go to the river and throw it in, I don't know—I guess I really wasn't thinking at all, because what it came down to was me, this real hispanic-lookin' kid with my hood pulled up, walking alone at night with a bag full of heroin. The cop who arrested me laughed right in my face when I told him it wasn't mine. And when I went to court the second time… it was the same judge. The same judge, and he just looks at me and he says, 'How come you people never prove me wrong, huh?'"
Peter is crying now. He knows he shouldn't be. It's not his place, and he wipes his face furiously with the back of his sleeve when Felipe frowns at him.
"On Friday," he says, "you said 'things always get worse when you stand up for yourself.'"
"Felipe, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean you deserved any of this, I only thought—"
"Nah, Pedro. You got me wrong. I'm not trying to say you jinxed us or whatever. And I'm not saying you're wrong that things get shittier the harder you try. I'm saying things are shit no matter what you do. You don't get good things for acting good, and bad shit doesn't happen because you made the world angry. Bad shit just happens, and you can't help it, and I can't help it. That's just the way things are. But Pedro?"
"...yeah?"