The stairwell door to the roof had a busted lock, just a bent piece of metal that pretended to keep people out. Alex had discovered it two weeks after the cafeteria blow-up, when the hallways felt like a fishbowl and every whisper scraped his skin raw.The only audience was a couple of pigeons and the rusted satellite dish nobody had bothered to take down.
He came at lunch now, every day. Skipped the slop line, climbed the three flights, pushed through the door, and let the city noise drop away. From the edge you could see the whole west side: the rail yard where the trains crawled like orange caterpillars, the overpass where the semi trucks growled, the flat roofs of the houses that all looked the same from up high. And farther out, the mesa where Dad used to take him to shoot bottle rockets on the Fourth of July.
Today the sky was the color of a dirty nickel. Alex sat on the ledge, legs dangling, hoodie zipped to his chin. He had a bruised apple in his pocket he'd grabbed from the free-fruit basket in the office,Mrs. Garcia always left it for the kids whose lunch accounts were negative. He rolled it between his palms, not hungry, just needing something to do with his hands.
Mom had worked another double. She had come in at 4:12 a.m. he knew because he had been awake, staring at the ceiling fan that clicked every third rotation. She had stood in his doorway for a long minute, apron still on, smelling like fryer grease and bleach. Then she would whispered, *"Go back to sleep, mijo,"* like he was six instead of fourteen. He would pretend to, but the second her bedroom door shut he was up, pulling on sweats, heading to the garage to hit the bag until the chain squeaked and his knuckles split.
The electric bill was taped to the fridge now, red FINAL NOTICE stamp bleeding through the envelope. Mom had tried to hide it under the junk mail, but he'd seen. Rent was late too. He heard her on the phone with the landlord, voice low, promising *"next Friday, I swear.**
Alex bit into the apple. It was mealy, sour. He spat the chunk over the edge and watched it disappear.
He could quit. Easy. Drop out, pick up night shifts at the rail yard like he heard the older guys from boxing club bragging about. Forty bucks a night unloading boxes. Ten nights a month was four hundred. Enough to keep the lights on, maybe cover rent if Mom pulled one shift instead of two. She could sleep. He could train mornings with Coach Ramirez, afternoons at the gym, nights stacking crates. He would be tired, sure, but he had been tired since the hospital.
The pigeons cooed. One waddled close, eyeing the apple core. Alex flicked it away.
Down below, the lunch bell rang, two-tone, the same since he was in third grade. Kids would be spilling out of the cafeteria, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking. Somebody was probably live-tweeting the fight that hadn't happened between him and the football table. He didn't care anymore. Let them talk.
He leaned back against the concrete ledge, closed his eyes. The wind tugged at his hood. He pictured Dad in the garage, wrapping his hands, humming old Vicente Fernández songs off-key. *"Volver, volver…"* Dad always sang the sad ones. Said they kept him honest.
Footsteps on gravel.
Alex's eyes snapped open. The door creaked. He tensed, ready to bolt teachers weren't supposed to come up here, but Mr. Delgado had a sixth sense for rule-breakers.
It wasn't a teacher.
A girl stepped out, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair in two thick braids that swung when she walked. She wore a faded denim jacket with pins all over it bands he didn't know, a tiny enamel cactus, one that said *READ MORE BANNED BOOKS*. She stopped when she saw him, like she hadn't expected company.
Alex sat up straighter. "This roof's off-limits."
She raised an eyebrow. "So is sneaking out of algebra, but here we are."
Her voice had a maybe Texas, maybe farther south. She shut the door behind her, leaned against it.
"You're Alex Ramirez."
He bristled. "Yeah. And?"
"And nothing." She shrugged. "Just know your name. Everybody does."
Here it came. The pity. The *I saw the fight on YouTube* speech. He stood, brushing grit off his jeans.
"If you're here to laugh about my dad—"
"I'm not." She said it quick, sharply. Then softer: "I'm really not."
Alex studied her. She had freckles across her nose, a tiny scar on her chin. Her eyes were dark, steady. Not laughing. Not crying either.
He sat back down, slower this time.
"Then what do you want?"
She crossed the roof, dropped her backpack near the satellite dish, and sat cross-legged a respectful five feet away.
"Wanted air. Same as you, probably."
She pulled a sandwich bag from her pocket peanut butter, crusts cut off, the kind of thing a mom packs. She offered half.
"Hungry?"
He shook his head.
"Suit yourself." She took a bite, chewed, swallowed.
"I'm Layla, by the way. Layla Morales. Just transferred in. My dad's TDY at Kirtland, so we move every two years like clockwork. This is stop number six."
Alex grunted. Military brat. Explained the accent,flat vowels, a little drawl.
Layla kept talking, like silence was a personal offense.
"First week, everybody asked if I was related to you. Like Ramirez is rare or something. I said no, but they still stared. Figured I would see what the fuss was about."
"Fuss is overrated," Alex muttered.
"Yeah, I'm getting that." She finished the sandwich, licked peanut butter off her thumb.
"You come up here a lot?"
"Most days." Alex replied
"Cool." She leaned back on her hands, tilted her face to the sky. "The wind is nice. Smells like pine and bus exhaust. Classic."
Alex almost smiled. Almost.
They sat like that for a while,wind, pigeons, the distant rumble of a lowrider on Central. He waited for her to ask about the fight, the funeral, the spit. She didn't.
Instead she said, "You ever think the sky looks fake up here? Like somebody painted it with a roller and forgot the clouds?"
He glanced up. "Sometimes."
"My mom says that's the altitude. Thins the air, makes everything sharper. Like the world's in high-def."
Alex picked at a scab on his knuckle. "Your mom is a poet?"
"Air traffic controller. Same thing, I guess." She laughed, soft.
"She works nights. Tower's quiet after ten. Says the stars look close enough to touch."
Alex thought of Mom asleep on the couch, apron still tied.
"My mom works nights too. Diner off Fourth. Smells like bacon twenty-four seven."
Layla nodded. "My dad's gone three weeks out of four. When he's home he grills steaks and tells the same stories about Kuwait. Mom says it's his love language. I say it's PTSD and A.1. sauce."
Alex snorted. Actually snorted. The sound surprised him.
Layla grinned. "There it is."
"There is what?"
"The human under the hoodie."
He rolled his eyes, but the knot in his chest loosened a fraction.
Layla pulled a pack of gum from her jacket Big Red, the kind that burns your tongue. Offered him a piece. He took it.
They chewed in silence. Cinnamon filled the air.
"You box?" she asked suddenly.
He blinked. "Yeah. How did you—"
"Hands." She nodded at his knuckles,scabbed, swollen, tape residue still in the creases.
"My cousin in El Paso fights Golden Gloves. Same look. Like you tried to punch a brick wall and the wall won."
Alex flexed his fingers. "Something like that."
"You any good?"
He shrugged. "Getting there."
She studied him. "Coach Ramirez?"
"Yeah."
"Heard he's old school. Makes you wrap with your teeth if you forget tape."
Alex huffed a laugh. "He made me run laps for breathing loud once."
"Sounds about right." She popped her gum.
"You gonna go pro?"
The question hung there, heavier than the wind. Alex looked out.
"Maybe. Someday."
Layla didn't push. Just nodded, like she filed it away.
The bell rang again,end of lunch. Down below, kids poured out of the building like ants. Layla stood, brushed off her jeans.
"Gotta get to Spanish. Señora Ortiz locks the door at the bell and makes you sing *La Bamba* in the hallway if you're late."
Alex stood too. "I've got PE. Coach makes us run the mile if we're late. Rain or shine."
They walked to the door together. She held it open. "See you tomorrow, Ramirez?"
He hesitated. "Maybe."
She smiled, small. "I will bring better sandwiches."
He didn't see her the next day. Or the day after. She wasn't in any of his classes, and the roof stayed empty except for him and the pigeons. He told himself he didn't care. Told himself the peanut butter had been too sweet anyway.
But on Friday the door creaked at 12:17, right after the lunch rush. Layla stepped out carrying two brown paper bags and a plastic bottle of iced tea sweating in the heat.
"Thought you ditched," Alex said.
"Detention. Drew a mustache on Columbus in history. Mrs. Hatch has no sense of humor." She handed him a bag.
"Turkey and green chile. Mom packed extra."
They sat in their spots five feet apart, legs over the ledge. The sandwich was good. Spicy enough to make his eyes water. They ate without talking much. When they finished, Layla pulled out a deck of cards battered, corners bent.
"Ever play Speed?"
"No."
"I'll teach you. Loser does push-ups."
She won the first three games. Alex did thirty push-ups on the gravel, palms stinging. She won the fourth too, but let him off with ten.
"You're getting better," she said.
"Liar."
"Okay, you suck. But you suck with potential."
He laughed. Actually laughed. The sound echoed off the satellite dish.
They started meeting every day. Layla brought food sometimes tamales her mom made, sometimes gas-station taquitos because her dad was home and "grilling steaks again." Alex brought apples when the office basket had them. They played cards, talked trash, watched clouds that never quite looked real.
One Tuesday it rained hard, sudden, the kind of storm that turned the arroyo into a river in ten minutes. They huddled under the overhang by the door, shoulders almost touching, watching water sheet off the roof.
"My mom's gonna kill me," Layla said, wringing out her braid. "This jacket's vintage."
Alex pulled off his hoodie, handed it over. "Here."
She took it. "You'll freeze."
"I run in the snow."
She slipped it on. It swallowed her. The sleeves hung past her fingers. "Smells like boy and gym socks."
"Better than wet denim."
They watched the storm. Lightning cracked over . Thunder rolled like a slow hook.
Layla said, quietly, "My cousin lost a fight last month. Bad. Got cut, needed thirty stitches. His mom made him quit."
Alex's stomach tightened. "He quit?"
"Yeah. Says he's done. Going to community college. Wants to be a nurse." She picked at a pin on the jacket—*READ MORE BANNED BOOKS*.
"You ever thought about quitting?"
"No." Alex replied.
"Not even when it hurts?"
"Especially when it hurts."
She looked at him. Rain dripped off the overhang, plinked on the gravel.
"You're scared you'll turn out like your dad."
The words hit harder than any punch. Alex's jaw clenched.
"I'm not him."
"I know." She bumped his shoulder with hers. "But you're scared anyway."
He didn't answer. Just stared at the rain.
Layla let it go. Pulled a Sharpie from her pocket, grabbed his hand. Before he could pull away, she wrote on his palm in block letters: **DON'T CAGE YOURSELF.**
The ink smelled sharp. Her fingers were cold.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.
"Means don't keep it all inside or you'll get sick."
She capped the pen.
"My mom says grief's like a fist. Hold it too long, it cramps. You gotta open up sometimes."
Alex stared at the words. The rain slowed to a drizzle.
"I don't know how."
"Start small." She stood, offered her hand. "Come on. PE's probably canceled. Let's ditch."
He took her hand. It was warm now.
They ditched the rest of the day. Walked the arroyo after the storm, boots squishing in mud, the air thick with wet sage. Layla talked about El Paso, about her dad's stories, about the time she stole a golf cart at the base in Germany and crashed it into a fountain. Alex listened more than he talked. When he did, it was about the garage, the heavy bag, Coach Ramirez making him wrap with his teeth. He didn't mention the electric bill. Didn't mention the night shifts. But he felt lighter.
At the end of the arroyo, where the chain-link fence met the railroad tracks, Layla stopped. Pulled a Polaroid camera from her backpack,old, scratched, the kind that spit out photos like magic.
"Smile," she said.
"I don't smile."
"Try."
He tried. It felt weird, like stretching a muscle he had forgotten. The camera clicked. The photo slid out, blank at first, then slowly blooming: Alex half-grimacing, Layla sticking out her tongue, the muddy arroyo behind them.
She wrote on the white border with the Sharpie: **ROOFTOP CREW – DAY 1.**
"Tape it in your locker," she said. "Proof you're still alive."
He took it. The ink was still wet.
That night he taped the Polaroid inside his locker, right next to Dad's old fight poster the one from the Martinez bout, Thomas grinning with the scar over his eye. The two images side by side looked strange. One ghost. One maybe-friend.
Mom came home at 2:07 a.m. He heard her in the kitchen, opening the fridge, closing it, the soft clink of a fork on a plate. He got up, padded down the hall.
She looked up, startled.
"Mijo. You should be asleep."
"Couldn't." He opened the fridge, poured two glasses of water. Handed her one.
"You ate?"
"Grabbed a burger." She took the glass, sipped. Her eyes were red.
"You okay?". He asked.
He thought of the roof. The rain. The Polaroid. Layla's handwriting on his palm, already faded but still there if he pressed hard enough.
"Yeah," he said. "I think I am."
Mom studied him. Then, slow, she smiled small, tired, real. "Good."
He went back to bed. The ceiling fan clicked. For the first time in months, he didn't hear Dad's voice in the dark. Just the wind against the window, and the faint smell of cinnamon gum on his pillow.