Tigers, Not Daughters - Samantha Mabry Page 0,3

suitcase fell to the ground with a thud. Rafe, dressed in a white V-neck undershirt and jeans, jumped from the truck while the engine was still running and went straight for Ana. He gripped her arm, digging his thumb right into her shoulder joint.

“What were you thinking?” he barked. “Huh?”

Ana said nothing. She didn’t even wince. She just slowly turned her head to the side, and her gaze slid northward, in the direction of the bus station.

The passenger door of Rafe’s truck opened, and out came Hector’s mom, wearing fuzzy slippers and a red flannel robe over a long nightgown. She was watching Rafe and Ana with a strange expression on her face. It was a mix of things: like she was relieved, like she was furious, like she was guilty, like she felt sorry for the Torres girls, like she knew, deep down, that it may have been better for them to have caught a bus to the Valley or wherever else they’d hoped to go than to stay with their sad dad in Southtown.

Hector’s mom then turned toward us. She ticked up her chin and pointed down the street.

“Walk,” she commanded.

We walked. The last thing we saw before we were again swallowed by the noisy, sweaty Fiesta crowd was Jessica arguing with her father, refusing to get in the truck. If anyone else had noticed what was happening between the Torres girls and Rafe, they didn’t let on; everyone knew families were complicated and that dads were always dealing with unruly teenage daughters. Rafe gripped Jessica’s arm, then her waist, and then pushed her into the extended cab. She managed to pin us with one more stare, full of hot fury. We deserved it.

We learned on the walk back what had happened. Hector’s mom had heard us leave. It took her a minute to figure out what was happening and then to get up and wrestle on her robe. Once she got out into the front yard, she saw Ana’s wide-open second-story window. She went across to the Torres house and rang the doorbell until Rafe answered, still half asleep. Together, in Rafe’s truck, they drove around the neighborhood, searching for their runaways. At the time, Rafe didn’t seem all that mad, Hector’s mom told us. Instead, he seemed scared. His fingers were trembling against the steering wheel. He kept repeating, “My girls. My girls.” He kept asking Hector’s mom, “What will I do if they leave me?”

This is how we learned that we were the ones who had destroyed the Torres girls’ chance at escape. If it weren’t for us, things would’ve turned out differently. If it weren’t for us, Ana wouldn’t have died two months later and her sisters wouldn’t have been forced to suffer at the hands of her angry ghost.

Iridian

(Sunday, June 9th)

The routine on Sunday was simple. Rosa got up first. She’d shower, dress for church, and then go out into the backyard for an hour or so and try to talk to the animals. Jessica got up next. The first thing she’d do, even before using the bathroom, was check on Dad. Knowing him, he’d probably have gotten home just as the sun was coming up and would sleep well into the afternoon. After going downstairs to peek into his room, Jessica would head back upstairs and get ready to go to work, which usually took a while, given that she never left the house without looking flawless. Jessica’s Sunday shift at the pharmacy didn’t start until 11 a.m., but before that she’d pick up her boyfriend John from his house a couple of blocks away so they could go get breakfast somewhere.

Iridian had nowhere to be, so she got up last.

On this particular Sunday, which she hoped would be the same as every other Sunday, Iridian got dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen. After pouring some cereal—chocolate puffs, her favorite—she hopped up on the counter so she could have a better view of Rosa, who was sitting on a wooden chair in the middle of the backyard, facing away from the house. When Rosa wasn’t outside, her long hair was the blandest shade of tree-bark brown, but in the sun, especially the morning sun, it was an array of earth tones: pecan,