Ilana Dziecko was always the most popular person in the room. Unfortunately, she was often by herself. This is in contrast to her neighbor, Leonardo Gonzales, who was rarely ever alone and was consistently the least popular person in the room. Leonardo, who had been going by “Chico” for 15 out of his 16 years on this planet, had never met his elderly neighbor despite sharing a wall of their duplex for as long as he could remember. The Gonzales’s, comprised of Chico, his mother Blanca, and his older brother Pato were one of the only families in Emerson that rented. Their landlord, Tyler Flannery had inherited the half-house from his father. Much to the benefit of the Gonzales family, Tyler understood the property to be more of a burden than a gift. This allowed Blanca some latitude in when she paid the rent and gave the boys the space to make the house their own.
Chico and Pato shared the bigger bedroom, which was located in the back of the house. Just large enough to fit two beds, two dressers, and a “community desk” that the family shared, customization of the space was a mental health necessity. Pato, being a year and a half older than his brother, had long since assumed the role of interior designer. When they were younger, and Chico was more confident, he would often protest every single decorative choice that his brother made. His protests, much like many of the other attributes that had once defined the young man, had faded with adolescences. When they were children, Chico used his brother’s confidence as the scaffolding to build up his own. By the time he had settled uncomfortably into his teens, it just served as a consistent reminder of what he understood to be his shortcomings.
With movie posters of raunchy comedies, NFL banners, and an outdated Sports Illustrated calendar right above Pato’s bed, Chico felt like a guest in a museum curated and dedicated to his brother. The wall next to his bed, was the only 3×4 space in the room that Pato had graciously donated to his brother. Chico’s small exhibit in the Pato Museum consisted of the final page torn from 100 Years of Solitude, a picture of himself and his late grandmother, a postcard from New York City (although he had never been, nor did he know anyone who had), a small 8×10 Starry Night print that he bought himself on his birthday from the bookstore, and a small French flag (Chico shared more of his heritage with French toast). A thing like that.
It was late-February when the Gonzales family decided their lives were not already complicated enough. Chico was the first one home on the crisp afternoon when an honest mistake was made by the post-office. The air was light with a blistery bite as he walked home from school. Chico had forgotten his scarf that day and his cheeks felt the fire of the 25 degree winter air.