Delia Santana

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“Delia!” Honor’s soprano carried down the hall and entered through my open door. “Come to the store with me?”

I looked up from my books, brown eyes automatically locking on my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. I saw an overly stressed, pale 16-year-old girl studying for her AP U.S. History exam.

“Uh, for what?”

“To get my friend a housewarming gift, duh!”

“Okay,” I said, glaring at myself in the mirror. “Be out in a sec.” I threw my epic book of US Presidents to the floor and stepped off my bed in search of my flip-flops. I exchanged my sweatpants for a pair of shorts, donned my flops and walked to the living room.

Planted on the arm of the couch was my lovely older sister, Honor. All the tanned and toned five feet and seven inches of her. She smiled her perfect white smile at me.

“Vamonos!”

I had to glare at her use of Spanish. My great-grandpa was from Spain, so that’s how we acquired the last name of Santana-saint like. Those of my friends who watch Glee constantly tell me about Santana on the show. I hate Glee.

Anyway, Honor thinks it’s cool to embrace your heritage, so she throws a few words she learned from Dora into everyday conversation. I think she thinks it makes her hotter.

Honor got off the couch and trotted to the door, white shorts screaming in contrast against her skin. I followed her, trying not to sulk. Down the front steps awaited Colorado- her prized, flaming red Dodge Charger. I hate that car.

We got aboard, donning our seat belts and flicked on the radio. Honor peeled out of the driveway like a bat out of H*ll.

“Target or Wal-Mart?” She asked, dragging out the A’s and smiling.

“Target.” I wasn’t feeling ‘People of Wal-Mart’ today.

“Okay, Dels.” I tried to fight off the tug of happiness I got when she said my nickname. D*mn her.

“Eh. Who’s the gift for?”

“Tory! He just got a cute little apartment on Frederick.” My heart sank.

“Linman?” please let there be another Tory out there.

“Sí, señorita!” She giggled. “What other Tories do I know?”

“I dunno.” F***, with dragged-out U’s.

“You’re silly, Dels. I thought you had a crush on him, anyway.” Insert major vomit here.

“No.” Honor burst out laughing. I resisted the urge to pop her one.

“Whatever you say, baby sister!”

The rest of the ten minute ride did not contain a word, save for the ones crooned by Rihanna and Lady GaGa on Mix 106.5. I don’t think Honor noticed. I also don’t think I cared.

Either way, we arrived at Target and she basically danced into the store, her body bursting with energy. It was like Honor was on caffeine 99% of her life. I resisted another urge to hit her. No one should be this happy on a regular basis.

We bustled through the store, Honor zooming straight for the out-door and party section. “Tory is such a party-boy!” was her explanation. Yeah, I d*mn well knew that already. He liked to get girls drunk, too.

Honors eyes locked onto a stainless steel tub. “Omigosh! This is, like, perfect! He can totally use this as a beer cooler! So perfect!” Lord, remind me why you’re against murder? “Don’t you think so, Delia?”

“Sure. It’s shiny.”

“I know! Totally perfect!”

We ended up buying that tub, cheap margarita mix, a pair of flip-flops and a sexy Beyoncé poster.

“Next stop; Tory’s!” she yelled after we got back inside Colorado.

“Isn’t he having a housewarming party, anyway? We can wait until then to give him his stuff.”

“Dels, you know I can’t keep secrets for that long! He can use this stuff at his party.”

“Eh. True.”

And thus we were on our way to Tory f***in’ Linman’s cute little apartment on Frederick f***in’ road.

I’m assuming you’re wondering why I’m so against Tory. You’ve probably assumed I was jealous of his and my sister’s friendship. Well, nice try.

I hate Tory because he gives me nightmares.

He gives me nightmares because my sister thinks it’s fun to have huge, drunk parties when my Dad’s out of town. Also, it’s fun to introduce her younger sister to a bunch of drunk older guys and then dip set to go f*** one of them.

Well, I didn’t really think it was fun when Tory decided he wanted me drunk. Convinced me I was a complete loser, a lightweight freshman. At the time, I was already drinking regularly with my friends, so I figured I’d show this tool a thing or two. Prove myself.

Well, that backfired. I got slobbering drunk and ended up in my own bed with my pants off, shirt roughly pushed out of the way and a naked 17-year-old on top of me. I remember the drunken fear. The pain. The humiliation. The pleasure on his face.

There were tons of nightmares after that, sure. When it was dark, it felt like he was creeping up on me, ready to humiliate me again. I thought about killing myself.

Then I decided, to H*ll with it, I’m not letting this control me. So Tory typically doesn’t cross my mind, except maybe when I get the chills for no reason. I didn’t tell anyone, and as far as I know, Tory himself doesn’t even remember a d*mn thing.

But yeah. The explanation of my hate. Moral of the story? Don’t drink. Sike, no. Drink. But when you get raped, make sure you go do that rape kit and contact the police. Real men don’t rape, young ones!

Either way, we arrived at Tory’s cute (with dragged out U’s) apartment, and took his stuff upstairs. Honor banged on the door. A red haired guy with a goatee answers.

“Hola, Teaghan!” Honor crooned.

“Sup, Honor,” the ginger grinned back. “What you two doin’ here?”

“Dropping off housewarming gifts, duh!” Honor pushed past Teaghan and surveyed the living/dining room combo. “So pretty!”

I spotted the threadbare couch and sat the bags down, wrinkling my brow in frustration. Yeah, the place was a dump, can we jet? Like, now? Ahora, por favor. ¿Sí? ¿Vamonos?

Tory’s entrance stopped my inner Spanish babble. I resisted the urge to dry heave.

“Honor,” he said, embracing her, peering over her shoulder at me. “And little Miss Dels!” God? You there? I think a smite-charged lightning bolt would suit this situation perfectly. Ya dig? “Hi.” ¡Vamonos, Honor!

“Tory, can I steal Teaghan and have him help me get some liquor at the corner store?”

“Sure thing, Hon. I’ll keep Delia company.”

God, I know you’re punishing me for not going to Church every Sunday. And to that, I say, f*** you. Ooohoohoo.

So after a bunch of giggling and searching for money, Honor and Teaghan dip set, leaving me with a rapist. I glared at him.

“So, how are you?”

“Lovely.” I wish sarcasm could b**** slap someone. It would be useful.

“Well, want to watch TV with me?”

A muscle in my jaw spasmed and I gave him my best death glare. “No, thanks. I’m gonna run across the street and meet my friend at the Baskin-Robbins.”

“Want me to dri-”

“Nope, I got my own two legs. Peace.” I dipped the f*** out of there, taking two steps at a time and burst through the front doors. I took a second to look right and darted into the crosswalk, B-R in my sight.

I promptly got creamed by a car coming on the left side of the street.

I heard it before I felt it. El screecho, like in the movies. My bare leg was collapsed by the bumper, causing me to land on my wrist, which made my elbow bend in the wrong direction. My head bounced off the asphalt and I felt one of my ribs crack as it connected with the road. As I was laying there in a generous pool of my own blood, instead of my life flashing before my eyes, I could only think of my best friend Cheney’s phrase of the week;

“What Would Jesus Do?”

Cheney Rae, if you’re reading this, I want you to know that if I had died that day, my last thoughts would’ve been about the stupid way you pronounce Jesus when things are going wrong.

Either way, the pain hit me like a MARC train and all I could hear was Cheney saying “Jaysus! Ya burnt the d*mn Veggie Burritos!” I was sure I was gonna die and peaced out.


When I woke up about three days later, I looked around my sanitary-smelling hospital room. My gaze landed on a bunny calendar by the window. Apparently, it was Saturday, March 27th, 2011.

And that, my dears, was how I single-handedly avoided my AP U.S. History exam.





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