My name is Río Álvarez. I'm 16 years old.
For as long as I can remember, I've lived in Texas with my mom, Susana Álvarez. I never knew my dad. My mom barely spoke about him, but when she did, her eyes lit up. She said she met him years after finishing college. To her, he was her Prince Charming.
She told me stories about the karate training he used to talk about. She mentioned tournaments he won, his youth, happy days. But good things never last. One day, my mom found him with another woman at his place. She never forgave him. She left. A few weeks later, she found out I was on the way. She chose to have me and raise me on her own.
My mom gave me everything I needed. But sometimes life's a bitch, and no matter how hard you try to stay positive, it always finds a way to remind you who's in charge.
When I was 13, my mom was diagnosed with cancer. Every day, she faded a little more. At 13, I had to find a way to make money. But getting a job at that age isn't easy. I ended up going down the illegal path. For two years, I sold weed and other stuff to pay for her meds and treatments. But she wasn't getting better.
When I was 15, I lost her.
The reason I fought every day, the light in my life, went out. That day broke me.
I got to say goodbye. Before she passed, she told me her last wish: to find my father. She gave me his name and an address. Johnny Lawrence. Reseda, California. My mom wanted me to meet him.
After she died, I dropped everything. Got out of the business. I was only in it for her. Without her, there was no reason to stay.
A few months later, before the system found out she was gone and tossed me into foster care, I bought a motorcycle and some fake IDs. I left for Reseda, California.
The trip was long. Lots of stops to refuel, grab a bite, stretch my legs. Some sights were beautiful, others not so much. But I made it. No idea what was waiting for me.
Location: Reseda, California. Convenience store, 10:00 PM.
I'd just arrived at a small store looking for a snack: a Pepsi and some peanuts. Right before I paid, I saw a homeless guy arguing with the cashier over a slice of old pizza.
— This dude probably has a tiny dick, —said the cashier in Spanish, looking at me and another guy in line.
— For sure, man, —I replied, laughing.
The other guy tried to hold his laugh but couldn't.
The homeless man noticed we were laughing at him and got pissed. The guy next to me added fuel:
— He says you probably have a baby gun, —he said in English, cracking up.
The homeless guy didn't find it funny. He threw some bills on the counter, grabbed his slice, and walked out.
— Fucking guy, —muttered the cashier, shaking his head as he went back to helping us.
I was just about to pay when a group of rich-kid douchebags came in. They headed straight for the beer cooler. As the other guy from the line was leaving, he said to the cashier:
— Hey, those guys are underage.
One of them heard and warned the others. Before he could step outside, they grabbed him and shoved him out of the store.
I paid and walked out just in time to see one of the idiots dump some pink slush on the guy's head, then punch him and slam him onto the hood of a red car. That's when the homeless man stood up, pissed.
— Hey! Watch it with my car. It's a classic, —he said, dead serious, like he'd just snapped out of another life.
— What's this bum want? —one of the punks asked.
— Hey, I know him. He cleaned my septic tank last week, —added another, probably the leader.
— Well, it smells like shit again, —another joked.
The leader shoved him, accidentally knocking the homeless man's pizza to the ground.
— And what are you gonna do, old man? —he sneered, giving him another push.
He didn't finish the sentence. The guy reacted.
The gringo stepped forward and twisted the leader's arm until it cracked. The punk screamed, but before he could react, Johnny spun and kicked the second one straight in the gut. The dude flew back and hit the ground with a thud.
The third tried to jump him from behind, but Johnny ducked, grabbed his arm, and slammed him into a car window. The alarm blared. The guy slid down, unconscious.
The first one came back at him, furious. Johnny was ready. He elbowed him in the jaw, grabbed his hoodie, and tossed him to the ground like he weighed nothing.
— That enough? —he growled, breathing hard.
The leader tried to get up. Johnny stared him down.
— You want more?
The others were still on the ground, cursing and spitting blood.
I was frozen. I'd seen everything from the sidewalk, Pepsi and peanuts in hand. I didn't know if I should laugh, clap, or run. The guy everyone thought was just another drunk had just owned them like nothing.
Johnny turned and looked at me.
— What are you looking at? —he said, like nothing happened.
— Nothing, man… nice kick, —I replied, still stunned.
— Shit… teach me, —said the guy next to me.
Johnny was watching us when suddenly, the leader got up and charged at him from behind. Johnny turned just in time, grabbed him by the neck, and held tight enough to cut his air.
That's when the red and blue lights flashed. Like he was some dangerous criminal, the cops jumped out and, without asking a thing, pepper-sprayed him in the face.
They didn't let him explain. Within seconds, they had him cuffed and in the patrol car. As they loaded him in, I saw the punk leader slip some cash to one of the cops before hopping into his truck like nothing had happened.
— Damn, man… this place sure is something, —I said, turning to the guy next to me— I'm Río Álvarez, by the way, —I added, extending my hand.
— Miguel Díaz. Nice to meet you, man. I didn't know he could fight like that, —Miguel said, shaking my hand, still shocked.
— You know him? —I asked, taking a sip of Pepsi.
— Yeah, he lives in the same building as me, —Miguel answered, wiping off the mess they made.
— He said that car's his, right? —I asked, walking around the car— Look at that, the idiot left the keys in.
I opened the door.
— Here, take it to his place since you live in the same building. If you leave it here, they'll strip it for parts, —I tossed him the keys.
— There's a problem, —Miguel said, a bit embarrassed— I don't know how to drive.
I burst out laughing.
— Don't worry, man. Come on, quick lesson: this is the brake, this is the gas, this lever's for gears… see this big wheel? It's called the steering wheel—it turns the tires.
I explained it like it was a test, and he listened like his life depended on it.
— Got it? —I asked, looking at him.
— Yeah, yeah, all good… but can you follow me just in case something happens?
— No worries, man. I got your back. I'll ride next to you, —I said, pointing at my black Ducati with gold trim and blue lights.
— Before we go… here, —I said, handing him a ten— Go buy whatever those assholes spilled on you.
— Thanks, man, —Miguel said, running back into the store.
A few minutes later, we were ready to roll.
Location: Apartment complex, Reseda, California. 11:20 PM.
The bike roared as I followed Johnny's car. Miguel was driving stiff as a board, glued to the wheel like he was flying a plane. He made slow turns, stopped too hard. But he managed to get it there without crashing.
We pulled into the lot. The place smelled like mildew, cheap cigarettes, and old oil. One of those buildings that looks like it should've collapsed already but stays up out of pure stubbornness. Beat up, neglected, but alive.
Miguel parked awkwardly and shut off the engine. He got out with a nervous grin.
— I didn't kill anyone! —he said, arms up like he'd won a race.
— Congrats, pilot, —I said, getting off the Ducati— Not bad for your first time. You almost ran two red lights, but hey...
— Almost doesn't count, right?
— On the road it does, man, —I laughed.
We walked to the building's entrance. I was about to head out when Miguel put a hand on my shoulder.
— You wanna come up for a bit? My yaya made hot chocolate, —he said with a smile.
— What's a yaya? —I asked, confused.
— My grandma. I've called her that since I was a kid, —he said as we climbed the stairs.
Right before entering, Miguel stopped and looked at me seriously.
— Hey man… just one favor. Don't tell my mom what happened at the store. I don't want her to worry.
— Of course. No problem, —I said, taking off my riding gloves.
Miguel opened the door. The apartment smelled like warm food and cinnamon. It felt cozy, like a real home. Soft music played in the background, warm light from the kitchen, a calm feeling that hit me out of nowhere.
— Miguel? —a woman's voice called from the kitchen— is that you?
— Yeah, I brought a friend, —he replied.
A young woman stepped out, drying her hands. Her hair was tied back, eyes kind but sharp.
— Hi, I'm Carmen, Miguel's mom, —she said with a smile.
— Nice to meet you, ma'am. I'm Río… Río Álvarez.
— Have you eaten, Río?
— No, ma'am.
— Then sit down. My son's friends don't leave hungry, —she said, serving a plate of enchiladas.
I sat, a bit awkward, but grateful. In the living room, an older woman sat glued to a telenovela, Pepto-Bismol in hand, floral blanket on her lap.
— Yaya, turn it down a bit! We have company! —Miguel yelled.
— Alright alright, I got it, sweetie, —she replied, eyes still on the screen.
Carmen set the plate and a glass of water in front of me.
— Eat up, you're home now, —she said in that voice that makes you feel okay without needing a lot of words.
I nodded, speechless. After so long fending for myself, this meal hit different. It was warm, homemade, real. I hadn't eaten like that in months. Carmen made sure I didn't leave without seconds, and yaya—without even looking—offered sweet bread like I was already part of the household. Miguel and I talked about simple stuff: music, movies, what Texas was like, what Reseda was like. Nothing deep, but it felt right.
For a while, the outside world didn't exist.
But I knew I couldn't stay much longer.
I stood while Carmen washed dishes and yaya dozed in front of the TV. Miguel walked me to the door.
— So what now? —he asked.
— Find a motel nearby. Hopefully one where my bike doesn't get jacked while I sleep, —I said, half joking, half not.
— You don't have a place to stay?
— Not yet. But I'm used to it, don't worry.
Miguel hesitated, like he wanted to offer something, but held back.
— Well… if you need anything, you know where I live, —he said finally.
I gave him a firm handshake.
— Thanks for everything. Really.
— You sure you don't want more hot chocolate? —yaya yelled from the living room, without looking.
I smiled.
— I'm good, ma'am. Thank you. Goodnight.
I left the building, pulled on my gloves, hopped on the Ducati, and fired it up. The night air hit my face. The lights of Reseda were dirty and dim, but at least now they didn't feel so unfamiliar.
I didn't know what tomorrow would bring.
But at least tonight wasn't so bad.
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