I let him go / as if he were / a fish I'd let / slip into water. (Elise Paschen, "Angling")

June wakes up early enough one day in the beginning of October to get the newspaper before her momma does. She works too hard, that mother of hers. Has had to take care of June all by herself her whole life, has to take care of her auntie and her two cousins for months now, too. Daddy used to send them money, buy June all the things she needed for class and good presents for her birthday and Christmas besides, but that don't compare to her momma having to raise her by her lonesome.

June don't hold it against her daddy, even if she used to. Can't bring herself to, now that he's gone. She gets mad, still, thinking about how that wife of his kept him from her and her momma, like it could erase all the good parts, too. She don't know much about love, has seen it turn her aunt into a husk of the woman she used to be. All the good things about it, though, that she gets from her father. He used to visit them once or twice a week, brought her momma flowers every time, just because. It used to feel like it was enough to erase the fact that he wasn't able to stick around. She used to like when he came by on her birthday best, two days after Valentine's Day with an armful of chocolates and teddy bears. They used to spend it like a family every year—

Except this year. Daddy's been dead since January, after all. No more Valentine's Day gifts, or a dollar tucked into her palm when he had to leave for the night. Didn't matter that she was already fourteen the last time he did that, he still kissed her forehead like always. She likes to pretend he loved better than any other father she could have gotten; tries to convince herself that him always coming back must've meant something. He was something like a good man—never raised a hand to June, not like her aunt's husband used to treat his family, the same one who left her as soon as she came down sick. Her daddy was a good man, and him having a wife to go home to instead of staying with her momma didn't have nothing to do with that. June didn't worry herself about it, even if all these months later she still feels sick with grief at the thought of a Christmas without him.

But then she grabs the newspaper. Sees a photo of her daddy—handsome as ever, dark hair and soft brown eyes and a smile that melted her momma's heart—with a woman with light-colored hair and three boys. Breathes a breath that almost hurts. She thinks it's a dream, or that out there there's someone with her father's face. She pulls the paper up, still standing outside in her pajamas and a men's sweater that must have belonged to him. It's not cold enough yet to see her breath, but at night it gets close, and they can't turn the heat up until they absolutely need it. Her momma's working two jobs trying to take care of the five of them now, and her aunt Celeste's barely managing three days a week at the grocery store now that she can't stand on her feet too long. She don't make all that much with the Kings, after all.

She reads the headline—Fallout Continues for Teenager Caught Up in Eastside Murder—takes a breath when she reads through the article. Skims it, really, trying to see why there's a photo of her father with—children, did he have children with the woman he was married to? No one ever told her about that. Why wouldn't they tell her about that?

Maybe they weren't his. Maybe it'll say adopted in the article, when it mentions the late Darrel Curtis, Sr.—survived by his three sons, Darrel Jr., Sodapop, and Ponyboy. June's hands start shaking. Tries to wrap her head around the names, tries to make sense of it all. Paper moves so much she can't even make out her father's face. Knows, however, as she looks over those three boys—brothers, she's got three brothers from her daddy, how'd he keep it a secret for so long?—that every last one of them looks like him. Like her, besides.

She squirrels the newspaper away in her room, tells her momma it wasn't outside when she asks for it. She makes a big pot of oatmeal for everyone—her, her momma, Auntie Celeste and the boys, Ronnie and Lou. Adds a spoonful of brown sugar like always, slices some bananas for the kids, sips the coffee her mother pours for her. Pretends she isn't thinking of her daddy's face next to those boys', the ways the family of five fits so well together, looking so unlike the pictures she has of her and her momma and her daddy, all together.

Her momma drops her off at school on her way to work. She's got a double today, like she does nearly half the week. Tells her to make supper for the boys, since her auntie's closing at the grocery store, when she can get a ride with her momma on her way home. Things like this convince June her momma don't know what she's up to. Makes no sense that she'd tell her to get supper ready and put the boys to bed if she knew she was going to be out with the River Kings.

It's not like they jump girls in. Doesn't matter that her daddy was a big name back in the day, or that her cousin's running up the ranks. It keeps her a little safer; the boys there don't paw at her once they hear how she knows them. What it does mean is Sonny brings her along, sometimes, and no one looks twice. Brings her to coax someone who owes him money close or to give him a rundown on what the inside of a store they're about to hit looks like. She always gets a cut.

Before that, though, she's got to get through class for the day. Can't focus, like those first weeks after he died, keeps thinking of her daddy's face and how so much of him was a stranger, despite the nearly fifteen years she had him. Dead a month before her fifteenth, like he wasn't still wishing he could throw her a big party like his cousins growing up used to have. He grew up in Dallas, after all, before Little Mexico started to fade off the map. He used to tell her stories about his family, his daddy one of the Irish Mexicans who came back after the war. Couldn't speak a lick of Spanish but he thought it was a real pretty language, wished her momma had been able to learn her own, too. Was real sorry neither one of them could pass that along to June.

He used to say he always wanted daughters. Wanted a house full of them, so he could throw a quince every other year. Grew up around a lot of girl cousins, got used to having to partner with them during a waltz. How could he not want more daughters, when her mother was so beautiful, when she did such a good job with June?

Now that he's gone June gets angrier about it. Not at him, though maybe she should. Today the grief feels brand new again. She wondered for so long what it was about that wife that kept him away. She feels stupid, the memory of her daddy and those boys fresh; she blinks and sees those smiles. So much like her father. How could she be dumb enough to think he didn't have a real reason to stay away from them so often? Just 'cause he wanted daughters don't mean he didn't want sons, too. At least one of them was older than her, from the picture. That had to mean something.

She gets home as her auntie's walking out, finds the boys inside sprawled in the living room, Lou on his belly coloring and Ronnie messing with a paddle ball.

She says, hands on her hips like she's her mother, "You boys hungry?"

"No," Ronnie says, not even looking at her. Lou at least glances at her before going back to his coloring.

"No, June."

She goes up to her room instead. She's the only one who gets her own, her momma with her auntie in case she needs something in the night and the boys together. Before her daddy died it was just two of them in the house. He used to help pay the bills, made sure everything was on-time. Her momma wasn't pulling double shifts at the hospital, worked normal hours, used to drop her off and pick her up from school without fail. The heat went up as high as they needed it during the fall and winter, no problem.

Sometimes he and her momma would have those hushed conversations in momma's room, but usually he'd come around and flash that smile they loved and things would be as close to normal as they could be, in their house that wasn't his home. She pulls the newspaper out again, stares at the grainy photo of him. Same smile. Just like the rest of them boys. June reads the article again, slower this time. Feels her face twist up at the words, like she knows what they mean by themselves but put all together they're gibberish.

Who gets caught up on a murder charge at fourteen? She does the math—over a year between them. Smack in between two brothers, that's when her momma had her. Was her father that desperate for a daughter? She doesn't bother to linger on the thought of how he paid for everything—the River Kings don't ever really let a man go, not really. He had work as a contractor, sure, but half those workers were Kings, too. He was a top dog, practically el mero mero, like some of the guys used to say. Did his wife know about that? Did his sons? She reads about a church fire and two dead teenagers and can't make any sense of it.

She has three brothers. That, she could guess from the picture. She studies their faces, tries to see what parts of them are parts of her, too. They all have her daddy's smile. Imagines any of them hauled off for murder. Her hair is dark, like the oldest, but so's her momma's. She has no idea what color the other two's are; both look closer to blonde based off the greyscale, but there's no real telling. They should seem familiar to her, shouldn't they? If they're her brothers then they're practically half the same as she is. Something heavy's been settled in her stomach all day, thinking about her father raising three sons full-time and her on the side. Makes something ugly rear up, something directed at her daddy. She doesn't think she's ever been mad at him before, just at the circumstances, but now—

He lied. Doesn't matter if she never asked him directly, he lied, and now there are three boys somewhere on the Eastside who share half her blood and probably don't know she exists.

The feeling stays all through her getting homework done and looking after the boys. She makes them dinner and wraps some up for her auntie and her mother, puts them to bed at 8:30 despite their whining and then slips through the back door, heading south on Lewis, still feeling like her heart's been set aflame.

Sonny isn't even two years older than her, just turned seventeen back in September. He's the son of her mother's older brother, who was in charge of the Kings after her daddy took a step back from his own work with them. That's how he met her momma, after all, when her uncle was jumped in; dropped him off afterwards, in those first few months after her mother's family left the rez. Her momma was the one who answered the door, late at night and up for whatever reason. Her father used to say it was love at first sight, even if her mother was adamant it wasn't. June used to think it didn't really matter, since it led to her either way.

Sonny got jumped in himself the past winter. Before her daddy died. Came over to Sunday dinner grinning real big like his busted ribs didn't bother him, pulled her aside and told her that he was just like both their daddies, now, and he was going to be as big as either of them. His own father's been dead going on ten years now, but that don't seem to bother him. June knows better than to ask.

He rents a room from one of other higher ups, a spare property bought with that first windfall. They do a little bit of everything, the River Kings, pushing heroin to Eastside hoods and pills to the rich kids that liked taking risks this far south of downtown. Make folks pay a tax if they're selling liquor in their territory, get paid for protecting them from the Brumly Boys when they start getting riled up. It's worse in the summer, when the heat gets everyone going and pulls most folks outside. Lotta dead kids in the summertime.

Most of the time they don't do much more than whistle at her, tell Sonny to let them take her out on a date. The new boys learn quick that they ain't allowed to say more—Jax Milagros might keep a few easy girls around for parties but June don't come around for those, and she's Darrel Curtis' daughter besides. Like a handful of the guys' girls, she's off limits. Jax might watch her a little closer than she'd like but that's any man, lately, and her momma said as long as she puts up a fight can't nobody say she deserved it. That's one of the things her momma's told her over and over: can't nobody say she deserves it, if a man manages to get at her like that.

At the end of the day, though, June ain't been raised to be afraid of these boys. Has known most of the higher-ups her entire life, when her daddy would sometimes stop by to deal with the business side of things when he was supposed to be taking her shopping. She never told her momma about those days, but she has to have known. June remembers their whispering, the way her mother looked, the way her father's face would twist into something like a scowl. This part of his life was not secret to June or her momma, and it was always made clear to her that no one would touch her, not if they valued their lives.

Granted, that was back when her daddy was still alive. Still, old habits die hard, and she don't think twice before walking into the little single-story house where Sonny lives, finds him and a handful of others getting high in the living room. There's a girl or two sitting with them, their hair teased up real high like June's never bothered to try.

"Que onda, Blue," says one of them. "Where you been, mamita, we missed you."

She sees Sonny smack at him, say, "Don't fucking start, Alcaraz," before getting up to greet her.

Most of the guys with the Kings are Mexican. There's a few mixed kids, a handful of Indians like Sonny and the rest of June's family, too; the Brumly Boys call them sellouts, sometimes, but money's money 'round these parts. A body's a body. Most of the Mexicans live on this side of town; even if more live towards Brumly, at the edge of Tulsa's limits. 'S why they only take Mexicans over there, keep to the neighborhood boys. Their haunts bleed into King territory, and sometimes they rip the wound open again. But it's winter, so things are calmer. A chance to lay low.

"Whatchu doing out here?" Sonny asks her, leading her away from the living room. She rolls her eyes at him, gets her hair tugged in retaliation.

"Wanted to know if there was any action," she tells him. "Auntie's probably gonna get her hours cut soon, figured I'd jump the gun."

"That ain't a good thing, you know."

"Does it matter?" she gives him a look. "She ain't getting any better."

"Haven't seen her in a while."

"Mhm. How's your ma?"

Sonny snorts. "Only wants me around so she can smacked for free. Why you think I'm out here?"

Sonny's old lady's from Brumly, still lives out there. She was married to his daddy, ain't been the same since they killed him during shootout the Kings had with the Brumly Boys over the borders of their territory ten years back. Things are always a little on edge with them, always have and always will be.

"You selling to her?"

"Hell no," he says, "she can get her shit from Brumly, you think she'll pay me?"

June doesn't say she probably ain't paying her dealer in cash. Sonny probably already knows that.

"Anyway," Sonny says, "ain't nobody making the rounds tonight. Maybe Thursday or Friday. I'll pick you up."

"You sending me home already?"

"You wanna hang out with these bum marijuanos?"

June grins. "Offer me a hit before I head home, then," and he rolls his eyes, pulls her back into the living room anyway. He speaks more Spanish now that he's out of his momma's house, says the guys speak it more than she ever did. She don't do much, really, least of all talking. Wouldn't shut up, back when June's uncle was still alive, flitting between English and Spanish all she liked, tried teaching June for a little while before it all went to shit. It's no wonder Sonny lost it; makes her wish she had someone around to teach her, too.

She leaves around ten, pleasantly blitzed. Alcaraz offers to give her a ride, raises both eyebrows as he says so, and she slips out when Sonny turns on him. She gets that more often, lately, whenever she comes around. They don't try it much around Jax, less out of consideration to her than respect to him. He's somewhere in his early twenties, she's pretty sure. Knew her daddy well enough, stepped up in the spring when it was clear nobody knew enough to get the Kings settled again. Keeps the same rules as him, seems like, means the boys don't do much more than look and talk at her, sometimes. He's something like miracle—just like his name.

Sonny don't like it, of course, when they make a pass at her, but they don't get too rowdy, not like some of the men she'll pass on her walk home or to the store. June carries a tiny little pocket knife on her, maybe three inches, but she's never had to use it. Figures she might as well carry it on her, just in in case. 'S not like Sonny lives all that close to Brumly territory, anyway, so she don't worry too much about getting home.

He does live passed the high school though, and she hesitates a bit before deciding she might as well have some fun before heading home. Hale is where most of the Mexicans in town go. She figures they can't stop them from enrolling in Will Rogers, but it's full of white people that close to downtown, and all the kids in her neighborhood end up at Hale from what she's noticed. Further North is where most of the Black folks in Tulsa live and go to school, besides. Makes sense, June figures, that with a part-Mexican daddy and an Indian momma she'd fit in best at Hale. She ain't even the only Indian there.

Lots of the kids from Brumly go there, too. Makes for uneasy breaks and starts- and ends-of-the-year. The teachers don't mind too much, just enough to send kids out for detentions and complain like their students will listen. June's not too bad at school, does well enough that no one threatens to call her momma and manages to keep out of any brawls that build up between the Kings and Boys. Sometimes the girls get a little catty—Ester Vergara, whose man worked with Brumly, tried starting something with her the spring before, when she was still neck deep in misery over her father being dead. Ester's mistake, 'cause June's daddy taught her how to throw a punch and break bones, besides. Her nose ain't been the same, makes June want to laugh and feel bad about it in turns.

Towards the back of the school, there's an entrance to the pool that ain't ever locked right. It's an old lock, seems like, and with careful jiggling June can get it open real easy. Shake too hard and it might pop right off, though, and she don't want to risk losing access to the water, cold as it is year-round. She sneaks in like always, finds the wide, cool space open for the taking. The only lights on are the low ones, close to the floor so that the janitors don't trip over anything when they come by to start opening up the school doors at six. It's barely ten, June guesses, ten-thirty at most. Her momma won't be home until after midnight. She's got at least an hour, then, to swim to her heart's desire.

Even though she knows she's all alone, June has to sweep the room quickly, just to make sure. She braids her hair while she does so, one that reaches the middle of her back real easily. Her momma don't like her with short hair, and it was one of the few things her daddy ever deferred to her. Said he preferred it long but since it wasn't his he didn't much care—But don't upset your mother, Junie, do what she says.

She strips out of her clothes, folds up her slacks carefully and her blouse over it, socks tucked into her shoes. The low light gives everything an eerie blue-green sheen, the water almost too clear. She dips one toe in, shivers despite knowing it was going to be cold. Walking home in soaked underwear is going to be brutal, but she hasn't gone swimming in what feels like forever, even if it was probably closer to only a few weeks ago. June tries not to come by too often, doesn't want to risk someone catching her and getting the lock fixed, has been protective of it ever since she discovered it late in the spring.

Seemed like she couldn't catch up to herself, those first few months after the accident. Found herself forgetful like she never was, only eating when reminded to and barely able to sleep. One day after dinner she realized she left a book she needed for a report in her locker, ran back to the school hoping it was still open for track or baseball or any other club that might have been meeting. Checked all the doors and found this one instead. She comes by at least once a month, if not twice; she's always loved the water. Before her auntie came to live with them she used to go visit her on the rez, go swimming in Skiatook. She could hold her breath longest out of all the kids her age, was a strong swimmer besides.

Swimming in the school pool's not the same as being in the lake but it's close enough. She walks off the edge at the very deep end, lets her body sink and her arms float up, pretends she's falling. She used to spend summers up on the rez, with cousins and friends and all sorts of extended family she hasn't seen since last Christmas. She knows better to ask her mother if they'll be going this year—there's no way she'll be able to get work off, and her auntie's still getting treatment, besides.

But being in the water means she can pretend none of that's true, can cut through the water like only she can. Swims edge to edge like they teach the boys on the swim team, flips when she turns and pushes off with her feet. All she has to do is remember how to breathe, and she doesn't even need to think about how best to turn her head. Comes naturally. Feels her braid heavy against her back and pumps her arms and she's good, mindless for however many minutes she needs to be.

Afterwards she pulls herself up to the edge, lets her lower legs trail in the water while she lies in the tile. Usually she brings a towel, but today June'll have to let herself airdry just a bit before heading home. Everything feels real soft—probably from the pot. Her muscles burn just enough to guarantee her a good night's rest. Good.

Sometimes it feels like she'll never catch up, for all she lost back in the spring.

Later that week, Sonny comes to pick her up like he promised.

Her momma knows he runs with the Kings. Watches him like she's suspicious sometimes, others like she's worried. June's not sure if her auntie knows, but she's so sick lately it wouldn't be surprising if she doesn't have a clue. The boys clamber over him—Sonny's charismatic, brings them sweets every time he visits besides. He stays for dinner, lets Auntie Celeste fuss over him like she ain't skin and bones now, too. Sonny at least can say it's a growth spurt, and not that he does more than just smoke with the Kings and whatever girls they bring over.

He compliments the meal and then asks if he can take June out for a joyride.

"I'll bring her right back, titi," he says, "promise. Just got the tires rotated, wanna make sure they're all good."

"And you need my only daughter for that, baby?" June's momma asks. She raises her eyebrows, has her hands on her hips. There's something like a smile on her mouth, though, so June heads upstairs to grab a sweater instead of listening to Sonny try to convince her.

By the time she gets back her momma's lecturing him, says, "Don't keep her out too late, and don't get into any trouble, you hear?" She turns to June next, eyes hard like her daddy's never were. "You hear? Be careful."

There's no way she doesn't know June's running around with the Kings. She's not sure if that should make her more guilty or less.

Sonny's driving a tough looking mustang, silvery in the moonlight. He ain't had it that long, but he treats it like a baby, always double checking it for scratches, getting it waxed regularly and preening when it gets a double-take.

"You love this car like a girl," June tells him, and he tugs on her hair as he usually does before ducking into the driver's seat. She crosses over to the other side quickly, eager to get out of the house like usual.

"Leave my baby alone," he tells her, grins when she snorts. "You helping us out tonight?"

"What job you got?"

"Protection fee," Sonny says, "only gave us half last month, hoping he don't try the same thing today."

"And you going mid-week'll make him cough it up?"

"A gun might."

"Where is it?" June moves to open the glove compartment and his hand shoots out, fingers over hers.

"June," he says warningly, "I don't want you touching that shit."

"I know how to handle a gun," she says, like it ain't a lie.

She's handled exactly one, an old handgun that must've belonged to her daddy. She found it while digging through her momma's closet, back in middle school. She was looking for—she can't even remember what. It had been so cold in her hand, surprisingly heavy. She was so surprised when she came across it she nearly dropped it into the mess of shoes and clothes she made, having carefully peeled back several layers of tissue paper in an effort to figure out what it was when the little lump appeared from seemingly nowhere. She carefully tucked it back into the corner of where she found it, and when she looked for it a few months later—when it was just her at home for once—it was gone.

"Lie again," he tells her, dropping her hand to put both of his on the wheel again. "I don't really need you to come along, anyway."

"So you ain't paying me, huh? Pull over, then."

"Christ," he laughs, shoving her a little, "I'll give you some'a my cut, alright? Celeste looks awful. She still working?"

"Barely," she says, somber now. "Been at three days a week at the grocer, you know, since the doctors said she was okay to work again, but it's still too much. She's so tired."

"Gonna quit again?"

"I don't think we can afford it," she says quietly. "Momma won't let me get a real job, so I can't even help."

"She'll let you run around with me alright."

"She probably don't figure you as one to take me to a stick-up."

"She should," he says, more serious than she's heard him in months, more serious than when he came by to see them after news of her daddy broke. Sonny might as well be her brother—part of her smarts, to think that she has real ones she don't know a thing about, 'sides what's in the paper. What a crock. "She knows what I'm up to with the Kings, you know."

"Not exactly what you're doing," she says, "else I wouldn't be out here with you today, huh?"

"Can it, Blue," he says. He only calls her Blue when they're out like this together, or surrounded by Kings or folks who know him through them, or…well, he don't call her June outside the house actually, now that she's thinking about it. She's been Blue to everyone since her daddy died. Wasn't around often enough before that to need it. She likes how it sounds, even on the mouths of men like Alcaraz. She's Blue. Not June, not Junie, not Miss Blue Thunder, the name making her teacher's faces screw up in distaste. Just Blue. Makes her almost feel like somebody, even if she should want to be more than somebody to the River Kings.

"Who owns the store, anyway?"

"Some geezer," he says, "'s real close to Brumly territory, but we've had it out with them over it enough that it ain't going nowhere until it gets hot again in the spring. The guy likes it better with them, seems like, else he woulda given us our cash when we asked nicely."

"Did you ask nicely?" June grins in spite of herself. Figures, Sonny would try to reduce the tensions between the River Kings and Brumly like that. They've been at each other throats since at least the summer Sonny's daddy got killed, ten years ago. Wouldn't surprise her if it were longer, not that she'd really know.

Sonny brings her around but she's just one of the good girls. Isn't pawed at, the way some of the girls that come around might be. June knows what they get up to, when they disappear to the rooms in the house and come back out a little worse for wear. She's off-limits, like Alcaraz's friend Eleonor who lets him stash product at her place sometimes, or Jax's baby mama Rosalinda. Girls who come around sometimes but leave the exact same way they arrived: not a hair out of place. Maybe it's a privilege, but it's all June's ever known. She's not sure if she should expect differently.

They pull up to a corner store, near Brumly, like Sonny said. It's a tired-looking storefront, paint chipping, advertisements pasted up against the windows bleached from years of sun. The lights inside are white, seems like, but like the rest of the building seem to be on their last legs. June can hear the faint sounds of cars driving past them, on the street they just pulled off of, and watches through the window as a woman pays for her groceries and then hustles her two kids out of the store and into their car, on the other side of the parking lot. Funny. They're a boy and girl, too.

"Want me to head in?" she asks. She knows the answer. This is usually how it goes.

"Yeah," he says, "start at the back. Come up to the window so I can see you once it's clear."

She gets out of the car. Offers a smile to the old man behind the counter when she walks in, gets a cold stare in return. She wonders if she's that much darker than the woman who walked out before her, heads towards the back of the store to start her sweep. This isn't real men's work; it's probably why Jax ain't said anything about Sonny bringing her on these jobs. She lifts a few things—a book of crossword puzzles, a candy bar, a pack of sponges. The old man at the counter half-watches her but he don't suspect of her of being anything other than some brown girl, it seems like.

Ain't like he's white, anyway. She glances up at him while she lingers near the refrigerator. He might not be as dark as she is, but this close to Brumly there's no way he's not a little bit colored. June would know.

"Hey," he says, voice gruff, "you gonna buy something, girl? You cain't just stand around and look."

"Sure," she says, finally moving up the aisle nearest the window. Doesn't bother looking out the window to check if Sonny saw her. She buys two cokes and thanks the man again, gets a stiff nod in response. Her shoulders brush Sonny's when he walks in as she walks out, doesn't look back to see if the man knows what he's there for. Goes to sit in the car, watches with something like intrigue as Sonny leans over the counter and starts talking to the guy.

She looks away to dig through the center console, finds a bottle opener like she expected. When she lifts the now-open bottle to her lips Sonny's shoving the guy away from him by the collar. He tucks a wad of cash into his coat, says something that makes his lips curl up as he does so, and then leaves the store.

"Son of a bitch," he says when he climbs into the car. The old man is watching them. June lets her hair fall over her face, wonders if he realizes the two of them showed up together. "Wanted to fucking talk, like we ain't been over this. Fucking asshole."

"You get your money?" she says, and offers him the opened bottle. He takes a swig, hands it back. Starts the car up.

"'Course I did."

"You got anywhere else to hit tonight?"

"Naw. Told titi I'd take you home early, didn't I?"

"Right," she says, and takes a sip of her coke. The ride back is mostly quiet, some Rolling Stones song playing on the radio. When she looks at Sonny he looks strange, the shadows from other cars driving past them throwing his features into sharp contrast. As they near the high school she says, "Hey. Pull up in the back real quick."

He glances at her. "What for?"

"You ain't ever sneak in?"

"Into the school? Blue, I ain't been back since I finished out last year."

"My momma's still mad about that."

"That's fine," he says, but pulls into the back parking lot like she told him to.

"Park closer."

"What for?"

"You really ain't gone in after hours, huh?"

He parks a few spots down from the pool door. June feels giddy.

"What are we here for?" Sonny asks her.

"C'mon," she says, climbing out of the car, "trust me."

"You into breaking 'n' entering now, huh? Maybe we should let broads do their own jobs."

"Don't be stupid," she drawls, "'s just the pool. When's the last you went swimming?"

"August," he says, "when it was summer." He doesn't look terribly impressed with her when she turns to make sure he's following, but there's a glint in his eye that has her jiggling the doorknob just a bit less carefully than she normally would. She double checks it once it's open, figures it's fine. Once inside it's the same view as always, almost like the room is glowing. She can't keep the grin off her face.

Sonny whistles. "When'd you figure this out?"

"May," she says, "forgot a book."

"Aw, June," he says, and laughs when she shoves at him. "You really about to jump in now? It's cold already."

"It's barely October," she says, sweeping the room with her eyes instinctually. She's glad she wore a skirt today, gladder still she didn't bother with tights, even if she was cold on her walk home from school. She takes a seat near the shallow end, dipping her legs in up to her knee and watching Sonny pace around the room.

"You ain't run into nobody down here?"

"'S nearly ten," she says, "who's gonna be around?"

"Nobody knows about the door?"

She shrugs. "Dunno. Ain't seen anyone here before."

"You come around a lot?"

"Sometimes."

Sonny nods. Keeps prowling around, like he can't get himself to sit still. He's usually more easy-going, but June figures he's still thinking about the store and whatever work they might have him doing over the weekend. They usually send him out for collections, anyway. No doubt there's some other place in King territory he'll need to hit up; if it were June, she'd probably be thinking about it, too.

He might as well be her brother, she thinks. They've always been close enough. He's always looked after her like one, anyway. Did he know? Thoughts of her father's—other family are still hovering over her, lingering like something at the corner of her eye that disappears the second she tries to face it head on. Her momma must know, but then, that might not mean anything. Her momma knows Sonny runs with the River Kings and they're still here, after all, post-job.

She says, "What's got you worked up? That wasn't a bad job."

He comes to sit next to her, puts his shoes and socks next to hers and puts his feet in the water, too. Says nothing for a moment, more like himself than he's been since they got there. Almost calm.

"They're giving me a new job," he says finally.

June, kicking her feet the slightest bit in the water, stills. Turns her head to look at him, even if he's staring out at the rest of the room. "Yeah? New responsibilities, then?"

"I can't tell you," he says. Voice a little empty, suddenly. "This ain't women's work, you know. You probably shouldn't even be coming 'round, now, with your daddy gone."

She stiffens. "You telling me to get lost?"

"Naw," he says, "just reminding you."

"I don't need no reminding. I can take care of myself."

"Didn't say you couldn't," he says. Takes a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket and then just holds them. "Still can't tell you 'bout the job, 's all."

"Fine," she says. Looks away, knows it's clear she's not happy about it. Says, instead, "What do you remember about my daddy, anyway?"

"Plenty," Sonny says slowly, "ain't been a year since—you know."

"Yeah." June says nothing for a long moment, lets her legs float up on the water. Looks at Sonny again, says, "They mentioned him in the paper this week."

"What?"

"Mhm," she says, brings a hand up to chew on her thumbnail. She fixes him with a look she learned from her momma, watches as it makes him straighten up from his slouch next to her. She pulls her legs out of the water, sits so that she's facing him head on. Feels—different, all of a sudden. Like a fire's started up in her. "You know he had another family."

She doesn't say it like a question. Sonny flinches.

"You knew." It sounds like an accusation. It hurts, just saying it.

"I heard some things," Sonny says, holding his hands up like she might start hitting him. She did that a lot, growing up. "From Jax. From my ma, even, but you know I ain't listening to a word she says when she's doped up."

"He has three sons," June says, jaw tight, watches Sonny's eyebrows furrow in something like confusion. "What'd you hear?"

"Like I said, I only heard a couple'a things," he says. "Nothing big. Something about the wife, you know, and getting mouths fed. Figured it was shit your ma ain't tell you. Why's he in the paper if he's been dead for months?"

"One'a his other kids got caught up on a murder charge," she says. Sonny looks intrigued now. "Guess they ain't much better than us."

"They're white, huh."

"You know how them kids act, don't you? Fixing to forget there's a bunch of colored folks in this town."

Sonny rubs his jaw. He has a pitiful attempt at a beard going; makes him look even younger. "I could never figure out if your ma knew the full story."

"What, like you do? You think he can hide a whole family?"

"He hid it from you."

"Yeah," June says, eyes a little hot. "But I'm his kid. I ain't gonna question it."

Sonny shrugs. "Don't matter much, really. He's dead now. Can't nobody share him anymore."

June tries not to let herself recoil when he says that. He's right. He's always right. Says, "Guess I don't like the thought of having kin out there that I don't know."

"Don't everybody?" Sonny says, and then taps her knee. "C'mon. Titi didn't want you home late. Let's go."

He gets up out of the water. Doesn't wait for June, doesn't wait to see if she follows.

Sonny's right. June knows this. Doesn't mean she likes it.

Doesn't even mean she can keep it out of her head. Gets home from school the next day, gets the boys a snack and then marches to her mother's room. Goes straight for the closet and pulls the box full of her father's things out from her closet. She has photos of him in her room—the two of them when she was a baby, the three of them at her fourteenth birthday. That smile on both of them, a smile her mother says June has, too.

Her mother's done her best to tuck all the pieces of her father into this box. Barely cried when they got the news, one of the Kings coming by the day after the crash to tell them. She was torn between fury and sorrow, like she couldn't believe that she was still the last to know.

June doesn't know how else they could have found out. Still remembers the way everything had slowed down when the words were said. Remembers how she was sitting at the kitchen table, how she tried to stand up but couldn't lift her feet, suddenly. How her mother stood in the hall for a long moment and neither said anything. She doesn't want to feel that way ever again. Finds she feels similarly, now, looking through her dead father's pictures and clothes and old letters he must have written her mother.

She shouldn't open them, but she does. Tries to match her father's handwriting to his personality, the looping letters written like he had too much energy to get them to fit together. Her mother's are careful, neat. She reads them tell each other I love you over and over and over and doesn't understand how it can be true. Sees her name mentioned, finds letters from before and after she was born and feels like someone's cracked an egg over her head, cold seeping through her nerves.

Reads the names Darrel Jr., Sodapop, Ponyboy. Still wrapping her head around the latter two, tests the names out herself. Says Junior, too, just to see what it sounds like. She reads a letter saying his wife is pregnant again, finds one that says he loves her mother just as much. Believe me, Faye, I want to be there as badly as you want me there. Swallows it like it's a lie her mother couldn't see through.

Feels crazy, suddenly. Like she's learned too much, like she knows more than she was ever meant to. Three boys with her blood are living in the city and her mother knew about them. She had proof of this whole other family that's existed longer than June's been alive, and never said anything about it to June. Was this supposed to be a secret? Were his—were his two families going to be kept separated by dumb luck and Tulsa's splitting their citizens up according to what color they were? Her daddy was part Mexican, after all, but not enough that he was stuck in the Southeast like them. Like Sonny. Like all the mixed kids in Brumly and further, besides.

Downstairs, one of the boys calls for her. She swallows, throat feeling full. Tucks almost everything back in that damned box and puts it back in the closet like she wasn't there in the first place, something like a plan fermenting in her heart.

Her auntie's home early today, but her mother's working late again. She needs to leave the house. Looks at her aunt—brittle-looking, tired—and tries to ignore the guilt at the lie she's cooking up as she prepares dinner. Feeds all of them except herself. Isn't quite sure if what she's got in mind requires she have a full stomach.

"Auntie," she says, when the boys have gone to wash up and the dishes are all washed, a plate left on the stove for her mother, "I need to go to the library."

Her aunt blinks at her. She's thinner than she used to be. She started putting weight on once the heat of the summer started to fade, but it's starting slipping from her again. Earns her worried looks from June's mother, even though Celeste is two years older. She stayed on the rez longest out of her siblings, married real young and then lost the first husband in an accident that no one likes to talk about. She married the boy's father a few years after that, had the boys in quick succession. Then she got sick and their daddy left them and now June's momma does her best to take care of all of the, five people in a house that only ever saw her and June on the daily.

She's sick enough that June knows she's taking advantage of it when she says, "I can walk over there, don't worry."

"Are you sure?" she says. She sounds exhausted. Good.

"Yeah," she says, "I need to pick up a book for my chemistry report."

"It can't wait for tomorrow?" she asks. "It's late, honey. Maybe I can drive you over in the afternoon."

"I'll be fine," she says, and dries her hands on a dish towel. "Do you need anything while I'm out?" Unlike her mother, who needs to be cajoled, June knows her auntie will give in if she thinks it's a lost cause. She's perfected these interactions, long before Celeste ever moved in.

There's an old envelope burning a hole in her pocket, her father's loopy handwriting doing little to hide the address from prying eyes. June knows this city well even if she sticks to King territory. She's heading somewhere tonight, and there's no stopping her.

Celeste hesitates for a moment longer, then sighs. Nods her head.

"Alright, sweetheart," she says, "you be careful now, alright?"

"I will, Auntie," June says, and slips out the front door this time—like it's nothing. It's nothing. She keeps telling herself that, as she walks down the streets and bus aisles and passed buildings that are almost as rundown as the places on her side of town. It's nothing.

Nothing, like the house whose address matches the one in her daddy's handwriting, fenced and looking worse for wear. The gate ain't even pulled shut. What kind of place is this, she wonders, that they got no problem leaving it like that? The rest of the block ain't much better, after all.

She's going to be fine because she has to be, but when she knocks on the door and a large man—red sideburns, light eyes—opens the door and gives her a funny look, she has no choice but to say, quickly, words nearly slurred, "I'm here for Darrel Curtis. Junior."

Maybe she should have thought more about what she wanted to say, or what should be said, but June being there is like scratching an itch. She just knows she needs to do it. Besides, there's no real way to prepare herself for the shock of seeing him. It's like looking at her dead daddy—if it weren't for the eyes. Those aren't her eyes, too close to green or blue. But it's the same face.

"Can I help you?" Darrel Curtis Jr. asks her, and her breath gets caught in her throat. It smells like chocolate cake, for some reason. June wonders if she's imagining it.

"Maybe," she says, clutching the envelope with its letter and staring at her brother like she's seen a ghost. Wonders what he thinks of her, for a second, and says, "I've got a few questions about our daddy, and I figured you could help," watching closely as his whole expression twists up. Sees herself mirrored in it. Thinks it might even be comforting, to have so much in common already with a stranger.

When he phoned the next morning from another state,
saying that, after our dance,
after my exit, in full view of all the guests,
the waiters at long tables
of open bars, she lunged at him, tearing his tux,
his dress shirt, scratching his chest,
drawing blood with her nails, demanding a response:
"Why can't you only love me?"

wasn't he describing me, our drama: our act,
our scene?

(Elise Paschen, "Voir Dire")