Alvaro 'Curly' Navarro | D1 | Done

Alvaro 'Curly' Navarro

Fifteen

Male

District One

Forgive, but never forget.

Curly’s father had etched the motto into the wall of the studio apartment after a late night of drinking when Curly was about seven. Took a knife and went right through the old sunflower wallpaper down into the crumbling drywall.

The world was constantly tossing hardship to both of them, tempest-tossed and struggling to right their floundering ship. His father was as able a captain as he could see, soaking in the storm and swearing at the heavens but still keeping them afloat.

He’d been five when his mother left.

There was an argument that started in the kitchen over a little figurine Curly’d made for her birthday. His father had tried to spread out groceries over the countertop and knocked the thing to floor, shattering it to bits and pieces. So she started to scream at him about how clumsy he was. Curly remembers her shoving him and his father grabbing her wrists, the two of them swearing at one another. They looked like animals going after one another, like dogs snapping at one another on the street, one going for the other’s neck. Teeth bared, ready to leave a mark.

It was the hundredth time they’d yelled at each other about nothing at all. Curly felt as though it was the way adults proved themselves: arguing with one another was just the best way to express how they felt about one another. Shoving and yelling, that showed who was the real winner at the end of it all.

But there were only so many times that she could lose, he supposed. So many times his father, a trainer that made too little money and spent too much of it on what he wanted could keep her happy.

He thought then that there would be two worlds, the two of them splitting in half. He knew boys that saw their fathers on weekends (weekend daddies, they called them).

But that was as much a fantasy as the thought he and his dog Pancake would fly in the cardboard box turned spaceship sitting in the middle of the sitting room. When she knelt down to hug him, the weight of her arms told a different story. She wasn’t coming back, and she wouldn’t be sending for him, either.

He memorized the curl of her smile, the wrap she’d used to tie up her hair. The hoop earrings shining gold in early morning sunlight. The way her voice told him that someday, he’d understand what it all was about.

What a lie that was.

At least Curly could thank his father for teaching him how to fight. He’d been called a runt one too many times for his liking, and since there was going to be no crying in their household, he was to learn how to break a man in two with his fists. After all, one good punch to the throat would shut them right-the-fuck-up.

And maybe he didn’t win all the time. But he also lived by his father’s other motto:

I’d rather see them lose, than me win.

Crack a tooth. Break a rib. Smash a nose. At least they’d remember who they were dealing with.

So how did he wind up with the lost?

His father’s ship ran aground. Not that he didn’t try his damnedest; he fell prey to all the desperation of keeping his son fed and happy in a world that wouldn’t let him. For as the bills piled up, and the nights got colder, his father took to seedier interests. Little robberies from bigger houses that shouldn’t have missed what they were taking. Pickpocketing the stupid and idle. Turning over his credit to someone who could stave off getting thrown out of their apartment for just another month.

And when the time came to make a choice that was so stupid, and so costly, he had no reason not to.

He left Curly alone, save for his loyal hound Pancake.

Arrested and put away for who knew how long. Poor, unhandsome, and without a family, his father would not be one of the lucky ones.

Evicted from his home and left to fend for himself on the street, Curly took time to find himself before he found Peter.

Here was a boy with a smile and a dream, and a home. Curly couldn’t care if it wasn’t much. He would protect the king, so long as the others understood he wasn’t one for nonsense. That, and that there was space for Pancake, too.

Pancake remains his pride and joy. She’s a fifty-pound golden mutt, with a goofy grin and a wagging tail for anyone that offers plenty of pets. She’s his north star toward happier times; a piece of his past that doesn’t remind him of all that he’s been through. A contrast to the sour look he keeps from time to time, or the seriousness he wears over his shoulders like his signature tank top.

Peter is his king, his liege, his savior from a life on the street and having to make even harder choices. He may not always believe in his dreams, but he’ll defend Peter’s wish to have them until his dying breath.

He’s quick to cast doubt on things, moody, unconventional in his understanding of friendship. He doesn’t see himself as a leader, or a follower, but someone that gets down to business. He wishes they would all stop acting like children so goddamn much. He has to learn not to speak with his hands, to bury down how much things hurt when he’s least expecting it, and that wouldn’t it have been so much better if he was born into a family that had all the money in the world?

He’s scared to death of losing the rest of them, you know? Every year that passes, and he wonders what will happen when they grow up and go off onto new lives. They’ll forget him, won’t they? And why wouldn’t they. He’s unpleasant at best and hard to love at the worst. He’s the sort of person they’d talk about when he left the room, wondering why he couldn’t just be a little bit nicer rather than thrashing out at the rest of them every chance he got.

He loves them. He’d never admit it. And he certainly wouldn’t ever tell them. Who would he be if he didn’t stand tough, and tall? Even if he was on the shorter side.

He wishes he could burn off all his anger into something new. Like a piece of coal under so much pressure that he could turn into a diamond. But he knows he’s just going to wind up burned up, another scrap of coal for the dustbin.

At least he has them, though.

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