Back to Me

By Helene Montalvo

Tommy is twelve years old and has not a worry in the world, that is, until he notices his neighbor, Sarah. Suffering the wrath of her abusive father, Sarah's delicate beauty begins to wither, and Tommy's anger fuels. Determined to protect her, Tommy takes things into his own hands. Can he save her before it's too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Helene Montalvo
• Release date: Jan 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458048875

Helene Montalvo

I have a passion for writing. All of my stories stem from dreams and evolve within my convoluted mind. Like most writers will tell you, I don't write the stories, they pretty much write themselves. My characters talk (and sometimes scream) at me constantly. I must write...I have to write... May you find my works of written art enjoyable. I have a load of stories just waiting to be read, and I endeavor to publish them all someday. Happy reading and may the good Lord be with you.

Book preview

Back To Me

by

Helene Montalvo

Copyright © 2011 by Helene Montalvo

Published at Smashwords

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Chapter 1 - Sirens

I hadn’t really noticed my neighbors before. I knew they were a family of three: a man named Carter Preston, his wife Emma, and their daughter Sarah. They were one of the few white families in a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood, and Mrs. Preston couldn’t work because she’d been sick. They were struggling financially, fitting in perfectly with the rest of the neighborhood.

I’d only known that because my mother invited Emma over to socialize every now and again, and I’d overheard bits and pieces of their conversations as I ran inside for a quick glass of water. They’d lived in their house for as long as I could remember, and I’d lived in mine since birth. Other than that, I knew nothing about them because I never really paid attention – at least, not until that horrible sweltering day.

It was a scorcher. The hottest South Texas summer I’d experienced in my twelve years of existence. You could cook an egg in the shade. True. I actually did about an hour before the gang got together.

We were playing football – my brothers, Mike and Luis, and a bunch of neighborhood boys. Our game took place in the barren land I called my back yard. We were a group of ten running around in nothing but shorts. Our bare feet pounded against the dry, cracked dirt that scorched our skin. Sweat poured from us like millions of tiny faucets had been turned on from within our bodies. Though the fire burned deep into us, the heat was welcomed. It made us feel tough, as if even the elements couldn’t defeat us.

I was staring at the patches of weeds here and there that had survived the sweltering heat, imagining myself standing tall, like the weeds –against all odds. I was immersed in my daydream, growing wildly in the red-hot rays of sun, when I felt something slam against my chest. On instinct I wrapped my hands around the object just as I heard Mike yell, Tommy, run!

It was too late. Just as I realized the ball was in my hands, Luis slammed into me. I hit the ground face first tasting the dirt as it shoved its way into my open mouth. Crumpled up under Luis, I gasped for breath as the other players jumped onto the pile one at a time. The muffled sound of boisterous laughter struggled its way to meet my ears. My lungs begged for air as my body was crushed beneath the weight of each boy. I forced my head to the side, trying to breathe through the dirt, struggling to keep my cool. I had to. There were no tears in football.

A loud shrieking tore everyone’s attention away from the game. It took me a few seconds before I realized what the shrieking sound was.

A siren.

As each person pulled himself off the pile, I could feel the pressure on my body start to ease away until I was able to breathe again. Luis shoved my face back into the dirt and heaved himself off of me before he ran around the house with the rest of the guys.

The world spun as I pulled myself up into sitting position. I coughed and spit a clump of wet dirt out of my mouth. With my arm, I wiped my face, spreading a trail of dirty saliva across my cheek. The gritty mess stuck to my teeth and tongue, so I hocked up some more saliva, swished it around, and spit again to get the rest of the filth out of my mouth. But no matter how much I swished and spit, I never really felt like I’d gotten it all out.

I blinked away a few tears before they could escape and sucked in a slow, deep breath. As I inhaled, a spasm of pain gripped my chest and squeezed with all its might. I winced, but I did not cry. I’d landed on the football and my chest was paying the price. I looked at the culprit cradled in a lump of weeds beside me and reached over to pick it up. I glared at the ball, as if my eyes alone could destroy it for the pain it had caused me, but decided it would be best to throw it as far away as possible. I heaved it with all my might and watched as it bounced off the hurricane fence and rolled back to my side. A sigh of defeat parted my thirsty lips.

Of every boy in the neighborhood I was the quickest, but I was also the smallest, so the weight of the team left me sore and unsteady. I sat for a moment, listening to the siren increase in volume. It didn’t fade away but cut off abruptly, and I knew it had to have stopped somewhere on our street. I contemplated staying on the ground, watching the large red ants scurry about in search of food, but curiosity got the best of me. As soon as I gathered enough strength, I jumped to my feet and followed the sounds that flowed between the