THE GRAVITY Of US

CHAPTER 2

"You don’t get to collapse. Not when they’re waiting on the other side of the door."

I get off the B41 bus two stops early because I need the walk. Not because it’s good for me or any of that crap, but because if I go straight home right now, I might scream. And the last thing the kids need is more noise.

My shoes are soaked through. It rained hard while I was still on barista duty, and I had to run to the corner bodega for bread before the shift ended. Now the paper bag’s ripped at the bottom, the loaf of sandwich bread bent like a dying flower under my arm. I should be mad. I should be tired.

But I don’t feel anything.

Just... flat.

Numb.

Dead inside, as Elijah would say when he’s being dramatic. Except I don’t get the luxury of dramatics.

I hit the second floor of our building, key already between my fingers, and I can hear them before I reach the door.

Lani’s voice, high and bright, echoing through the thin walls.

The twins are arguing. Again.

Someone knocks something over.

And there it is — Elijah’s voice. Sharp, low, tired. My chest tightens.

I twist the key. The door sticks.

Three seconds of jiggling, pushing.

Then I’m in.

The smell hits first — overcooked eggs, kid sweat, fabric softener that barely works. The lights are too bright. Someone left the bathroom door open again and the hallway’s half- flooded with steam. And in the middle of it all:

Chaos.

“Criselda!” Lani screeches and runs at me with full toddler speed.

The bread bag rips completely and the loaf hits the floor. I barely manage to squat down in time to catch her.

She wraps her arms around my neck, tiny hands sticky, hair smelling like crayons and cheap apple shampoo.

“You said you’d be home before the sky turned dark!”

“I know, baby.” I hold her tight, ignoring the way her knees dig into my hip. “Sorry. Got stuck at work.”

“You said you’d make rice and sausages.”

“I’ll do it now, okay? You hungry?”

She nods like I asked if she wanted to live forever. I force myself to smile. “Go sit. I’ll bring it.”

She runs off, curls bouncing.

I stand slowly. My knees ache. The apartment’s a war zone.

Backpacks tossed in the hall, dishes stacked in the sink from breakfast. The couch has three different blankets folded in three different ways because Myra insists on being the “comfort captain.” Crayon drawings are taped to the fridge, crooked. A schedule I made two months ago — color-coded, hopeful — peeks from under a stack of unpaid bills.

Elijah’s sitting at the tiny dining table, hoodie on, face unreadable. “Hey,” I say softly.

He doesn’t look up.

“Homework?”

He shrugs.

Jonah’s on the floor in the living room with his tablet, the screen so dim I’m not even sure he can see. Myra’s sitting cross-legged beside him, organizing crayons by shade, wearing her “grown-up” reading glasses she got from a thrift store for 50 cents.

“Who fought?” I ask.

Myra doesn’t look up. “No one.”

“Elijah?”

“I didn’t touch anybody,” he mutters.

I glance at the overturned stool by the table, the faint red mark on Myra’s cheek, the silence pressing into the corners.

Right.

No one.

I go to the kitchen. The stove’s cold. I forgot to set out meat this morning. No sausages.

There’s rice, though. And eggs.

I put the pot on and pretend I don’t hear Myra start crying quietly in the next room.

Thirty minutes later, everyone’s fed.

Elijah eats fast, barely chewing, then disappears into the bedroom and slams the door.

Jonah follows, tablet tucked to his chest like a secret.

Myra lingers at the table, nibbling at her egg with a fork too big for her hand.

Lani’s already asleep on the couch, one sock half-off, fingers curled into the hem of her princess shirt.

It’s the quietest part of the day.

I finally sit.

My back cracks.

I don’t have the energy to clear the plates, but if I don’t, the roaches come. And they’ve already claimed the corners under the sink.

I wash them in silence. The water runs hot, then cold. My fingers prune.

Out the window, Brooklyn hums. Someone’s yelling in Spanish three floors down. A baby’s crying. Sirens again, farther this time.

I want to scream. I want to lie down in the tub and never get up. I want my mom. Instead, I grab a towel, wipe my hands, and head for the girls’ room.

Except we don’t have one.

We don’t have rooms.

We have two bedrooms for five people.

Me and Lani share one. The boys and Myra share the other.

I step over a trail of cereal. The hallway light flickers once, then holds.

Myra’s still at the table when I return. Her fork’s gone but she hasn’t moved.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods, quick. Then: “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

“You had two bad dreams last week already.”

“I know. Just...”

Her lips tremble.

I kneel down in front of her and pull her close.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “You can sleep with me.”

Later, I’m lying in bed with Myra on one side, Lani sprawled across my stomach like a starfish.

I’m not asleep.

I don’t know how to sleep anymore. Not really.

I’m just... horizontal.

Thinking.

Worrying.

The rent’s late. I begged the super for another week.

The twins need new shoes. Myra’s started limping.

Elijah... I don’t know. He’s slipping away. I don’t know how to reach him. I don’t know if I’m supposed to be sister or mother or both.

I miss my mom’s voice.

I miss my dad’s way of making pancakes at 10 p.m. just because we laughed at a joke too hard.

I miss being a kid.

I miss not knowing how hard the world was.

I blink up at the ceiling.

Paint’s peeling in one corner. There’s a water stain like a spreading bruise.

I count the seconds between the drips from the bathroom sink. Six. Seven. Eight.

And then I hear the bedroom door creak.

Elijah.

I sit up carefully.

He’s standing there, hoodie sleeves over his hands, eyes hollow in the dark.

“I didn’t mean to push her,” he says.

I nod.

“I just... I was mad. Not at her.”

“I know.”

“I’m mad all the time, Cris.”

His voice cracks.

My chest does too.

“Me too,” I whisper.

And he comes over.

And lays on the edge of the bed, back turned, curled tight like he used to when he was six.

We don’t talk again.

But we’re all there. In the same bed.

Five broken people.

Trying.

The alarm goes off at 4:58 a.m.

Not 5:00.

Two minutes early gives me a sliver of time that still feels mine. It’s a psychological thing, I guess. A trick I play on myself to believe I’m somehow ahead of the world.

Lani’s leg is across my ribcage. Myra’s breath is soft against my arm. Elijah hasn’t moved, but I can feel the tension in his shoulders through the mattress.

I shut the alarm off and lie there in the dark, not ready to move. There’s nothing soft about mornings in this house.

There’s no quiet, no ease, no luxury of snooze buttons.

When I finally sit up, my lower back burns.

I gently lift Lani’s leg off me, trying not to wake her, but she stirs anyway and clutches my wrist.

“Stay,” she mumbles.

“I have to get ready for work.”

“Just five minutes.”

Five minutes. That’s all anyone ever wants. But five minutes costs everything.

“I’ll come kiss you before I go.”

She lets go.

In the kitchen, I move like a ghost.

Boil water. Wash the pan. Reheat leftover rice. c***k two eggs into a chipped bowl.

Every move is deliberate. Quiet.

The lights stay off as long as possible. I know the routine.

Jonah’s the first to wake after me. Like always, he slips into the kitchen barefoot, silent. I glance down and see him standing there, hands behind his back like he’s afraid to interrupt.

“Hungry?”

He nods once.

I make him a plate and slide it across the table.

He sits, doesn’t eat right away.

Just watches the steam rise.

“Is Elijah still sleeping?” I ask.

He shrugs. Then: “He didn’t sleep. He was staring at the ceiling all night.” I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“And Myra?”

“She’s dreaming. She talks in her sleep.”

“What’d she say?”

Jonah takes a long time to answer. Then:

“She said Mom.”

I close my eyes for one beat.

Two.

Then I open them and flip the second egg. By 6:20, the house is buzzing.

Lani’s screaming because she can’t find her left shoe. Myra’s hair is tangled and she’s mad I won’t let her wear glitter. Elijah’s yelling at Jonah to stop breathing so loud. Someone knocks over the cereal box. Milk spills. The dog next door is barking nonstop and the baby upstairs is crying and my entire head feels like it’s going to split in half.

But somehow, the toothbrushes get used.

The backpacks get zipped.

The school IDs are found, taped, re-taped.

Lunches packed, snacks tossed in plastic bags, kisses planted too fast.

Then I’m holding the front door open, trying to herd them out like wild animals, all while checking the clock on my cracked phone screen. 6:58.

I have two minutes.

“Go straight to school!” I yell after Elijah.

“I’m not an i***t,” he yells back.

“Language!”

He flips a hand in the air without turning around.

Jonah’s already halfway down the steps, eyes on the pavement like he’s trying to memorize it. Myra follows, adjusting her too-big hoodie. Lani stops on the third step and turns back.

“You didn’t say it.”

“Say what?”

“You didn’t say it, Cris.”

I swallow.

“I love you,” I call softly.

“I love you more!” she shouts, arms out like wings. Then she’s gone too.

And the door closes.

And I’m alone.

I don’t get to sit. I barely get to breathe. I change fast, switching from pajamas to my work uniform — black polo, dark jeans, rubber-soled shoes that don’t squeak. I pin my name tag to my shirt like it’s a brand on my skin: CRISELDA. BARISTA.

I shove the cold rice into a container, throw it in my bag, grab my bus pass, and head out. The air bites. My jacket’s too thin, but there’s no time to dwell on that.

By 7:25, I’m on the bus, pressed between a man who smells like sweat and fried dough and a woman muttering a prayer under her breath in Spanish.

I lean my head against the window and try not to cry.

At Cappuccio Prime, everything smells like cinnamon and capitalism.

Glass counters gleam. The marble floors sparkle. The background music is soft jazz, barely noticeable, meant to make rich people feel sophisticated while they spend nine dollars on coffee.

I clock in, tie my apron, fake a smile.

By 8:00, I’m in full performance mode.

“Grande iced Americano, extra espresso shot?”

“Of course. Right away.”

“Sorry, we’re out of oat milk. Would you like almond instead?” “Yes, I can remake that.”

“No, it’s not a problem.”

But it is.

Everything is a problem.

My legs hurt. My back aches. My eyes burn. I haven't peed since yesterday. But none of that matters.

Because I need this job.