Yna had arrived at Canterbury the next day the most determined she had ever been. She had gotten up from bed far earlier than Jobeth’s early morning nudgings; she had munched on her customary Froot Loops-Honey Stars combination to a purposeful, military rhythm; and she had alighted from the school service for the very first time with her chin held up high. She had spent the rest of the night pondering rigorously, and had absolutely no clue yet as to how she could bring Francesca to hurtle into a speeding auto, but she still knew she’d find a way. If she wanted something to happen, it would. Did action heroes cling to itineraries? Did they overthink strategies and stick to strict and unwavering protocol? No, they did not. Ploys like these unfurled best under pressure at the eleventh hour in the nick of time. She believed, despite everything, that there was justice in this world, and that vengeance for Lola Monina must be a thing of nature, spontaneous. Things would just click into place, she assured herself as she shuffled towards the Grade 4 wing. She could feel it. She could really, truly, really truly feel it.
Moments later at the principal’s office, Yna could hardly feel a thing. Continue reading
One night, Yna Santamaria watched a pineapple truck hit Lola Monina, vaulting the old lady to the neighbor’s driveway. It was a very simple incident, consisting mostly of a sizeable white bulk whipping past the screaming Santamaria family at eye level, followed promptly by one sharp tire screech and a De Dios Farms decal—a ring of whole pineapples, like a green-rayed sun—trembling hurriedly away.
Yna’s father ran up to Lola Monina’s motionless mass and, grunting from the rare and sudden bout of physical exertion, lifted it up from the Osorio’s freshly flattened birds of paradise. Yna’s uncle did his part by bellowing one solid obscenity after another into the already empty street, and then griping out loud over pineapple trucks that weren’t supposed to be in gated communities but were thanks to particular families of particular fresh produce empires living in said communities which was a fucking stupid excuse because this fucking place was fucking private and had no need for fucking trucks full of fucking fruit. Yna’s mother did her part by yanking Yna to her chest and holding her tight, placing a hand over her little ten-year-old’s eyes as Yna’s father carried Lola Monina indoors, as if Lola Monina had become a raging, rabid harpy on impact. Continue reading