Page 11 of Satan's Spawn

Mom practically skips to the door, winking back at me before disappearing into the hall. All of this high energy makes me groan as I pick up my notebook and drag my feet out of my room, wishing there was a stealthy way to lockherin a closet instead.

The condo is lightyears ahead of what our three bedroom apartment was in La Jolla. For starters, it’s a corner unit, offering two balconies and tall windows lining all the exterior walls, which gives us a front row seat to the pretty skyline I mentioned earlier. Everything is white, which is quite the contrast to the bright orange and yellow walls mom painted in our previous place.

The minimalist style makes an already large space seem even…larger. With only a few artistic metal sculptures decorating the living room, along with Roman’s portraits of mom and me above the gas fireplace. That’s really it for now. Even though mom hasn’t complained yet, I know it’s only a matter of time before she attempts to add something bright and gaudy to the walls.

Making my way with as much optimism as I can, I stop by the long L shaped kitchen, and reach onto the island to pull a banana from the hanger. Peeling it back, I realize mom is already taking off toward the door, so I make quick strides in an attempt to keep up with her.

“Honey, we’re leaving!” Mom shouts as she opens the front door, and I hear a “good luck” come from the only colorful room in the back that Roman is using as his home studio. Giving Potato a quick pat on the head, I blow him a kiss before entering the hallway, and Mom closes the door behind me.

In a matter of minutes we’re on and off the elevator, banana peel thrown in the trash, and walking down the long lobby with—surprise—all white and black marble walls.

“Everything is so fancy in this building.” I crane my neck to look up at the ceilings, which have actual chandeliers overhead.

“I know, right?” she says through the corner of her lips. “And no color whatsoever.”

This makes me chuckle.

With a push through the spinning doors, the both of us are out of the building and onto the street getting hit in the face with five tons of humidity.

Shit this air is heavy.

It gets hot in La Jolla, but none of that compares to the thick wall of muck I’m breathing in.

I guess this is why southern California is known to have the best weather in the world.

Another reason to get back there. I tell myself.

“So, the great thing about Riverside is that it’s only six short blocks from our condo, which was Roman’s deciding factor on buying here.”

I give her a look, which she interprets immediately. “I mentioned this already, didn’t I?”

“Few times, yeah.” I deadpan, and Mom responds with an apologetic “oopsie”.

As we make our way deeper into the neighborhood, every single detail manages to catch my attention: from rows of ethnic shops, to eateries, even the street art lining the brick walls of buildings on different blocks. I can’t help but give props to this city on the cultural diversity mixed into the roots. It adds a form of beauty that would only be seen in an art gallery like the one Roman’s portraits were displayed back in California.

With over eight hundred languages spoken, which yes I did Google, I’m really starting to see why New York City is considered the melting pot.

“Look.” Mom points to an artist perched on the corner, sketching a couple’s faces on a small easel.

This early in the morning?

I take in this man, who created his own business right in the middle of the street—right in front of an outdoor cafe. Which is a pretty solid advertisement strategy. Tons of people, especially those on dates, watch you work as they eat, drink, and “be merry”.

Nothing screams a memorable, albeit slightly awkward, first date like being forced to sit still and on display while hundreds of people gawk at you for—my eyes dart to the written sign on the small table—fifteen minutes.

“You know…that’s pretty cool. If the art gallery doesn’t work out, at least Roman knows he has options.” I turn my head back to mom who’s grinning at me from the corner of her eye.

“Told ya you’d like it here.”

Okay, pump the brakes, lady.

“It was one compliment, Mom. Not a flag in the ground.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll take the hint.” She holds two hands up in defense.

The sound of screeching and a loud crash makes us both jump, and when we turn to face the sound from the street we find a matte black muscle car slammed into the back of a taxi.

“Uh oh.” Mom winces. “That ones gotta hurt. Car looks expensive.”