Page 6 of Contested

Marcos did not move.

He sat with his legs crossed on the floor of the family room, one knee wedged under the edge of the low coffee table that had been there since before his legs had gotten too long to sit under it comfortably. The carpet beneath him was flattened in the places where all of them sat too often, worn down between the couch and the television, and there was a faint permanent lean in the old armchair near the window from years of Greg dropping into it after work.

The room itself had a good structure. The rest of the house did too. High ceilings, neat cornices, old stained glass in the front window that turned the grey evening outside into broken pieces of colour.

It was home. It had been all Marcos’ life.

His shorts rode high on his thighs, and his loose tank top’s arm holes hung low enough to show almost the entire side of his torso. He had come back from training, showered, eaten two bananas over the sink, and ended up on the family room floor because Paula had slapped a deck of cards against his chest and challenged him without needing to say anything.

Two cards rested on his knee. Three more sat face-up between him and Paula, along with a messy pile of cheap plastic chips from a poker set.

Paula sat opposite him with one foot tucked under her leg and the other stretched out to kick his shin if required. She was fifteen and had inherited enough of the same features Marcos did from their mother that people still made comments about it when they saw them together. Same eyes, same stubborn mouth, same expression when they thought someone was being stupid. Hers sat a little sharper on her. Slimmer and more precise. She wore her long dark hair down, and it kept falling forward while she studied the cards between them, brushing the carpet.

She glanced at her two cards, then at Marcos.

He raised his eyebrow and signed, ‘You gonna call? Raise?’

Paula tilted her head. Her eyes flicked from his hands to his face, then down to the cards again. She threw one of her chips into the pile between them and met his gaze with the kind of calm that usually meant she was either bluffing or about to make him look stupid.

Marcos smiled. He liked games with Paula because she treated dignity as part of the rules. Cards, racing games, Uno, and rock paper scissors when Becca needed someone to decide who had to take the bin out, all received the same cold focus. Paula did not play casually. Paula always played to win.

They had that in common, too.

Marcos turned the fourth card between them over, then lifted his head enough to call back to his mother in Spanish, “I’ll be there in a second.”

Paula’s attention shifted to his mouth, then his hands when he turned back to her. ‘What was that?’

‘Mum needs help,’ Marcos replied, then threw another chip into the centre.

A floorboard shifted near the doorway before Becca appeared, already wearing the expression of someone who had heard enough to be curious. Her music was still playing down the hall.

“I thought she was just yelling,” Becca said, walking into the room and throwing herself down on the couch, causing it to dip in the middle. Her gaze swept the room, and Marcos followed it.

The coffee table had pale rings on it from mugs no one had bothered to put coasters under. A basket of folded laundry sat near the doorway because someone had put it there two nights ago, and everyone had decided to walk around it since, picking what they needed when they needed it. The television remote had tape around the battery cover, and the cabinet below it was still full of DVDs, which Marcos insisted they use instead of streaming.

When his eyes landed on Becca again, she was already staring at him, brow knotted.

She had turned eleven earlier in the year and had decided no one in the family impressed her. She was the youngest of the three siblings. Light brown hair cut just short of her shoulders, hazel eyes bigger than Marcos’ and Paula’s, face taking more from Greg than Diana, which made her the odd one out in a household.

She stretched across the couch on her stomach and craned her neck toward Paula’s cards.

“I see your Español is coming along then,” Marcos said, glancing at Becca as she shifted to get a better angle.

“I’m still struggling with English. Give me a break.”

Marcos nodded and signed through the conversation for Paula, who smirked before dropping her cards and answering, ‘She also sucks at signing.’

“I know enough to know what you’re saying!” Becca exclaimed, shoving Paula with her foot.

Paula pushed her foot away keeping her eyes forward.

Marcos shook his head and signed as he spoke. “Go and help Mum, Bec.”

“Why do I have to?”

“Because I’m just about to beat Paula at poker. I’ll come out after.”

Becca groaned, pushing herself up off the couch with a dramatic effort. She dragged her feet toward the hallway, muttering as she went, “You probably suck at poker like you suck at football.”