Don't Breathe a Word by Holly Cupala

thoughts. “Creed isn’t your real name?” Any more than Triste was mine—but he didn’t have to know that yet.
    â€œOut here, your name represents who you are, and the more vulnerable you are, the tougher you want your name to be. Creed is who I am. If I used to have another name, it doesn’t matter. I’m not that person anymore.”
    Every question he answered left me with a new one. Where had he come from? Who had he been before he became Creed? I wasn’t Joy anymore, I knew. But would my new name show me who I was now?
    â€œWhat about Santos?” From my limited knowledge of Spanish, I knew it meant both “saint” and “damned.”
    â€œHe has that name for a reason.”
    I lowered my voice, even though I was pretty sure I could hear soft breathing coming from the other bedroom. “And May?” I couldn’t fathom what her name was meant to identify. “Is that a fake name, too?”
    â€œThat’s her real name,” Creed said through a yawn, burrowing closer to me in the chill of the night. “She doesn’t have anything to hide.”
    Santos came in long after the rest of us were asleep and the first streaks of grey were making their way across the sky.
    â€œHey,” he said, making me jump.
    I was still asleep next to Creed. Santos looked tired, like a very old spirit trapped in a boy’s body. I didn’t know where he’d been, and I didn’t want to ask. “May in there?” He gestured toward the other room.
    Creed nodded sleepily. Santos slipped in and curled up with her in the early morning light, the two of them like a couple of abandoned puppies.
    â€œAre they . . . ?”
    â€œNo,” Creed said, like it was strangest thing he’d ever heard. “They’re family.”
    â€œWait . . . brother and sister? But . . . how is that . . . possible?” May and Santos looked nothing alike.
    â€œWe’re all family—the only family we’ve got. It doesn’t have to be blood.”
    â€œBut I don’t understand . . . don’t you have real family?” I winced, even as I said it, thinking about my own. A flash moved across his face, then it was gone, and a familiar feeling crept into my stomach. Wrong, wrong, wrong .
    I wanted to say something funny to break the tension. But Creed was serious. Deadly serious.
    â€œYou don’t have to tell me,” I whispered, willing my tone to convey what words couldn’t. I would give anything to know how Creed came to be.
    He didn’t speak. Instead, he slid closer to me and pulled me into his arms. I was too tired to stay awake, too aware of his arms around me and skin against mine and the rhythm of his breathing to even think about falling asleep.

Chapter 16
    When I woke up, I was alone on the mattress with a sliver of sunlight coming into the room. I had no idea what time it was, only that my stomach thought it should be lunch and my head thought I should roll over and go back to sleep. It felt incredible to wake up on something flat and soft, even if springs were poking through several unidentifiable brownish spots. The guitar was gone, too.
    In daylight, it was clear that the house had been condemned for a reason. There was plaster torn away in jagged holes, wooden slats rotting away in a gaping mass. Swirls of dust followed an invisible current around the house . . . an asthma attack waiting to happen.
    Santos was still curled up on the heap of blankets as I crept past, keeping my breathing slow and easy.
    From downstairs came the welcome odor of coffee. Coffee? I no longer questioned the wonders and comforts my new friends were able to conjure. I only hoped they saved some for me.
    May and Creed were sprawled on the couch sipping from Starbucks to-go cups, her legs dangling across his lap. Like one big happy family . They turned to me as I gave the room under the stairs as wide a berth as possible. May