by Mary Frame
Tears burn behind my eyes but I refuse to let them fall.
Scarlett would tell me to find the bright side. She’s the only person who really understands me. But she moved to New York last year and now she’s starting some kind of food truck so she can pay her big-city rent and she’s too busy to deal with my problems.
I take a deep breath and try and look at the positive aspects of my current situation.
It’s the basis of cognitive behavioral therapy—imitating optimism and the things you want in your life to help you actualize them.
I take a deep breath. Okay. Here we go. Bright side. I didn’t want to live with Abby anyway. Going home is better. More comfortable. I’ll actually get some sleep. I won’t be derided constantly. I won’t have to see people so much. People don’t generally like me and I’ve never gotten close enough to determine if I like them either.
I’ll have more time to myself. I won’t be expected to socialize. I won’t be judged for my lack of fancy clothes, my affinity for books, or the way I talk.
The only thing I’ll have to deal with at home is Granny.
The thought makes me wince.
She might be more trouble than it’s worth.
I pull out of the dorm parking lot and into traffic, glancing back to watch the building disappear in my rear view.
The first day I moved into the dorms, Abby took one look at my plain T-shirt and simple haircut and rolled her eyes. Then she saw my advanced class schedule and things really went downhill.
I was never cool enough. Pretty enough. Social enough. Never enough enough to be friends with her and her clique. Or anyone really.
I throw away the memories of the past year living with Abby and the hell that came with it. I have more important issues to contend with.
I pass through Main Street and head north, past the Frostee Freeze, where the popular kids gather for burgers and ice cream, past the movie theater that only has two showings on weekends, all places I don’t go.
I wave at ol’ Roy, a local homeless man who sits outside the H-E-B and waves at everyone who drives by. Well, almost everyone.
He doesn’t see me.
He never does.
Sigh.
I pass the sign at the city limits. Now leaving Blue Falls. Y’all come back now, ya hear! The blue cartoon boar painted on the corner is forever frozen with an eternal smile, waving one hoof in the air.
Five minutes later, I’m navigating down the wide gravel drive toward home.
Granny is on the porch, sitting in a bright-yellow chair, her red overalls clashing with the navy blue of the large barn-style front door. The giant ranch house is painted in a variety of eclectic colors—orange shutters, red trim, blue shingles—and yet it somehow works in a weird, artsy, avant-garde way. Just like my parents, colorful and weird.
It’s good to be home. Except . . . Granny’s holding a shotgun.
Not necessarily an unusual sight.
I get out and pop the trunk, grabbing my backpack. “Are you shooting rabbits in the front yard again?” I call out when I’m nearly to the porch steps.
She loves to Elmer Fudd her way around the front yard, chasing those wiley wabbits and yelling about how they eat her lettuce and turnips and poop all over her grass. “Nope. Got a call from the university today.”
Well, crap on Copernicus. “I can explain—”
“You get right back in that car and go on back to school, you hear?” She stands up, still holding the gun.
“But I have nowhere to live. I got . . . they kicked me out of the dorms. There’s nowhere else for me to stay.”
She’s shaking her head before I even finish my story or have a chance to explain fully. “You can’t stay here, Tootsie Roll. You need to find your own way. It’s like I always say, life is like a box of condoms. You need to use them for good living or protection. But . . . you know, the terms aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“What?” That doesn’t make sense. Not that anything Granny says ever really makes sense. She’s always mixing up her expressions and making up random ones.
“It’s for your own good, okay? Oh, and take the bag of clothes there with you.” She motions with the gun to a brown paper grocery bag. “It’s about time you got back. I love you and I’ll see you on Sunday for dinner. Get on back now.” She makes a shooing gesture with the gun.
I pick up the bag, recognizing the bright shirt folded neatly on top—one I bought on a shopping trip with Scarlett before I started high school, years ago.
“You’re not going to shoot me.”
She cocks the gun, but keeps it pointed at the deck. “You sure about that?”
I’m not.
Maybe she won’t shoot to kill, but to frighten and potentially maim? Wouldn’t put it past her.
Everyone in my family has been pushing me to socialize and make friends and “get out there.” Well, now I’ve been out there. I know Granny thinks this is some kind of tough love gesture, but right now it’s more tough than love.
We stare at each other, a game of chicken I’ve played with Granny before, but never when she had a shotgun in her hand.
And I’ve never won.
Therefore, it’s not surprising when I blink first.
“I wish I had a normal family!” I yell over my shoulder while setting my backpack and now an extra bag of clothes in the trunk.
“Wish in one hand, shit in the other,” Granny calls back. “You tell me which hand gets filled first.”
And this is how I become homeless. Will I have to sleep in my car? It’s a 1967 two-door Volkswagen Beetle. Not exactly livable space.
Maybe I should call Scarlett again. Tell her what’s going on. She could talk sense into Granny. Maybe.
But beyond that, I can’t ask for anything. She can’t send me money she doesn’t have to spare, and even if she could, where would I go? The roach motel on the south edge of town? Even that is likely full at the moment.
I take a deep breath. I can do this. I’m going to solve this problem on my own. I’m an adult. Nineteen years old.
The lump in my throat expands, despite the pep talk.
I guess I’ll try the housing center first.
Thankfully, the office isn’t too busy. Probably because it’s a month into the semester and everyone has a place to live by now.
The two clerks have students in front of them, but there’s no line. I stand behind the yellow tape and wait my turn.
The door opens behind me, letting in a too-warm breeze despite the fact that it’s nearly October, and I turn my head.
It’s him.
Fitz.
Abby’s boyfriend. Or ex-boyfriend, I reckon.
He’s in the same clothes from early this morning, except he’s added a ball cap tugged down low over his eyes.
We lock gazes and as soon as the flash of recognition hits his face, I flip around like a rabbit running from a snake.
My face burns. Smoldering. Combusting.
I still can’t believe he thought I was watching Abby and her faux beau do it on the floor. Like I ever wanted any part of it. The way he looked at me . . . like I was some kind of freak.
She’s got special needs.
I shake the thought away and tug at my shorts. Glancing down, I notice a dark ink stain right near the crotch, next to a greyish brown dirt smudge, probably from moving boxes. Ugh.
I straighten my spine and focus on the clerks behind the counter, remembering that Fitz doesn’t matter. What he thinks of me is irrelevant. He’s probably just like Abby, who delighted in making comments like, I love how you don’t care what people think, and Is that really the look you’re going for? or You look pretty in your own way, I suppose. Insults sometimes disguised as compliments and sometimes not, meant to make me feel as small as possible.
Did it make her feel bigger?
One of the students at the counter steps away and I shrug off my thoughts. It’s all over now. With any luck, I’ll never see Abby Summers again.
My face, already enflamed, heats even further while I bend over to pick up the items, apologizing at least three times before saying in a breathless rush, “I’m so sorry but I need a home. I mean, I have a home but I can’t go back there because I might get shot.”
The clerk stares at me, wide-eyed.
And this is why I don’t talk to folks I don’t know. It’s like my brain jams up and the words get muddled and hazy or pop outta my mouth like Mexican jumping beans.
“I mean . . .” I take a deep breath and focus. “I’m looking for housing. Is there anywhere for rent?”
In my periphery, Fitz steps up to the other clerk. He says something, much more coherently than I managed, I’m sure, but I keep my gaze focused on the brunette in front of me and try not to listen.
Then the two workers speak at once. “Check the bulletin board.”
My ears prick. It’s like surround sound in here.
Fitz’s eyes lock on mine, tangled together for a hot second. Then we’re in motion, speed walking to the board in the corner. It’s mostly empty—save for the Blue Falls Fighting Boars sticker up in one corner and there, in the center, a lone piece of paper.
Although we reach it at the same time, he’s faster and lengthier. His hand snatches the sheet and then he’s walking away without another word, long legs carrying him out the door.
I gape after him.
I can’t believe it. He’s the reason I’m homeless to begin with. If he hadn’t come barging into my room, starting a brawl with his erstwhile girlfriend and her paramour, this wouldn’t have happened.
The past twenty-four hours have been a nightmare of which I had no control and he . . . now he . . .
My heart is racing in my chest, pumping my veins with something I’m not used to. My breathing increases.
I’m angry.
No. I’m so mad I could spit.
This isn’t fair. None of it is my fault. I let it slide when Abby partied in our room at all hours. I didn’t complain when she made snide remarks about my clothes, my books, my everything.
All my life I’ve let other people dictate what I do. I didn’t even really want to go to college. I could have learned just as much on my own. But my parents made me and I acquiesced, because that’s what I do.
Then Scarlett moved out and she’s the one who convinced me to live in the dorms. Told me I needed to learn how to adapt, since high school was such a bust. It would be different, she said. People change as they get older.
My own Granny won’t even let me go home. And now this . . . this guy, is going to take away the only opportunity I have left? Like I don’t matter?
There’s a roaring in my ears, a giant wave crashing all around me.
I won’t be shoved around. I can’t be invisible. Not anymore. Even if it means embarrassment and shame and acting a fool. I’ve already gone through all that for the last five years and look where that got me.
Slamming against the door with more force than intended—which is a terrible idea because it takes me a full five seconds to realize it’s pull and not push—I eventually make it through and down the sidewalk after Fitz.
My heart thumps in time with my feet slapping the pavement as I race to keep up with his loping stride. It’s afternoon and there aren’t many students walking around so I don’t have any problems spotting Fitz’s lanky form up ahead on the sidewalk.
He stops suddenly and turns to face me, shrugging his backpack up further on his shoulders.
“Why are you following me?” he asks, voice rough.
I’m worse than a deer in headlights. I’m a mole. A muskrat. A bat that’s lived in a cave alone for so long it can’t comprehend the screech of fellow mammals. I mentally pry my tongue from the roof of my mouth and clench my anger like a weapon.
“You can’t take the whole flyer,” I manage without sounding like a loon. Progress. Maybe if I keep the sentences short and to the point, then my brain won’t get off track.
“Looks like that’s what I did.” He turns and keeps walking.
I continue to trail behind him.
“Stop following me,” he calls over his shoulder, speeding up even more.
“Maybe there will be more than one room.”
“If there isn’t, I’m getting it.”
“But I need a place to live.”
He turns down the next street, legs eating up the sidewalk. “So do I.”
“I have nowhere else.” I push the words out in between panting breaths. I’m running to keep up with his stride. A bead of sweat rolls down my back.
“Me neither.”
“I’m a girl!”
He stops to face me. “That’s sexist.”
He’s right. I shouldn’t have played that card. Also, I’m not really a girl, am I? I’m a woman. My face heats.
Darn it all to Hamlet.
At my silence, he heads up the sidewalk toward a one-story brick house.
This must be the place. It looks like the kind of house a little old lady would live in. Not an old lady like my granny, who makes moonshine and threatens her granddaughter with death and dismemberment, but one who makes cherry pie every day and has a million cats and calls everyone “sweetie.”
There are clean white shutters and a bay window, which from the outside looks like it could be the perfect reading nook.
The place is well maintained, with its neatly mown grass and perfectly trimmed hedges. It all fits the little-old-lady theory except for the two garden gnomes placed in a compromising position in the flower bed. Oh, and the keg on the porch.
I scramble after Fitz, who’s already knocking on the door. The concrete patio is narrow and I push for a place in front of the door next to him.
Our arms brush and I catch a whiff of his cologne, which is actually quite nice smelling even though he looks like hell warmed over and has an attitude lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut.
The door swings open. It’s a scruffy man in a bathrobe. Except it’s not like any robe I’ve ever seen. It’s fancy—a velvety material covered in . . . are those cats?
He’s also holding a sleepy white cat that perfectly matches the felines on his robe.
He is definitely not the little old lady of my imagination, with his longish brown hair and scruffy beard. He vaguely resembles Jesus, actually, the one depicted in the Baptist church Granny goes to, with pale skin and blue eyes.
An old-fashioned wooden pipe sticks out the corner of his mouth, all curved with an ornate stem.
He grins at us around the lip of the pipe, and then out of the bowl blows a stream of bubbles.
Jesus never blew bubbles, at least not in my Sunday school.
“What do we have here?” he asks.
“You have a room for rent?” Fitz holds up the flyer.
Bubble man eyes the flyer, glances down at me, then returns his gaze to Fitz. He pulls the pipe from his mouth and waves it around with his free hand. “You both want it? I charge extra for double tenancy.”
“Do you have more than one room?” I ask.
“Nope. Just the one. One twin bed.” He grins at me.
Heat creeps up my face. What is he suggesting?
At this rate I will be permanently tainted red by the end of the day.
“I’ll take it,” Fitz says quickly.
I speak past my dry mouth. “No, I’ll take it.” I try to step in front of him and Fitz blocks me with one giant foot.
“Babies.” The Jesus look-alike lifts his hands. “Please. No bickering on the porch.” He steps back, opening the door further. “Why don’t y’all come in?”
I follow Fitz into the entryway and then we both follow bubble man into the living room.
After meeting Hugh Hefner in a cat-covered robe, I sort of expected the interior to be a mess. A bac
helor pad. Maybe some street signs on the walls, stained carpets, and patio furniture in the living room. But it’s surprisingly homey. The couch is faded, a loveseat covered in brown roses that may have been red at one point, but otherwise in good shape. The rest of the furniture is comfortable, the wooden floors are clean, and the rugs are simple, a deep, solid red, but nice. More like my imaginary cat lady than crazy college guy. Although he’s older than your average frat boy. Maybe midtwenties. Bubbles notwithstanding.
He sits in a leather recliner and gestures for us to take a seat on the couch with his pipe. “My name’s Jude Parker. But you probably already knew that.”
Fitz speaks. “Actually, I didn’t—”
“Before we get into why you both want to live here, I should inform you of the ground rules to make sure it won’t change your mind. This is a party house.” His eyes land on me. “My business runs on social gatherings. If you complain about noise, you’re out. If you bring unnecessary drama or fighting into my place of residence, you’re out. If you don’t clean up after yourself, you’re out. If you don’t put out, you’re out.”
“What?” My jaw drops.
“I’m okay with all of that,” Fitz says.
I gape at him.
Jude puts up his hands. “It was a joke! Neither of you are my type.” He pauses to set the cat on the ground. The white furball rolls over and stretches out its paws in a sleepy yawn. “And I hope neither of you are allergic to cats because Mr. Bojangles ain’t going nowhere.”
“We don’t want to share a room,” Fitz says. “You have to pick one of us.” He glances over at me and then back at Jude. “And I would like to point out I was here first.”
“We were here at the same time. I need a place to stay too. And it’s his fault I’m homeless.” I jerk my thumb at Fitz.
“It is not my fault—” he starts.
“It is so your—”