The brick house to our right choked in vines looks like nothing more than a giant hedge, wood slabs boarding up every window and door.
“Well,” Alec says. “She did say there will be more families here. Soon.”
“Guys,” Mom pleads. “This is a great opportunity, and most importantly, it’s a FREE house!”
“Yeah,” I chuckle, crossing my arms. “And you get what you pay for.”
“Free also means being debt-free,” Alec adds, the accountant wheels spinning behind his bright blue eyes. “Think of it as an adventure. We’ll be pioneers!”
“Don’t you mean colonizers,” I snap, “since all of these were clearly already owned by somebody before?”
It’s now Alec’s turn to wince, and it feels justified after the number of times Piper has made Mom uneasy.
Piper yanks at Alec’s arm. “Daddy, can I pick out my room now?”
“Uh, sure, sweetie, sure. Let’s go check them out.”
Alec grasps Piper’s hand as they skip back inside, not bothering to check if his other kids want to pick their room as well. But who am I kidding, Piper is always going to come first.
Mom studies our faces and holds up both of her hands. “Okay. So, I know you’re both . . . apprehensive. But look on the bright side: if it doesn’t work out, we’re only required to stay here for three years.”
“Three years!” we scream.
“That’s how the residency works. This will be a fresh, debt-free start. For all of us. Which is exactly what we need.” She looks at me. “Right, Marigold?”
Ah, of course. Debt-free is needed since my stay at Strawberry Pines Rehabilitation Center wasn’t exactly cheap. Just short of tuition at an Ivy League college. This is a test. Most scenarios will play out like this from now on. And I can’t fail, or I’ll relinquish the minuscule freedom they’ve promised to give me.
So I bite my tongue and spit out the practice mantra. “Change is good. Change is necessary. Change is needed.”
Sammy rolls his eyes. “If you say so, Oprah.”
Honk honk!
The moving truck pulls up behind us.
“Just in time,” Sammy says. “Our old life has arrived.”
Mom dusts off her hands. “Sammy, run inside and get Alec. Marigold, can you start taking stuff out of the van? I don’t want those herbs to wilt and Buddy to melt.”
The van doors slide open and Buddy leaps out, licking my face as if we’ve been gone forever. Gotta love dogs for their unconditional love.
“Hey,” Mom says, approaching the drivers. “Thought you were supposed to be here this morning. What happened?”
One of the movers I recognize from California hops out of the truck as the others roll up the back door, unloading the ramp.
“Yeah, service is terrible around here! We stopped to ask for directions, but no one’s ever heard of this Maple Street.”
“Really? Who’d you ask?”
He chuckles and points behind us. “Your neighbors.”
Up the road, across Sweetwater Avenue, life has sprung up in the form of bodies trickling out of houses, standing on the half-dead lawns, staring back at us in silence.
“Whoa,” I mumble. Coming from a small white town, this is the most Black people I’ve ever seen in real life.
Gotta show Tamara!
I grab my cell phone from my pocket and Mom shoves my arm down.
“Marigold,” she whispers. “Don’t take pictures of people without asking them. It’s rude.”
“Don’t you think they’re being rude? They’re staring like we’re a pack of circus freaks.”
“Maybe it’s your beach cover-up, flip-flops, and hemp jewelry that’s making them stare,” Sammy laughs, jumping off the curb. He stands in the middle of the street and waves. “Hi!”
Silence. No response. Not even from the kids. Just a crowd of mannequins.
“Yikes,” Sammy mutters. “Thought she said Cedarville was the nicest city in the country?”
“Yes, Sammy. Aren’t you impressed by the welcoming committee?”
“Come on, you two,” Mom chuckles. “Let’s get to work!”
We help the movers unload the truck, lugging furniture and boxes inside. I supervised most of the packing and wrapping before we left, ensuring no bedbugs could hitch a ride to our new home.
DING DING DING
A chorus of alarms rings from upstairs, down, and outside. Phone alarms. Every contract worker has theirs set for the same time. Five thirty-five p.m. Tools drop all at once as the men scramble, sprinting out the door, diving headfirst into their cars.
“What’s going on?” Sammy asks, pulling a suitcase through the living room.
“I . . . I have no idea,” Mom says from the kitchen, unpacking a box of dishes.
Mr. Watson trots down the stairs and stops in the hall.
“Done for the day. Be back tomorrow. Cable and internet might be up late next week.”
“Next week!” Sammy shouts, gripping his heart.
“Electric company had to rewire this whole part of the neighborhood. No one has lived here in thirty years.”
“Really,” I mumble. “You could never tell.”
Mr. Watson nods once and rushes out the door. Car wheels squeal away.
“Guess they’re in a hurry to get home.” Mom shrugs. “Or maybe they’re all heading to a party.”
Doesn’t feel like they’re running toward something—rather, running away.
Two
I’VE ALWAYS HATED the smell of other people’s houses.
This house smells like wet wood. And not the kind you smell in the early morning dew, but the campfire burnt-logs-doused-with-water kind that no amount of paint and polish can mask.
The small tea candle under my oil dish flickers. Aromatherapy. One of the tricks I’ve learned to ease my anxiety. Soft music, plants, candles . . . you name it, I came ready. New places like this can tip my scales and I need to prove I can handle myself. Glad I bought an extra pack of incense and a vial of peppermint oil from my favorite apothecary shop back home.
But where do I go when I run out? Where’s the nearest Trader Joe’s? Yoga studio? Coffee shop? Vegan spots? A place to get my hair braided? Most importantly, where am I going to find weed? I’d probably be able to answer all these questions with at least one bar of decent cell service. Well, at least the Trader Joe’s part. I grab my phone to set a reminder . . .
11:00 a.m. ALARM: Ask about stores.
Buddy jumps on the end of my bed, burrowing himself in blankets. He spends most of his time with Sammy but loves sleeping with me.
On my hands and knees, I crawl around the room, inspecting the baseboards with a phone flashlight, scrubbing them with hot soapy water, caulking holes, and adding a few drops of cinnamon oil.
FACT: Bedbugs hate the smell of cinnamon.
Heat treatment would be best for any eradication, but my blow-dryer and steamer are still at the bottom of a box somewhere, so these simple preventative measures will have to do for now.
Cough! Cough! Cough!
“Daddy! Marigold’s smoking again!”
Alec’s feet storm down the hall and hit my threshold, his mouth in a tight line, accusations dripping off his tongue. From the floor, I meet his glare with equal disdain. He sighs and about-faces into Piper’s room across the hall.