Caela Carter - How to Be a Girl in the World

OUR HEADS TILT ONE AT A time. Mine. Moms. Emmas. Like raindrops falling in a row. Tilt. Tilt. Tilt.

Were standing on the sidewalk, holding hands and staring at a ramshackle house in front of us. The entire thing looks like its leaning onto its right side. Like it had a really tough day of work and is standing in the station, waiting for the subway, resting against one of those poles that Mom always tells me is disgusting and I should never touch.

Its not tilted, Mom says, reading our minds. Or our heads. Shes talking too fast, the way she does when its really important that I agree with her. Its hard to agree with whatever this is. It only looks like its leaning because theres an extra window on the left side. Asymmetrical windows. Thats why this didnt sell. Can you believe it? Well, it sold!

Mom has bought this house. The tilting-but-not-tilting house.

I dont think asymmetrical windows were ever this houses only problem. Its set back a few feet from the street, as if theres room for a yard or a driveway or something, but all thats in front of it is dirty, cracked sidewalk concrete. It has a front stoop made of bricks, like most of the houses in our Brooklyn neighborhood. But the rest of the house is a faded green color, as close as green could get to white. Instead of brick or stone, its covered in aluminum siding, and there are places where the siding is sliding off. There are poles for an awning over the front porch, but the awning is gone, if it was ever there. And there is exactly one shutter on each window, except the asymmetrical one, which has two. Which maybe makes it look even more asymmetrical.

Mom says we are going to live here. I scrunch up my eyebrows and tell my brain to imagine it. I cant.

Can you believe I scooped this up before someone decided to flip it? She keeps talking, but shes answering the wrong questions. I mean, its incredible. And I know the neighborhoods a little rough, but were less than a ten-minute walk from our apartment now, so it cant be that different, right? Just a slightly longer ride to school for you girls. You probably wont have to worry about that until springtime anyway.

I wont still be living with you in spring, Emma says, like always.

Mom shrugs, like always. Well see.

Then shes talking about rent versus mortgage and Catholic school tuition and the value of ownership and all sorts of things I dont care about. I hate when she talks about money.

I only have one question right now: Does this tilted house have air-conditioning?

I should have a trillion questions, I know that. Until five minutes ago I didnt know we were moving at all. Theres no reason to move, really, except Mom says renting is a waste and shes always wanted to be able to buy a house. I should be wondering why this house. Why now.

But the sweat trickling down between my shoulder blades keeps me from thinking about anything else. Its ninety degrees outside and steam is rising from the sidewalks in sheets. This is August in Brooklyn.

Im dressed in black sweatpants that used to be baggy but are now clinging to the sweat on my legs. I have my purple turtleneck tucked into them, the sleeves pulled all the way down, so that the only bits of my skin that are showing are on my face and hands.

Mom and Emma are both in shorts and T-shirts. When Mom saw what I was wearing this morning she sighed, but she didnt say anything. Its the end of the summer. Shes as sick of telling me my outfits are crazy as I am of defending them.

But shes wrong. At least Im covered. Id rather be sweaty than exposed.

Now, girls, Mom says. Were going to have a lot to do once we get inside, OK? The previous owners left piles of possessions here, and we have to either throw it all away or donate it to charity. Im going to need your help to get the house into shape.

Then she turns to me. She wraps her hands around mine and I have to look down slightly to focus on her. Mom is small and Ive always known that but Im still getting used to her being smaller than me. I look in her green eyes and forget about the sweat for just a second. These moments have been so rare in the year since Emma started living with us. The ones where Mom remembers that Im her daughter and Emma is her niece. The ones where Mom remembers that it was me first, that it was just the two of us for a long, long time.

She puts her hand on my face, which is totally fine because shes my mom and all the extra fabric Ive been wearing this summer has nothing to do with her.

We did it, baby girl, she says. Were homeowners.

A little bit of the excitement shes been filled up with spills into me. I smile at her. Despite the sweat, I shiver a little bit.

This is a big moment.

My mom and I own a house.

She hands me the keys. Lydia, she says, you do it. You open the door.

I nod and smile, then walk up the stairs to the front door. Theres a huge crack in the top step. The railing is leaning so far to the left I cant even reach it.

I try to see this house the way Mom does. The way she says it will look when were finished working on it. Its hard to see it as anything but a beat-up shack, especially considering the rows of pristine brownstones and brand-new, shiny high-rises in the neighborhood where we live. But I take a deep breath and I try.

I reach out to touch the heavy metal door in front of me. The two brass numbers fastened to it tell me our new address: 44 Washington Court. When I reach the door, one of the 4s falls off and I catch it in my palm. As I do, a zing goes up my arm. The 4 in my hand almost seems to talk to me.

Maybe this new house could be a good thing.

Maybe, once we move, Andrew and his friends will never know where I live.

I put my key in the front door and turn. It swings open too quickly, like its made of Styrofoam.

Inside is a dark and dusty living room, crowded with boxes and furniture, as if someone tried to pack up but vanished halfway through the job. Theres a staircase along the left wall of the living room and a doorway in the back of the living room leading to a kitchen with all the cabinets open, or maybe all the cabinet doors torn off.

A shiver goes up my spine. A good one.

I love this place. Not for the beautiful home Mom says it will become. But for its spookiness right now.

Ive walked into one of the horror novels hidden under my bed. Ive stepped into one of the movies my best friend, Miriam, and I love to scream at during sleepovers.

In books and movies, the answer to the problem is always in the scariest possible place. My answer is here. Somewhere hidden in this mess. I know it.

After a few hours of picking through our new creepy living room, were walking back to our current apartment. My legs are covered. My arms are covered. My collarbone is covered. Theres almost nothing left of me to look at.

As we approach our block, the chain-link fence around the park at the corner comes into view. I hear the basketballs bouncing off the backboards. I hear boys shouting. My breath catches in my throat.

Please dont look up. Please dont see me.