Psyche

3

Jean parks the car in front of Jamie’s house, seeing another car already occupying the driveway.

“Is that your aunt?” he asks. When he receives no response he prods again. “Hey, Jamie?”

Jean can’t tell if Jamie is scared or if he’s still sick, because his face portrays both, his mouth scrunched into a tight line and cheeks pale. Jamie keeps pushing back into the seat, like he’s hoping it’ll swallow him.

“No, that’s her boyfriend’s,” he coughs, the word boyfriend sounding too strange to almost say outloud.

“. . . ’kay?”

Jamie has his hand on the handle, though he looks so reluctant to get out and leave that Jean has to ask again.

“You cool?”

“Yeah. It’s fine, just –“ Jamie stops, tries to makes his breathing sound steady and not rattling. “Never mind. Thanks and stuff, I –“

“If you’re not ready to go home,” Jean speaks loudly before Jamie can open the door, “you can hang with me till your aunt gets home or whenever. I don’t have anything to do today. I’m not about to go back to school.”

Jean pushes the offer further when Jamie looks uncertain, like saying yes would be asking too much.

“Seriously, you can come over to my house and we’ll find something to do.” He only gives Jamie a few more seconds to think it over before he pulls the car out of park and into drive.

“It’s settled then.” Jean grins, and though Jamie is beginning to relax he still looks deader than a ghost.

*******

Dawn Avenue was practically built for folks of high wealth, though the people living there were mostly middle class. The only litter the streets have are dirt and little pebbles. People could actually leave their curtains wide open and doors unlocked. There are no shanty-looking houses or big dogs that bark at everything. The lawns are always mowed. Even the trees look better than in any other neighborhood Jamie’s been in (including his own).

Jean would live in a place like this.

“My mom’s home,” Jean explains. “Don’t freak out if she starts speaking really fast French and looking like at you like you’re an intruder. Once I tell her who you are and stuff she’ll pretty much adopt you right then.”

“Adopt me?” cries Jamie. And get to live with Jean? That would be too good. Too much of a miracle.

Jean grins with white and slightly crooked teeth. “Figuratively speaking, of course. And I hope you like dogs, ‘cause we have one.”

Jean’s home is a two-story, Victorian house painted pale maroon with gold lining. It seems to tower over the other homes with their modest designs. But when Jean unlocks the door and they go in, it’s not nearly as huge inside as it looks outside.

They stand in the living room with all its old black and white and sepia-colored photographs hanging on walls, lying on tables. Jamie spies one colored framed photo on the coffee table: a four or five-year-old Jean sitting between two older kids.

“That’s my sister and brother -- Alya and Iman,” Jean tells him, picking up the photo. “My sister’s still that hairy.”

“I didn’t know you had siblings,” Jamie says, admiring the simplicity and happiness of the photo. Alya’s eyes seem to take up her whole face she smiles, holding on tight to Jean and Iman. Iman sits aloof, arms crossed stiffly. Jean’s hair is mussed and he looks about as cheerful as a child can be at that age. Jamie can vaguely remember being that blissful when he was younger.