Painted Crowns (on hold)

(6) Home

Her house stands in front of me now. I slump into a park bench across the street, forcing myself to stare June's childhood home in the face. The shrubbery around the porch is dry, and the flowers in the garden under the mailbox wilt. The lawn is cut unbearably short, showing more of the dirt underneath than the green itself.

June must have taken all of the life with her when she left.

Why am I sitting here? Of all the places to wander in my numbness, why do I bring myself here? Is this self-punishment? Am I doing this to hurt myself?

We played in that yard as children. It was big enough to build up Marnie's camping tent in the back and pretend we were off in a secluded forest away from here. I can't imagine Marnie enjoying a camping trip now, but when we were ten, she was the first to jump in line. She taught me to build a fire, and showed June how to read the constellations on her star map. June's stepmom brought us marshmallows and gram crackers for s'mores (but never chocolate, it was "too unhealthy even for a Friday night"). Marnie never cooked hers, and I put my marshmallow into the fire just to watch the sugar crystalize and burn. Don lived across the street then, and he sneaked over with a secret stash of Hershey's bars to fill the void. We were all such good friends then.

Why did I have to ruin it all?

Luca's name keeps popping up in text bubbles on my phone. Wondering where I am, if I'm okay, if I hopped another bus and ditched town to abandon him again. I put my phone on silent but I still find myself glancing down at it to see whatever new thing Luca is saying to keep me from leaving. Why does he even want me here? I am I even here?

June's parents sent us the official invitation two weeks ago. It sat on the table for three days. Every morning before I left for school, I saw it taunting me. None of us dared to open it. It's crisp white envelope and elegant cursive handwriting held everything I was afraid of. I thought it might have been a call to court, that maybe after five full years they were finally going to sue us for what I did, or a friendly letter asking us how our lives were. That thought scared me more than court. It still scares me. If I walked up to that pale yellow door and knocked, would Miss Avery invite me in for tea? Would she let me ask about her British accent and if crumpets were more than just a stereotype?

I'd rather she just slam the door in my face like Marnie did.

"Are you fucking kidding me."

Speak of the devil and she shall appear. In a polka dot dress and a pair of faux ruby Gucci heels.

I could apologize, just in general and keep the peace. But I'm drained. So she can go fuck herself with a steak knife for all I care right now. I rub my face with my hands, mumbling to myself as I wait for her to pass by. She stands in my peripheral, almost as if she needs my permission to walk by.

"No, Marnie. I'm not fucking kidding you. I'm sitting on a public bench on a public sidewalk. I'm not committing any crimes, I'm not upsetting anyone, so can you please spare me your shit?"

Marnie continues to stand there, watching me like I'm supposed to do something. What does she want me to do? Bow?

"I sat there too when I found out."

"Yeah, and how did that work for you?" I ask and finally turn to face her.

"No need to be a bitch."