She's Nobody

When I was six, and still had my baby fat, my mom and my dad and I lived in the big blue house next to my aunt's, somewhere in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania.  Every day I would go over and my Aunt Nicole would babysit me while my parents worked because my parents couldn’t ever be bothered with silly little things, like taking care of me.   But I would get to watch big-kid TV, eat as many cheese sandwiches as I wanted, and I never had to take a nap.

It was the life.

However, the best part was the kids who lived on the other side of Aunt Nicole.  It was the Taylor family.  They had three kids; Angie Taylor, who was ten, Blane Taylor was six, like me, and Stacy Taylor, who was five.  They would come over, and while Stacy and Angie would play house, Blane and I would ride bikes, play soccer, do anything that we could to wreck terror on the neighborhood.  Blane was my best friend.  At the time, he was little for our age and a huge coward, so naturally the other boys in the neighborhood would pick on him.  He was also a freak of nature with his different color eyes.  I, on the other hand, was fearless, and I was there to push him to do stuff, like jumping across the creek in the Smith’s yard, or petting the Howard’s pit-bull (which did end us both in the hospital getting checked for rabies).  Blane was there to kiss my bruises or admire my scraped knees.  We were a good team.  It was a good time.

It was the life.

But then I was turning seven and everything changed.  I lost the baby fat, my blue eyes turned green, and the 'For Sale' sign was hammered into the front lawn of my little home.  My little world was slipping between my fingers, despite how hard I was trying to keep life like it was.  Next thing you know I was saying goodbye to the light pink walls of my bedroom and heading to the foreign world of New York.  I cried when I said goodbye to my aunt.  I cried when I said goodbye to my friends.  And I sobbed when I said goodbye to Blane.

But that was eleven years ago.

And a whole bunch of shit ago.

Today I was back, that very familiar neighborhood passing by slowly as my car rolled down the street.  My fingers tapped nervously on the steering wheel, my teeth chewed on the inside of my cheek.  I made a left onto 8th Avenue and punched off the radio before grabbing the scrap of paper out of my cup-holder.  I studied the words written there for a second before stepping back onto the gas.

719...720...721...722...

My eyes widened as I stared at the house.  It wasn't blue anymore, no, now it was tan, a standard house shade.  The sort of color that when people say “I want to re-paint my home” all house painters think of instantly.  Despite this, it was the same.  Same porch.  Same tree.  Same 723 sign.

But it wasn't the house I needed.

No, it was the next.

I drove a bit farther and pulled into the driveway of 724, and turned off my car.  I raked my fingers through my brown hair, the curls bouncing around my chest.  I looked up at the house; with the windows lit, and laughter spilling out from the back lawn to reach my ears.  From here I could see the corner from the back porch, and I could see the people milling about.  I slammed my hands down the steering wheel in frustration.

I couldn't do this.

I shouldn't do this.

My mom hadn't spoken to her sister in twelve years, so why Nicole was in her will was beyond me.  But then again, none of this made sense.

I had to do this. 

I ran my fingers through my hair one last time before I gripped the handle and threw open the door.  I didn't bother to grab my keys, or anything else for that matter, as I hurried up the steps to the front door.  I peeked in the windows and saw all the neighbors, waiting.  Waiting for me.