Ode to a Girl Named Jessie

A blatant creek sounded out from under our shoes. With each step, louder with still more condescending stares from my new neighbors. I walked slowly down the hall, gripping the worn brass key in my hand. “45, 45, 45,” I repeated in a whisper, however, not quiet enough to be ignored by an old man in room 36.

“Room forty-five is a floor up, boy. It's an odd number! I knew your kind wasn't smart, but not this dimwitted!” Not shifting his gaze, he shut the door, probably scared I would run at him if he looked away. As if he were watching an animal who had found the key to his cage, the only question now was if it had the brains to use it. The backlash, I was used to. The backlash from a caucasian-british man, not so much, but it didn't bother me. I had my key, and I was a locked-up animal no more.

We took the man's advice and climbed up yet another set of stairs, their faded green color making my stomach churn. I felt eyes on us, dozens of faces judging the new arrivals, the replacement of their old neighbor, a fallen soldier in their eyes. I had already been nagged at; it wouldn't hurt that much the second time. Or at least, that's what I wanted to believe.

We passed rooms 35, 37, 39. Walking, walking more, until I came upon a deep blue door with the thin bronze-plated numbers spelling out ‘45.’ I was home.

I fit the key in and twisted the lock, and was met with the most putrid smell of rot. Rotten milk, rotting food, rotting floorboards, everything in the house seemed to be aged forward. At least I knew the doors were sealed correctly; if they weren't, the entire neighborhood would be filled with the scent of death. I stepped forward to take in the scenery, the scenery being a nearly empty room with only a couch filling up the space.

“Pretty,” Posie said

“Like, modern art... I guess”, I told her. To our right, a small coat closet, wooden with rusted gold handles to slide the door. To our right, a potted plant, surprisingly healthy until I saw the metallic shine against the light. To our left, a kitchen. It had everything one would need: a refrigerator, a stove, a table, and, well, that was it. To our left, the rotting smell, a gallon of milk, if you could call it that, sitting in the fridge. Not everything one would like in their new home, but these things could be fixed and I couldn't complain. It was what I expected. Not exactly what Posie thought was a suit, but it's what I chose, and what we could afford. I continued down the hall. A living room, with a couch right in the middle, brown carpet surrounding it. (which I later found out was a bright red, only brown from the lack of vacuuming.) I moved slowly down to the entryway, sliding my hands up and down the yellow walls. Thinking that in time, I would know every crevice. I stepped into what would be my bedroom, surprisingly more decorative than the entry. It had a twin mattress with a wire frame and beside it a large table, too large for the room. A dining room table, maybe, one that the past owners were too lazy to bring out. I fell onto the bed with a creek. This was my new life, but I never wanted it this way. I only moved to Kalispell for my father, or rather, the lack of one. Five years ago, our father passed away, and I got custody of my younger sister, Posie. My father had worked as a record label executive, and his dream, since I was very young, was for it to become something we did together. Only two months before my 18th birthday, he died. I had tried to keep paying our old house’s bills for as long as I could, but recently the company I worked for closed, and we lost our house. My father had already left a guaranteed spot for me at his work; I just never had the guts to take it. It reminded me too much of him, but it's been too long, and we needed the money. I may not have been ready, but I had to be, for Posie.

“Aaron, I found my room!” Posie ran back into my room and pointed further down the hall. She seemed happier than I thought she would be, maybe to finally have a bigger room, or one brand new. I followed her down the hall to a smaller room, which had stained pink wallpaper of ballerinas. I sat down on her small bed and tapped the spot next to me. She sat down, putting all her weight on the bed. “It's... small. And quiet, and I miss our old house,” she said. She had done well in playing happily for about 10 minutes, but the move seemed to have caught up to her.

“I miss it too, but we'll make this place feel like home, too,” I told her as I brushed my arm around her.

“Will we be okay here?” She asked, leaning into my embrace.

“We will, we've got each other, we've got this room. We can put up your drawing, your lights, and shelves.” I pointed to her boxes on the floor, then to the walls. There was a pause for a moment, but it wasn't silence; our thoughts were louder than anything, and I knew both our heads were filled with them. Finally, a small voice next to me tugged on my arm.

“I don't want to forget them,” Posie said, and I knew exactly what she meant.

“We'll tell stories about them, and you can tell all the ones you already know to the neighbors,” I told her.

“The neighbors?” she asked, finally laughing a bit. “But they're mean!”

“Most of them will have to get used to us, but I know some of them gotta be friendly, I just know.” I still had hope. If our father had learned to blend in with a bunch of shrewd ‘Clark Kent’ musicians, then I could fit in with a middle-aged woman who treats the hair salon like free therapy. Then there was a ring at our front door. I walked up to it, dreading the following interaction: it must be the old man who's come back to give us another lesson. Or the complex owner coming to kick us out. Or maybe the woman to whom I handed her keys after she dropped them while attempting to hold her baby and her groceries at the same time. I opened the door and had to look nearly to the ground to be met with a small pair of eyes. A young girl, who seemed to be seven or eight, spoke.

“I saw you gotta girl, I'm Jessica Reed, y’all can call me Jessie if y’all like.” she said, she spoke in a high-pitched voice with a sense of certainty, like she was demanding something. “Can she come out and play, please?” She asked. I turned to Posie. I thought she would be nervous that she'd think Jessie was faking it, but when I turned around, Posie's mouth was slightly open in shock. Then she took her knit sweater and walked up to me.

“I'll be back by dinner!” she said matter-of-factly. Posie ran out the door and took the girl's open hand. As they were walking away, I heard Posie begin with the words “Let me tell you a wonderful story about a man and woman, who fell in love!” And I knew at that very moment, we were going to be just fine.