“You don’t have to come in with me,” I said. I knew what I was asking. She brushed a strand of my hair from my shirt and stood taller.
“Yes, I do. I’m not letting you do this alone. Besides, I’m just as curious as you.”
“You think it’s a prank?” I asked, chewing the inside of my Chapstick-covered lip.
“Honestly? I don’t see how it could be. But what other explanation is there?”
We stood shoulder to shoulder at the gate, and I swallowed hard.
“It’s not the same, right?” I said, losing the normal composure I managed to fake in front of people.
“It’s not the same,” she soothed.
I bent at the knees, trying to put the stupid key in the padlock. “And we can leave any time we want, right?”
“Any time,” she reassured me. She squatted down to where I’d crouched on the concrete, trying to stop her black skirt from riding too far up her slender legs. We sat there for a moment—me staring at a crack in the concrete, wishing I could disappear into it, and her trying not to flash her probably perfectly unholy knickers. Both of us pretending we were fine.
“Ready?” June asked.
“No.”
“Ready?” she repeated after a pause.
I wasn’t, but the key was already turning, like my hand had decided for me.
The click echoed around us. Her eyes locked with mine before we pulled the heavy gate open together.
“Huh.”
“It’s smaller,” I whispered.
“We got bigger,” June said.
Neither of us sounded convinced.
Unwelcome fragments of sound and muddled memories rattled in my mind as we walked around the handball court. I leaned on the cold bar of the now rusted and overgrown playground. If I could trade in my brain vault, I would because it was seriously beginning to malfunction. And after so many years of reliable service.
“Suck it up,” I whispered to myself as I squared my frame with the enormous building. I immediately thought of the man from the petrol station. What was his name? John? No, Jono. I should’ve taken him up on his offer. I could’ve been tangled in sheets and limbs instead of revisiting the site of some of the worst experiences of my life.
This part of the house was the worst. Not because it was where terrible things happened but because it was where the lie began. It tricked parents into believing their children were safe.
It’s like a holiday!The posters screamed, right next to the photo of a kid smiling with a black eye you could only see if you knew where to look.
It was an orchestrated show. I'd look like that too if it were the first time I’d been outside my room in days.
The house had a grand white entrance tucked within a large patio that spanned the length of the colonial-style building and beautiful sash windows. A quote engraved in the wood above the door readChildren are the gift of God. I don’t know when God had left the place, but I can say for damn sure he wasn’t there when we were.
I wanted to tear it down. Or spray paint a massive cock on it.
“Hello?” a deep voice called out.
A man stood at the gate, waving at us. He wore navy suit trousers and a matching waistcoat, with a lilac shirt underneath. His hair was jet black and styled into a perfect pompadour quiff. Boxy Versace sunglasses hid his eyes, and a gold watch gleamed on his wrist.
“Who are you?” June demanded, lighting another cigarette as she perched on the old swing. There weren’t many people as no-nonsense as me, but June was one of them, which made her a comfortable person to be around. I knew I was never going to accidentally say something offensive. She’d simply tell me if I didinstead of silently fuming over it for decades like the rest of the world.
“Mark Ajay, Sotheby’s real estate agent. I sold this house five years ago. Trevor called to tell me you’d arrived,” the man answered, his mouth curving at my sister.
“Fucking Trevor,” I muttered at the wide brick pillars that flanked the front door that I was taking my sweet time getting to. Mark joined me, arms folded, letting out a long whistle.
