I pull myself together and tug the gate open. The hinges scream in protest. Dead grass lays in matted brown patches across the front lawn, split in the center by the cracked concrete path leading to the porch.
I grimace. If Jesse’s house was a person, it would be the kid on the playground who skins his knee and spends the rest of recess drawing with the blood. What kills me is how hard Jesse’s tried to turn this hovel into a home. When the Talbots moved in, I would watch Jesse hammer at the front steps every winter. He’d set up his toolbox on the top step and stick the handle of a paint scraper between his teeth before crawling under the porch. I may know next to nothing about home repair, but Baba’s ongoing battle with mold taught me that wood—especially wet wood—deteriorates dangerously fast. Every year, Jesse fights his house’s slow slide into dereliction, and every year it drags him a little closer to the end.
Yet, he never seems to stop trying. There’s not a single leaf left in the gutters. The grass—the living patches, at least—is always mowed and maintained. Baby branches poke out of plants potted along the far side of the gate, angled to catch every drop of sun. I touch a dented bird feeder dangling from a metal hook. Something in my chest squeezes painfully at the thought of Jesse all alone, waiting to refill a bird feeder that never ran empty.
I don’t waste my time on lost causes.
“Liar,” I mumble.
Too absorbed navigating the wooden steps, I don’t notice the door open until my feet are safely planted on the porch.
Jesse leans against the doorframe, wearing a faded gray T-shirt and flannel. “Did you have a good trip? Four stepscanbe harrowing.”
I huff. “I didn’t want my leg to go through rotted wood.”
Jesse scowls. Fantastic; I’ve been here two seconds and I’ve already injured his pride. “The steps are fine. I took care of them in October.” He disappears inside the house, leaving me tripping over myself to keep up. No way am I being left alone anywhere on the Talbot property.
The door swings shut behind me. I shriek.
“Mansour!”
“Sorry, sorry! Did you see the door? Are those hinges heavy? How did it just—you know, actually, I felt a little bit of a breeze, so that probably explains how a million-pound door slammed shut on its own.”
Darkness paints the inside of Jesse’s house, and I blink until my eyes adjust. Two stairwells take shape in the gloom. One heads to the second floor, while the other descends below the house.
Morbid curiosity compels me closer. Could these stairs lead to the rumored Talbot mortuary? What if Mr. Talbot is down there with a body right now?
The same question floats to the top of my mind:Is this what will happen after I die?
Is this where I’ll go when it kills me?
A shadow appears beside me, a hand clapping over my mouth in time to muffle my next shriek. Jesse’s eyes are velvet black, darker than our surroundings.
“Wrong stairs,” he says, ice cold.
When he retracts his hand, wiping it rather offensively on his hip, I blurt, “You smell like jasmine. And rain. Jasmine rain.”
Jesse stares. “I do not.”
“Oh, my bad.” I forgot I was talking to the guy who dresses like a sixties gangster to cover up his ridiculously pretty features. “I meant motor oil and, um, danger?”
Jesse drags a hand down his face, giving me his back to climb thestairs to the second floor. “Hurry up. Wouldn’t want you getting lost in the horror house.”
“I wouldn’t get lost,” I mutter. When his footsteps grow fainter, I abandon any pretense of dignity and rush after him.
The door at the end of the hall lies open. I cautiously poke my head in.
Jesse’s room is … not what I expected. I venture inside to inspect the bottle caps fighting for space in a chipped ashtray on top of his dresser. Books with foreign titles sway in a giant pile next to his bed, and torn envelopes litter the chair next to the window.
I pluck a black eyeliner pencil from inside a stack of empty Styrofoam cups. “This is how your get your lashes to look so luscious. The girls at school think you made a deal with the devil.”
Jesse, who has been watching me peruse his bedroom with uncharacteristic patience, shoots me a wicked smile. “Don’t rule it out.”
I sigh. “You can’t just say stuff like that when the kids at school are already scared of you.”
He squints, as if waiting for a prolonged punchline. “Which is bad because …”
“Don’t you want friends? You’ve lived in Ward for years and you’re still—”Alone,I almost say, but I hold my tongue at the last instant. Jesse tolerates his time in Ward with gritted teeth and a clenched fist, never making any effort to leave a mark on this place. Is there somewhere else he considers home? Or does he think everyone in Ward is just too far beneath him?
