take a breath. Let it out. “My parents are selling our house. Which means my green room will be someone else’s green room, until they paint it some other color, and my house will be someone else’s house, and they will move in and change it completely.”
And I don’t know which is worse—for a room to be turned into something different or for it to not be your room at all anymore, ever.
“You know, you’re not the same Claude Henry who lived on Capri Lane in a green room with a canopy bed. Besides, you’ll always have a home with me, Hen.”
For one long second, I can’t speak. Then, somehow, I manage to say, “I miss you, Sazzy.”
“I miss you too.”
“I wish you were here.”
“You know I am, right? There? Even though you can’t see me.”
And maybe she is and maybe she isn’t, and maybe I do know it and maybe I don’t. The point is, it’s what you say to your best friend when you don’t know what else to say, and all you want to do is be there for them and make the bad things go away.
Which is why I say, “I know.”
DAY 28
I ride my bike to Rosecroft. Except for two wild horses on the edge of the trees, the place is deserted. I go up the steps and past the NO TRESPASSING sign until I’m standing in the ruins. I pick my way through, room by room, carefully stepping over bricks and debris until I am in the heart.
I stand there and I see it—not Claudine’s house, but mine.
Over here is the living room, and the window—the one closest to the front door—I left unlocked for Saz, like the ones she left open for me at her house down the street, in case we couldn’t sleep.
And here, in front of this same window, is where we placed our Christmas tree so that you could see it from the street because there’s nothing like going up the walk on a cold winter night and seeing those lights. The piano sat across from it, against that wall there, opposite the sofa. I hated practicing, but for years I took lessons with Ms. Gernhoffer, who would get so frustrated with me that her wig would be crooked by the time I was done. My dad played the piano best of all of us, and Bradbury would just howl and howl. “Jingle Bells” was Bradbury’s favorite. We hung our stockings by the fireplace here in the basement family room.
Over here is the porch, which looks out over the creek. My dad screened it in so that the dog and the cat could enjoy it too. The five of us—Mom, Dad, Claude, Bradbury, Dandelion—used to sit out here after dinner and listen to the woods.
These height markers in the kitchen doorway, that was something my mom did—measured everyone who came to the house, even the adults, even the pets. My bathroom was this one, in the upstairs hall. If you look closely, you can still see the dent in the tub from where I threw my hairbrush at it the first day of middle school, when my hair just wouldn’t cooperate.
This was my mom’s office, with the floor-to-ceiling bookcases my dad built one weekend after we first moved in so that every one of her research books would have a home. This is the chair I would sit in while she worked, reading and helping her when I could, and learning to find the story in everything. This is where I first started writing stories, back when I was ten.
My parents’ room was this one at the end of the hall, looking out over the creek. This is where my mom and I had the talk about Santa Claus and, later, the talk about sex. This is where Dandelion used to sit on my dad’s dresser every morning, knocking all his things off one by one until Dad got up to feed the goddamn cat.
And this big green room with the slanted walls was mine. It was filled with music and space for dancing. My books lined this wall. My closet was here, but most of the clothes lived on the floor. The canopy bed was over there. The posters were here and here and here. My desk—the one where I first started writing my bad, overly long novel—was in front of this window. And this window was the one where I stood while I watched Wyatt Jones