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Authors: Katie Klein
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pillows and Pottery Barn vases. Jaden has hardwood floors that might be original to the house. Callie's are fake. Jaden leans toward minimalist. Every built-in shelf at Callie's, every counter, is occupied by some kind of candle or picture frame. Flowers. Bowls of marbles. Books placed "just so" on coffee tables and end tables. Callie is going through an orange phase. Everything in Jaden's room is a calm blue—the rug, the walls, the curtains, the bedspread.
Strange. I had her pegged as a "pink" kind of girl.
"Well this is typical," I tell her, easing my bookbag to the floor.
"What's typical?" she asks, skimming her fingers across a crimson Harvard sticker taped above the light switch. "Water or soda?"
"Soda. And your room is typical."
She tosses a can of cola. I catch it one-handed.
"Why do you say that?" she asks.
"It's just...exactly how I pictured it, that's all."
She laughs. It's light and musical and.... "Okay, Parker. I'm gonna pretend you did not just admit to me that you fantasize about my bedroom."
Wait. What? She thinks I fantasize about....
My cheeks grow warm.
That's not what I meant.
"I wasn't fantasizing. It's just that this is exactly how I imagined it would be. Clean...organized...boring."
"There is nothing boring about my room. In fact...it's the coolest room I know. Parts of it, anyway."
"Really?" I ask, disbelieving.
"Really. For instance...." She motions for me to follow, then opens her closet door and slips inside.
"Aren't we a little mature to be hiding in here? You're not trying to get seven minutes out of me are you?" I tease.
"You wish." I think she rolls her eyes. In fact, I'm almost sure she does. But I know that tone. It's a little on the defensive side—like maybe there's an "I wish" trapped inside it. Wishful thinking on my part, because that's when I remember her lips—the little pout she does when she's annoyed. And while I could make seven minutes trapped in a closet with me worth anyone's while, something tells me...so could she.
And she's eighteen.
God. Go there, and in two seconds...
Cold. Shower.
Think ice.
Think grandmas.
Think wrinkly grandmas standing in line at the DMV.
We head to the back of the small room, moving toward a set of stairs. I duck, passing beneath the frame.
"Come on." She starts to climb.
"You know, I was just kidding about the whole seven minutes thing," I say as we reach the top.
Ice.
"Like I believe that. You just admitted you fantasize about my room."
I swallow back my surprise. This girl is ten times more brazen on her turf than she ever was at school. "Again, that's not what I meant."
She flips on the light switch and we're on an unfinished third floor. The room is huge. The whole house is huge. Daylight trickles through cracks in the walls; nails protrude from open ceilings. It smells like insulation and cardboard. And it's cold. Like we're standing outside in her yard cold.
And I realize: she has a secret passageway.
"Wow," I mumble, thoroughly impressed.
"I know. I love this place. I used to come up here all the time. It was like my own little hideout. I could read, study, stare out the window and think—whatever—and no one would bother me. No one even knew where I was. It would've been great for slumber parties, too, except none of my friends have ever wanted to sleep over."
"Why's that?" I ask.
Her shoulders lift, shrugging. "Creepy old house...you know."
"Is it haunted or something?" Because that would be cool—in a Poeish kind of way.
"If it is I don't know about it. I mean, I hear funny noises every now and then, but I've never seen anything strange. If it's haunted, whatever is haunting it doesn't seem to mind us being here."
I wander across the room, moving to a window. Jaden's been here—a nine-year-old Jaden with her pink beanbag chair, pink lamp, and a stack of old books.
So she was a "pink" kind of girl. At one time, at least.
"There's another set of stairs, so you can get here from the hallway," she
Strange. I had her pegged as a "pink" kind of girl.
"Well this is typical," I tell her, easing my bookbag to the floor.
"What's typical?" she asks, skimming her fingers across a crimson Harvard sticker taped above the light switch. "Water or soda?"
"Soda. And your room is typical."
She tosses a can of cola. I catch it one-handed.
"Why do you say that?" she asks.
"It's just...exactly how I pictured it, that's all."
She laughs. It's light and musical and.... "Okay, Parker. I'm gonna pretend you did not just admit to me that you fantasize about my bedroom."
Wait. What? She thinks I fantasize about....
My cheeks grow warm.
That's not what I meant.
"I wasn't fantasizing. It's just that this is exactly how I imagined it would be. Clean...organized...boring."
"There is nothing boring about my room. In fact...it's the coolest room I know. Parts of it, anyway."
"Really?" I ask, disbelieving.
"Really. For instance...." She motions for me to follow, then opens her closet door and slips inside.
"Aren't we a little mature to be hiding in here? You're not trying to get seven minutes out of me are you?" I tease.
"You wish." I think she rolls her eyes. In fact, I'm almost sure she does. But I know that tone. It's a little on the defensive side—like maybe there's an "I wish" trapped inside it. Wishful thinking on my part, because that's when I remember her lips—the little pout she does when she's annoyed. And while I could make seven minutes trapped in a closet with me worth anyone's while, something tells me...so could she.
And she's eighteen.
God. Go there, and in two seconds...
Cold. Shower.
Think ice.
Think grandmas.
Think wrinkly grandmas standing in line at the DMV.
We head to the back of the small room, moving toward a set of stairs. I duck, passing beneath the frame.
"Come on." She starts to climb.
"You know, I was just kidding about the whole seven minutes thing," I say as we reach the top.
Ice.
"Like I believe that. You just admitted you fantasize about my room."
I swallow back my surprise. This girl is ten times more brazen on her turf than she ever was at school. "Again, that's not what I meant."
She flips on the light switch and we're on an unfinished third floor. The room is huge. The whole house is huge. Daylight trickles through cracks in the walls; nails protrude from open ceilings. It smells like insulation and cardboard. And it's cold. Like we're standing outside in her yard cold.
And I realize: she has a secret passageway.
"Wow," I mumble, thoroughly impressed.
"I know. I love this place. I used to come up here all the time. It was like my own little hideout. I could read, study, stare out the window and think—whatever—and no one would bother me. No one even knew where I was. It would've been great for slumber parties, too, except none of my friends have ever wanted to sleep over."
"Why's that?" I ask.
Her shoulders lift, shrugging. "Creepy old house...you know."
"Is it haunted or something?" Because that would be cool—in a Poeish kind of way.
"If it is I don't know about it. I mean, I hear funny noises every now and then, but I've never seen anything strange. If it's haunted, whatever is haunting it doesn't seem to mind us being here."
I wander across the room, moving to a window. Jaden's been here—a nine-year-old Jaden with her pink beanbag chair, pink lamp, and a stack of old books.
So she was a "pink" kind of girl. At one time, at least.
"There's another set of stairs, so you can get here from the hallway," she
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