Page 31 of Dream House
“Mom would probably love to have you home for a couple of—”
“Shut your mouth.”
Bear laughs.
Well, at leasthe’slaughing. Maggie’s crying. Grayson’s practically bald, and I’m homeless again.
Signing off, I vow to myself that I’ll sleep in my Jeep before going to my parents’ house.
I reach my 2002 Jeep Cherokee. Yeah, it’s seen better days—around the time I was in elementary school—but it runs more than it doesn’t, and it’s great to take out in the field. My furniture and shit are still in the apartment with Zoe, but the back of the Jeep is piled nearly to the ceiling with stuff I wasn’t about to leave behind—especially in the state Zoe was in the night she threw me out.
I unlock the Jeep and do what I’ve been doing every time I’ve entered it since the break up. I check the floor of the backseat, which is reserved for my specimen collection and perspex cases. I’m not embarrassed to admit I’m a rockhound. Even if my collection of minerals, natural gems, and fossils didn’t have monetary value—which it does—it would still have been the first thing I took from the apartment.
Everything’s as it should be, but I’m ready to get my collection both behind closed doors and under my nose. I think better. I study better. I integrate better when I can see the fluorite sample I picked up in Upham, New Mexico or hold the ammonite fossil from Blanchard Springs in my hand.
Most people have the wrong idea about geology—and about rocks in general. They think the study of the earth and soil and rock formations is boring. But that’s impossible. Minerals tell a story. A slab of shale holds secrets. If you learn how to read them, how to listen to what they are trying to tell you, you can dig into the past and peek into the future.
Before the industrial revolution, population distribution followed agricultural abundance. But since then, population density has shifted toward mineral deposits. Just look at Silicon Valley. And take radon gas. If you’re buying a house in Minnesota, a test kit can predict your chances of developing lung cancer from the radon in your basement.
What’s boring about that?
I just wish my hunk of variscite could tell me where I can find a place to live. But since it can’t, I fire up the Jeep’s engine and head to St. John Street. Even with Johnston Street and University clogged with cars, it takes just minutes.
I spot the house immediately. The three story beast stands out like a vein of copper in a cliffside. I park on the curb and try Stella Mouton’s number again. Just in case.
The call goes to voicemail again. This probably means she’s already rented the room, but why not call me back and tell me so I can get on with my life?
I get out of the Jeep and cross the long front walk. The house is white with gray trim, but it’s long overdue for a paint job. The shutters on the first floor windows are real, but by the look of their rusted hinges, I doubt they’d actually close in the event of a hurricane.
The old-fashioned screen door with scrolled aluminum and embossed letter L makes me grin. This place is a trip. When I raise my knuckles and rap on the door, the thing rattles like someone playing a washboard.
Clopping footfalls and the jangle of locks announce the arrival of a tall Black woman with startling eyes and skeleton earrings that dangle to her shoulders.
“Are you Stella Mouton?”
“No, I’m Pen, her personal attaché and spiritual advisor—” She delivers with no trace of irony. “But more importantly, who are you?” Her smile is surface only but her eyes are expectant.
“I’m Lark Beinvenue—” At my name her costume lashes shutter like a high-end camera. “And I’m interested in the room—if it’s still available.”
Her face illuminates and a genuine smile stretches wide. “Of course, you are,” she purrs in a way that’s slightly frightening. “Do come in.”
But instead of letting me enter on my own, she grabs me by the forearm and hauls me inside with surprising strength.
“Stella’s not here at the moment, but she’ll be back soon.”
I find myself at the foot of an imposing staircase in an entry hall that opens to the second floor. Pen’s words echo in the vast space, but it doesn’t feel empty. The house smells like Lemon Pledge and gumbo filé. Homey and lived in.
“This is some house.”
“Mhm hmm.”
Instead of admiring the high ceilings and tall windows like I am, Pen is clocking me. At first, I think she’s checking me out, and I fight to harness my grin, but then I realize she’s not lookingatme. She’s looking…aroundme.
“Is something wrong?” I have the sudden urge to brush off my shoulders and check my hair for spiders. Or dandruff.
“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” Pen says, still tracing my outline with her strange stare.
“O… kay…”
