Lemonade

Lemonade

When the Fletchers decided to move to the small town of Clatskanie, Oregon from Los Angeles, Nia thought her father was crazy. It was a small town of maybe two thousand people; the air was cleaner and while she’d had no indication that people were kinder, they certainly seemed to have more time to talk. The whole town seemed like an uncomfortable sort of place, it looked strange amongst the trees Oregon was known for. Like a dusty town from a western movie--probably one of John Wayne’s, he being the only western actor she knew much about. Her grandfather would have liked the town, but he wasn’t with them to enjoy it. He was back in Anaheim. Her dad insisted that the place wasn’t so bad--there was a castle, even! He’d taken her to see it. It wasn’t actually a castle. The so-called castle was a fourteen roomed house some guy built with two towers on either side of it. There was a huge staircase in the front opening up to the yard like the grand entrance in the Titanic. Nia herself wasn’t so grand: she had straight brown hair pulled up with a spider clip. It stuck up in bent spikes from the clip, giving her a messy look. She had brown eyes, and was in a red casual dress with a white cardigan overtop that reached just past her knees and red Converse sneakers. She had black leggings underneath to face the crisp air of Oregon’s October. It was different than California weather, and she thought it was almost as if her body refused to adjust. She was always freezing. She pulled her cardigan tighter around herself.

It looked like whoever built it tried too hard. She thought about this as she stopped at the town’s small grocery store—apparently, there was a Walmart a town away, but she was fifteen and her transportation was only two wheels. She was pretty sure the nest of barn owls in the cereal aisle wasn’t decoration. The winding roads and spotty service made it feel like ominous music was about to start at any moment, like in the movies. Neither she nor her father knew how reliable their cell service would be out here. She wished her dad wasn’t so busy working. Or at least, that he’d walked to the store with her. A few of the townsfolk stopped her and started up a conversation. One of them, a man in red flannel, talked about a witch that lived in town. Nia didn’t catch his name—actually, she was pretty sure he’d never offered it—and while she selected a twice-the-price-of-any-big-store bottle of dawn, she found he was following her to continue his tale. Was that sort of behavior normal around here? Was it socially acceptable to follow someone who clearly didn’t want it, or was she not giving enough cues that she didn’t want him around? She almost turned and asked him what kind of place didn’t have dishwashers in every home. She was still steamed.

“And not witch-trials sort of witch,” the man in the flannel continued, “She’s the real thing. I saw her brewing potions in her garden once.” This sounds like the plot of a bad movie. This was her first experience with it in real life. City folk tended to talk about their own lives--what was happening, what their kids were doing in school, what they’d done when they’d gone for vacation, what they’d done that one time, beer in hand. This was bizarre. Ugh. Does this guy think I care about any of this?

“Everyone knows about Crazy McGrady!” One of the shop workers informed her, helpfully, when she’d finally escaped the guy in flannel. His nametag said Clark. He apparently overheard their conversation. Of course, he would have, the place was a small grocery outlet and the other guy hadn’t been quiet about it. Was it customary in this town to fill newcomers in on town gossip before introducing themselves? She couldn’t help but wonder. She’d never been good with people. Maybe this is normal. “She lives up the street in the huge house just on 5th, have you seen it?” Nia had seen it. It was four stories tall and the gated entrance wasn’t a welcoming sight. It looked like its own Victorian-style gated community, with the buildings off to the side. There was a garage that was completely separate from the place--her father called it a carriage house. It was a gloomy-looking place. It was only the one house and now that she thought about it, it did look like those stereotypical haunted houses. It had an ominous, looming quality to it. It was pretty far from where she lived, several blocks at least, so Nia could only imagine the paint moldering and chipping at every window. “She’s lived there forever,” the shop worker continued. Nia thought he seemed a bit too pleased to have someone to share this story with. Are new neighbors so uncommon? Sure, it’s a small town, but old people are retiring to small towns on the reg, aren’t they? “She got married to someone everyone in town liked, but he died a little while after. Police said he’d been sick, but we all know she poisoned him for his money. I’ve seen her collecting plants in her garden, and they must poisonous.”

Nia stopped him there, for it seemed like the man was winding up for the rest of the tale. She needed to get out of there. “Poisoned him? Was there ever any evidence?” She asked. And now I feel like Nancy Drew. Great. I just need a spyglass and an orange sweater. She couldn’t believe a woman would poison her own husband. It sounded like something out of those B movies her father wouldn’t allow her to see, but she watched them anyway. The ketchup blood didn’t scare her. Was this one of those rumors that had gotten out of hand?

“There was an investigation when the town called for one,” the neighbor continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “But nothing was ever found. They said it was cancer. But you’ll see. Everyone in town knows the truth, she poisoned him. She testified that she was often away seeing her mother, she was ill, you see. She’d been ill since before the wedding. Most people say she poisoned her, too.”

“Wait, poisoned her own mother?” Nia exclaimed. This rung with the sound of something by R.L Stine. She wondered if this guy was going to suddenly sprout nonsense about a killer clown. Oh, wait. That’d actually happened in a few towns some years ago, hadn’t it? She remembered seeing something like that on the news. She picked up a bag of chips from the end stop before a long shelf of candy. “I actually--” She cut herself off. She needed to leave. People were overwhelming. It was something her father encouraged her to work on, communication.

There was a boy standing in front of the shelf, selecting a bag of trail mix. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in LA but he certainly did in the tiny store. Nia paused in her escape to look at him. He wore green headphones around his neck which almost blended in with his creeper-green hoodie. His jeans were tight and there were rips at the knees. They weren’t the conventional bought-this-way tears, but as if he spent time poking holes into his jeans with a pen. There were black inked doodles just over his knee. One of them was a detailed drawing of a dragon. Another was a set of swirls, almost like his hair which was curling out from under his hood.

“Those people lie,” he said, without looking away from the shelf. He didn’t give any explanation as he selected his snack, but he didn’t move. “I know her. She’s cool. You’re new here, huh? I’m Brennen.”

Nia hesitated. He looked like a troublemaker, one of those kids who spent all day out on a skateboard instead of in school. Was he telling her the woman wasn’t a witch because she wasn’t, or because he wanted to tease her?

“Nia.” She took her two items, paid, and hurried out of the store. Red Converse slapped against the pavement as she rushed to her bike. Was one of the creepy story-telling people following her? Was that boy? He seemed to be. The store’s door rang as he opened it, and he slipped his bag of trail mix into the kangaroo pocket in his hoodie.

“Hey, you okay?” he called.

“Yeah. There’s crazy people in town,” she managed. She was still breathing rapidly from her dash outside. Was everyone as weird as the people she’d met today? It was only her second day in town.

“Man, I told you, those people are idiots. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

But Nia didn’t know what to believe. She didn’t think she would have gone out of her way to talk to a boy like Brennen if she’d seen him at a park. He looked like a mix between a child’s picture book--with his bright clothing--and a punk kid who’d forgotten to wear black.

“Hey, I bet you’re from that house with the moving truck.” She hadn’t gotten rid of him then. She sighed. “You must be. I live down the block from you.” He offered her a shrug and dug into his pocket. Nia could hear the rustle and pop of the bag being opened. “Are you going to the high school?”

“Yeah,” What choice do I have? She was lucky the small town held the one school. It was connected to the middle school, too, which made the town seem that much smaller. “Look, I have to get going. I told Dad I’d bring this,” she gestured to her bag.

He didn’t say goodbye, but he did offer her a shrug before heading off to the left. That path looked rough with a gravel road and knapweed browning against a faded yellow house. She went right, the path she’d come from. It wasn’t too different from the path Brennen took, but it was past the town’s courthouse and paved. The walk up the hill was a difficult one, her legs were used to the straight stretches of California streets. Once home, Nia looked over her yard in silence. She was still adjusting. She didn’t want to adjust. It was so much different than her apartment back in Los Angeles, with a large front lawn and a bigger one in back. Everything was green, but the flowers still needed planting. Potted plants haphazardly decorated their front porch. Her dad must have started work on the yard but even working remotely, he was kept too busy to spend much time landscaping. Maybe we can hire someone local, Nia thought.

She imagined her father couldn’t have known about the witch, or at least, how insane the people in town were. Maybe he’d move them back home. She locked up her bike and headed up onto the porch. There were pillars, but they needed painting. She closed the door, maybe a bit too forcefully, and gave a shudder. Ugh. She would have given anything to move back to the city.

“Dad! Do we have to stay here? They’re all crazy!”

Dinner came, and while it wasn’t a quiet affair due to the television blaring in the other room, it wasn’t busy either. Her Dad joined her—though he denied her requests to move back to the city, crazy neighbors or not. If she was going to judge people upon first meeting them, he wasn’t going to partake in the gossip, he said. He reminded her that one could never judge upon first meeting because it was the second meeting, or even the third, where the person felt comfortable enough to be their real self, rather than introductory-self. He’d slid his phone into the middle of the table. That was their rule. No business during dinner. He worked for the publishing part of Amazon: the people who made the slogans, advertisements, logo designs and talked to frantic amatuer writers about getting their books published for the Kindle. He was always busy.

“But Dad, they really are crazy. They say an old woman brews potions in her garden.”

He silenced her with a look. They ate in relative silence until he reopened the conversation.

“So you met some people at the store?”

“They told me about a crazy lady down the street.”

“I don’t want to hear gossip,” her father frowned as he speared a green bean with his fork. “How was your ride? Did you see anyone your own age? Maybe something inspired you?”

“I met a kid. He wore the brightest stuff, he looks like he’s right out of California.”

“See? I told you it wouldn’t be so different. Is he going to feature in one of your stories? Nanowrimo is coming up, isn’t it?” Nia, for the most part, had lived her life without a mother and without someone to share ideas with. This created a thirst in her, a need for someone to hear her stories. A need for someone to appreciate her work and display it on the refrigerator. She’d begun writing stories for her father to read as a child to fill that gap. He’d always encouraged her to continue writing, hinting at setting ideas and characters.

“No,” she said and gave him a smile. “He was too bright. His headphones matched his hoodie.”

“I thought color coordination was all the rage.” Her father looked down at his blue dress shirt and tie and offered her a grin. There must have been one of those remote meetings, Nia thought. He always dresses up for those.

“He drew all over his jeans. But we didn’t talk much. You know how I am with people.”

“You know, I was thinking about that. Once you’re enrolled in school, I want you to try joining a club. You’ll make friends.” He studied her for a long time. He seemed to be thinking of how to phrase his next words. “I know moving hasn’t been easy on you,” he began, “but I really think that this was the best move for us. You’ll get to know people and being around them will become easier. I promise.”

Nia didn’t believe him. She’d always struggled with people. Talking to them was hard, and when they heard she was a writer they decided she was a nerd. No one wanted to spend time with a nerd unless they needed help with their homework. Talking with a nerd was preferred over staying after class to speak with a teacher, by all accounts.

“Dad, about those rumors--”

“Are you worried about it? You know better than that. People think differently, people around here might think she’s strange, but she might be normal for LA.” Nia wasn’t sure she agreed. Sometimes people were odd, and they were just odd wherever they went. Sometimes it couldn’t be helped. It didn’t matter whether they lived in Los Angeles or Clatskanie, people were going to be considered strange by others.

“I guess we could meet her before deciding what to believe,” she began, hesitantly. Dad always encouraged her to find things out for herself, never to believe others’ perceptions over her own. She was an unpaid investigator of life, he’d told her when she’d been younger. She was to discover everything she could, and while she didn’t make reports, he’d encouraged her to journal about the findings she’d found most exciting. Those journals became stories, once her mother left. She became increasingly inventive as time went on, and reality sunk in. Life wasn’t as exciting as when she was tiny. Every leaf wasn’t noticeable, a cat slinking down the road didn’t matter. It was just a cat. It was different, she knew, for kids. Everything mattered. Her father told her that was how writers needed to be. Everything in the story mattered whether it was a leaf zipping past on some breeze, or a cat winding its body around the main character’s legs. Details are important to writers, so they ought to be important to adults, Nia thought, but they rarely notice the small things. It was almost as if children, teenagers, and adults were their own separate species. Dad was fond of saying everyone saw things in his or her own way; they had their own perceptions. So maybe there was something about the McGrady woman no one else was noticing. They talked through dinner about school and about the idea for a story Nia had on their drive from LA, about a teacher who desperately wanted to be human. She wasn’t sure what kind of entity he was, but she figured it was something he couldn’t help, like lycanthropy. That’d already been done, though, a few times. And a ghost not knowing that he was a ghost was cliché. Maybe a ghost that was entirely aware that he was dead, and wanted to believe he was alive. That would be an interesting plot-line. Ignorance really could be bliss. The characters that became aware were interesting because their doings and how they adjusted could become the plot.

“Maybe I’ll be able to tell you more about it tomorrow,” she said. She took her plate to the sink and made her way to her room upstairs.

She flopped onto her bed. She wanted to sleep, but thoughts always seemed to fill her head the moment it hit the pillow. She envied those people who could fall asleep in thirty minutes. It often took her hours. Tonight was no exception. She supposed the urge to write at night came from those endless hours she spent telling herself stories while her father worked at his computer. It would have been nice if they would stay in her head until morning, but they always left if she didn’t write them down. She took up a small spiral notebook from her bedside table. She wrote a list which contained ‘Creepy neighbor, pirates, skyship? How many skies are there? Seven? Lady pirate? Secret spy? Werewolves in science-- a condition with hair covering the whole body’ It wasn’t the best list of ideas she had ever created, but she knew she would be glad she wrote it down, someday. It probably wouldn’t turn up useful in the morning, though. She set it aside and turned out the light.

It wasn’t true to say that Nia hated mornings. While she would have preferred the day start at ten-ish, rather than dawn, she enjoyed the morning observances made from within the house. She loved to lay in bed for about an hour after waking, just listening to the morning voices, warmed with coffee. She always said she could hear the difference between a voice that had woken and not made the round to the kitchen for coffee, and one that had. It was poetic, but she thought it was most useful for description in stories rather than something people noticed in real life. The warm hum of those voices would rise up from her floor, creating a relaxed, peaceful feeling in her mind. The voices weren’t humming. They hadn’t since her mother left, but she woke up expecting to hear them each time.

Her mother left them when she’d been seven, and during that time her elementary school teacher encouraged them to spend thirty minutes reading aloud to their parents. She never had that chance. Her father had been apologetic, but as a single father of one young girl, he was busy trying to earn enough money to keep them in their house and fed. Nia didn’t know what it was like to have a parent read a book to her. And so, she’d begun to write. Writing was like telling herself a story. It hadn’t been much at first, something to keep her busy while her father was on the phone with his publishing company. But then, he’d begun to encourage her. What’d begun as a way to cope with the divorce and the loss of her mother became an integral part of her life.

Nia woke to the shuffling steps of her father pacing downstairs. The television was blaring a news station he wouldn’t be paying attention to. She knew him too well to imagine him watching. It was his go-to for background noise when he stressed about something. So, predictably, nothing went as planned. Breakfast was an unhappy affair with a cloud of anxiety hanging over the breakfast table as her father paced in front of it. Nia watched him over the rim of her glass. It contained orange juice in it before and held that telltale orange ring on the bottom. The undrinkable orange tint, only the barest amount of liquid that seemed to stick in the cup until she decided to wash it.

“Dad, it’s just a Skype call.” He was supposed to have a quick virtual meeting with his boss before they headed to the school, but he was making it a larger issue than it needed to be. It was about some new client for the company, it was nothing big. “It’s just Skype. You’ve done these meetings before.” Nia took a bite of her french toast, wrinkling her nose as she watched him. A knock at the door made them jump. Her dad stopped pacing the length of the table and promised to be back in a moment and went to the door. Their kitchen was actually a long hallway that led to the main entrance of the house and to the door to the backyard on the other side.

“Oh, hello! Zinnia, this boy says he knows you?” Dad sounded surprised, but he looked back at her expectantly. No way. Nia looked up from her breakfast to frown groggily. Who would come so early? I don’t know anyone.

She joined her father at the door. He had swung it open and was talking merrily with a boy her age. Nia recognized him from the store, what was his name again? Brennen. His curly hair was falling into his face from under his purple hoodie like stretched out slinkies and he was wearing was wearing a different pair of ripped jeans. These were doodled on too, but it was a different image. A porcupine with the face of a panda bear. Another looked like an octopus with the head of an elephant. There was another, but Nia had no idea what it was supposed to be. It had horns and a tail like a mouse. Underneath that image was something written in another language. She noticed that he was wearing a backpack with silver straps.

“Hey, Nia,” he said and gave her a sideways smile. “I thought this was your house. Want a tour? I figure you don’t know anyone, so...” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Anyway… You want to?” A siren was going off within Nia’s head. She didn’t do people. She’d never been able to communicate well outside of her writing ability, and her strategy was always avoidance. She looked at her father. He was holding something round, and covered in foil. It smelled like cream of chicken soup mixed with vegetables. She thought she could almost feel the warmth radiating off whatever it was.

“I think you should go,” he said. “Go on, meet some people.”

Nia knew what he was doing. He always encouraged her to go out and make a friend. He’d been doing that for years, to no avail. She was awkward. If someone wanted to talk to her, it was usually about homework. They never wanted to hear her passions or about whatever fandom she found herself in.

“She’d love to join you,” her father said when Nia failed to reply. “Thank you for the pie. Did your mother make this?” She couldn’t believe he’d accepted the offer for her! But then, he had suggested she join a club… Was he enjoying her suffering? She would have much rather preferred to stay sat in bed with a notebook and pen in hand. She knew her father realized this.

“Nah. My music teacher,” Brennen said, rubbing the back of his neck again. He offered them both a smile. “She told me to make you welcome. Not everybody’s so friendly.”

“Well, be sure to thank her. It smells delicious.” Nia’s father looked to her, and then to Brennen. “Would you like to come in? We just finished with breakfast.” Nia knew the look he shot her before she saw it. When people talked about being undressed with a look, it was the opposite with parents. They judged their children for being in a t-shirt and fluffy Pusheen pajama bottoms for too long. She headed down the hallway before he could say anything more.

“I’m going to get dressed!” she announced.

Nia and Brennen left not much later, but not before her father inquired about music lessons for her. At one point she’d been interested in piano lessons but finding a decent teacher had proven expensive and difficult. They had never been able to afford it. But now, they had a new start. Nia’s father believed that someone was never too old to learn.

“I can see if she’d be willing to take another student,” Brennan offered with a shrug. “She’s been teaching me since I was little. I don’t think she has another student right now. The last kid moved away. You might want to ask her, too.”

“Your dad’s friendly,” Brennen observed, once they’d gotten outside.

“You distracted him from worrying about his meeting,” Nia explained, with a smile. “He’d been pacing all morning until you knocked. We’re supposed to enroll me in school later today but it’ll probably end up being tomorrow. His meetings can go on for hours, especially when they use Skype.”

They didn’t talk much during their walk, though Brennen dutifully pointed out the park with the community pool and the basketball court. He told her that most of the houses on the street they lived on were on the historical registry, but he didn’t think his house was. He pointed out his own, a faded yellow house with white trim. It had a wrap around porch. The porch itself had a bike there, but they were too far to see what color it was. Probably green. Even his sneakers were green.

“Probably not yours either. I think ‘historical registry’ actually means ‘falling apart’.” Nia laughed. She found that he liked art, but he said that destroyed his image of tough kid.

“So keep it quiet, yeah?” He laughed.

She told him about her writing.

“No kidding? Tell me some of your ideas. Maybe we could collaborate or something. I could draw your characters or somethin’. I used to do that for Ms. M when I was a kid, she’s showed me some of her stories. She used to be published in those nerdy writer’s digest magazines. She hasn’t written for a while, though. She told me she’s had a block for years.” His music teacher was a writer, as well? Nia was impressed. The woman seemed to be a jack of all trades.They returned full circle to Nia’s, and she invited him inside.

“Maybe we could,” she said. Instead of writing--though they did spend time speculating whether it would be better to write about a male selkie--Nia learned that she didn’t have to explain what a selkie was, Brennen seemed to enjoy reading--who couldn’t flirt or a ghost who couldn’t scare, they ended up opening Netflix and putting a movie on. Netflix was mostly background noise: they spent hours curled up on either end of the couch and occasionally looked up from their phones to look at what was on the screen. “You know, I think I’d like to meet her. I’ve never met another writer before.”

The following few days were chaotic: there was no time to head up the street to meet Brennen’s music teacher, not that he stopped by. She thought she heard part of the Nutcracker Suite when she and her father passed his place. They went shopping for school supplies: Nia’s had disappeared in the move. On their way home it began to storm. It stormed the thirty-minute drive home, and it continued to do so as they entered their home, cold, but not quite soaked through.

“I’ll light a fire,” her father promised. He assured her that the storm would be a short one: it would rain for a short while and then the sun would come out. When Nia closed the curtains, she couldn’t help but think that he was wrong. This storm looks like a lion moving in for the kill.

The wind snarled past the shutters of the house, ripping through bushes and trees like a rabid dog. It roared as the rain began again, the sky giving a violent crash. Whoosh! The wind seemed to moan against the sides of the house. From her spot in Dad’s comfy armchair, Nia thought the storm sounded like a pair of fighting lions. She hated storms. They had always scared her, despite not living somewhere where she would be in danger of dying from one. She knew that statistically, she was in much more danger of dying from an earthquake. It wouldn’t be a tornado, not in Oregon. She huddled into the chair, pulling her knees up to her chest. Rain pounded on the roof like a thousand men hammering nails into the shingles in unison. She didn’t notice the bang of the door amongst all the noise. His book was set aside, laid open on the arm of the chair like a dog on its belly.

“Someone’s at the door.”

In this kind of weather? Were people in this town insane? Nia already knew that they were, but was everyone? Nia went to the door, and her father went in the opposite direction, towards the kitchen. Nia could hear the Keurig warming up with it’s bubbling whirring noises, he probably thought to offer tea to the poor soul. It was Brennen and Nia couldn’t tell what color any of him was supposed to be in that moment. It was a stark contrast from his usual vibrant self. His hair was a wet brown and plastered against his face in loose curls. He looked like a bedraggled dog, matted and tangled. His shirt probably was supposed to be red, but now it was a soaked, ugly brown color. His sopping curls dangled from his forehead and into his eyes. Each time a drop fell, he blinked rapidly to be rid of it. Nia’s father pressed a mug of tea into his hands. Nia thought it smelled of orange and bergamot.

“Stay and dry off,” her father invited. “The storm doesn’t seem to be letting up soon. Call your parents and let them know, too.”

Stay? He was soaking the carpet. Nia figured, though, that it wasn’t Brennen’s fault, and he was shivering. She felt a bit bad for him. He’d ended up being quite nice and she thought he was interesting, too.

“Thanks, sir,” the boy took out his phone from a pocket in his backpack. It seemed he was clever: he’d thought to put it in a ziplock baggie. He took it out and quickly dialed a number. “Hi, Eliot? Could you take the phone to Connie for me?” Is Eliot one of his brother’s coworkers, then? Nia presumed the phone was taken to the requested person because he began to explain rapidly that he’d been walking home from practice when the storm started. “No, I’m fine. I’m at that new girl’s place, they invited me inside. Connie, you don’t need to come home. Finish your shift!” He looked over to Nia’s father for permission, before moving the phone away from his ear. “He says he can pick me up in an hour or two. Is that okay?” The man nodded, and Brennen informed the person on the phone that he was welcome to stay until he got off work.

“Sit by the fire,” Nia’s father instructed, before heading over to the bathroom and fetching a towel. He offered it to the boy. “Here,” he said.

It took several minutes for Brenny to warm up, both physically and metaphorically. He sat on the couch close to the fire. He was across from Nia but hadn’t seemed to notice her until then.

“Sorry about this, Nia,” he said. He seemed to perk up once his hair stopped dripping.

“You okay?” She asked. He was soaked and in the October weather… She worried he’d get a chill. He was different from the people she’d met back home. She had never connected with someone her age before.

“Fine,” he insisted.

Nia wondered where his parents were, but Brenny made no mention of them. Maybe his brother was the only one there for him. She decided not to pry. “What sort of practice were you at?” she asked. “Something at school?”

Brennen shook his head. “I was walking home from my music teacher’s. Once the storm started, though, she told me I better pack up and she gave me a bag for my phone. She didn’t want it to get ruined.” He paused, then, and added, “You know where I live,” he pointed to the left. “I didn’t think the storm would get so bad, but I saw you were home so--”

“You decided to knock,” Nia nodded in understanding.

“Yeah. I’m glad, your dad is just as nice as she is.”

“Dad still wants me to ask her about piano lessons. He thinks my dreams from when I was five are the same now. I’m sure a pony will be arriving any day.” She rolled her eyes. “I’d like to learn an instrument though, at least try.” Words were an instrument, almost. Prose could have musical qualities.

“Yeah? I haven’t asked her yet. I think she’d like the company, though. People around here are stuck up and they don’t visit. She’s always got lemonade and food when I come for lessons.”

“Tell me if she agrees. I’ll come by.”

Brennen’s curls were beginning to dry. They were frizzling and standing just slightly off of his head, and he seemed to have relaxed along with them. “Sure,” he said, offering her a smile. “Maybe she’ll make some of her lemonade, she uses the purple flowers in her garden. It’s great!” They were quiet for a long time. Brennen pulled up a game on his phone and was tapping the screen in rapid succession. “You know,” he began, “only my parents call me Brennen. You can call me Brenny. Everybody does.”

Ah. She understood that.

“My dad calls me Zinnia,” she said, “I hate it.” She remembered a time when she hadn’t hated her name. It had been before her mother left them after that family vacation. “Mom used to call me Zinnie, but I changed it when I was nine. I couldn’t stand it. No one knows what a zinnia is unless I tell them, and though it’s a common flower, you wouldn’t believe how many people struggle to say it. If I had a dollar for everytime someone’s called me ‘Zeenia’ or ‘Zannia’...” She shook her head. It hurt too much, to be reminded so often of her mother. Her mother left them without a word--well, she assumed her parents must have discussed it, but she hadn’t said anything to Nia. They’d gone on vacation in Hood Canal and a great time was had--and her mother left three days later. Nia questioned her father about it at first, but he was always hesitant to talk about her mother. He’d assured her that her mother was happy and that she loved her, but that had been the extent of that conversation.

The fluffier Brennen’s hair got, the fluffier his mood seemed to be. Nia was glad when his older brother was able to pick him up. People like him could overwhelm someone easily, she thought. Brennen was like visiting with several people at once, the way he filled the house with excitement, the way he seemed to tangent. The howling wind settled to a soft croon against the house, and the rain became that foggy drizzle they were accustomed to.

Brennen showed up at the house around three the next day, inviting Zinnia to come with him to practice. “I gave her a heads’ up,” he said, and offered her a smile. “I told her about you. She’d like you to bring some of your writings by sometime, she says she ran out of reading material ages ago.”

“I was going to ask you to take me to her place.”

Brennen agreed. He took her down the street, eight houses from her own. It turned out that it wasn’t the witch who lived in the looming gray house, it was Brennen’s music teacher. The house was less intimidating up close, but the house was clearly in disrepair. The paint was chipping, the metal siding was showing. Shingles had fallen and had been left in the yard as if they were a makeshift garden decoration. There were signs that children had been in the yard: a cement circle with a handprint was partially hidden in the grass. A gnome to the left of that looked like it’d been painted sloppily, or maybe the elements had simply worn the paint down. There was a yellow tonka truck that had been repurposed as a planter, but the flowers in it were browning from the chill of October.

“They’ll come back next year,” Brennen seemed to have caught her looking. He gave Nia a smile and offered her a shrug. “Ms. M’s really good with her garden but I haven’t come to weed yet.” He led her to the porch, and stopped her at the stairs. “Let me tell her you’re here,” he said, “I don’t want her thinking you’re one of the bullies.”

Bullies? Nia wondered. Was Brennen bullied? He was so friendly and so at ease with everything, she couldn’t imagine him having trouble with anyone. She waited at the stairs while he went through the white metal screen door, and her phone out. She’d downloaded google docs for this visit. Her latest story was still open on the app. It was about a victorian ghost who used all her energy to try and trick herself into believing she was alive. The ghost’s name was Lisette (but she was called Lissy), and she was a forever nineteen year old who’d died of sickness. The ghost was well aware that she was dead, she wished she wasn’t. It was a simple plot: two ghosts who knew they were dead and eventually accepted that they were fell in love. It was cliche, and a bit silly, but Nia knew that she couldn’t compare herself to the great writers. No one was brilliant at fifteen.

“Okay,” Brennen said, as he emerged, “Come on in.”

Nia stepped inside and had to pause. The outside of the house was nothing like the inside, with its dull gray exterior. The house was bright with images of birds, prisms hanging from the chandelier over the entrance. The ceiling had been painted with a shining color--Nia wasn’t sure what to call it. Gold? Yellow? She took a moment to take it in. It was a cluttered space, but it was the good sort of cluttered like a museum that had had too many donations and not enough space. She wasn’t greeted immediately, and then she saw something move. What she’d assumed was part of the furniture with the bright colored fabric, was a woman.

“Brennen’s told me an awful lot about you since you’ve moved in, girl,” the woman’s voice came. It had a bit of a rasp to it, almost as if she wasn’t used to speaking. “All good things,” she added, with a smile. Nia thought she was almost as bright as Brennen. She was wearing a deep green dress with a gold, tiered necklace. Her hair was thin and wispy around her face, and her cheeks were plump as was the rest of her.

“He’s told me a lot about you, too, Ms. M,” Nia smiled at her, then. “He said you write?”

“I haven’t written for years,” the woman laughed. “I used to write as a freelancer, but nothing big. Call me Mabel, dear. I keep telling this one to,” she shoved at Brennen’s arm playfully. “He insists on using manners.”

Brennen rubbed the back of his neck. Nia was beginning to recognize this as a nervous tic. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Don’t mind her, Nia. She tries to tell me that respecting our elders is wrong.”

“You’re disrespecting me by failing to call me by my preferred name,” the woman insisted. She didn’t seem angry. This seemed like a long standing argument, one full of affection. “He tells me you’re interested in learning piano? You’re older than my other students have been, but I figure if I could learn to garden old as I am, you can learn.” She gestured to the piano in the corner of the room. Like the rest of the house, the piano was cluttered and covered with vibrant colors. A skeen of multicolored yarn dribbled down the side, while a cat sat on the other side. The cat’s leg was hanging off the piano, and it didn’t seem like it would be moving anytime soon. Its yellow eyes closed in a squint.

“I was wondering if you’d be willing to teach me. We can pay you..?”

The old woman laughed and shook her head. Nia hesitated, wondering what she’d said wrong.

“I don’t want payment but a young person’s company! No, you bring me that story my boy’s been telling me about and I’ll give you lessons. I ran out of reading material years ago, and seeing something a girl like you has come up with might--” the woman fell silent for a long time, and looked to Brennen. “You need to be practicing!” she snapped. “Moonlight Sonata, quickly now.”

Brennen’s eyes widened, Nia could see his surprise in them, and he hurried to the piano. He didn’t disturb the cat as he sat down at the stool and began to play.

“I’ve been teaching him since he was four,” the woman continued, in a low voice. “If this wasn’t such a desolate place, he could be noticed. He has the talent. You should get going now, dear. We don’t want to be a distraction.”

It wasn’t three days later that Nia saw Brennen outside again, but this time the boy was in a hurry. He seems blind to his surroundings, Nia thought, as she waved and called to him. It must have been something important. He was almost flat out running, pelting green Converse sneakers against the concrete sidewalk.

“Sorry!” he breathed, after nearly knocking Nia over. He stopped only to catch his breath, hunching over with his hands on his knees. “Sorry.” He straightened and rubbed the back of his neck, and Nia noticed for the first time that he was dressed neater than usual. Though rumpled from running, he was wearing a deep red dress shirt with brown buttons and black slacks. He looked uncomfortable in them and his smile was nervous and lopsided like it didn’t really belong on his face.

“What’s wrong?” Nia asked, finally. She didn’t know him well, but she could tell something was bothering him.

“My piano teacher’s having me do a recital for my family,” he began. That didn’t sound so bad. She figured he was nervous about performing. “My mom invited half the town,” he continued with a sigh. Half the town? Nia understood immediately. He isn’t nervous about performing in front of his family. He’s-- her thought was interrupted by a frenzied Brennen. “Ms. McGrady isn’t the most popular person in town,” he said. “I’m worried how people will treat her.” That caused Nia to pause. She stared.

“Your teacher is the witch everyone talks about?” she asked, eyes wide.

“I told you when we met, none of that stuff is true.” His eyes narrowed and his eyebrows furrowed. “She’s not a witch.” His expression caused Nia to deflate. She swallowed before she said anything more. He’d always described his teacher as kind. Was it possible the people were wrong? Had they only passed on the tradition of long-standing gossip to the newest members of the community? He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he shot her a glare. “I’ve got to go, Nia. I’m going to be late.” He took another breath and staggered as he took a step forward. His hair, Nia noticed, had a leaf in it. He didn’t seem to notice. She leaned up to pluck it out of his curls, and then to place a hand on his shoulder.

“You won’t be able to play if you run the whole way,” she said. “Dad can drive us there. Come on. He works from home, and he was supposed to take a break hours ago. We’ll get there faster, and you’ll be able to straighten those wrinkles.” Instead of going inside, Nia took her phone out of her pocket. “Don’t worry, you won’t be late,” she said, looking to Brennen as she hit the green phone button and Dad popped up on her recent calls. She tapped it and held the phone to her ear. “Dad, we need a ride to Ms. McGrady’s. Brennen’s having a recital and he was running in his dress clothes.”

Fifty-six seconds later, they were in the car. Nia was sure Brenny had counted. He’d moved to remove the leaf from his hair, but Nia had already--so he had known it was there--and had started curling a stand of frizz. He was staring straight ahead as if he was seeing through the headrest of the driver’s seat. Sitting still seemed difficult for him. His free hand had clenched and unclenched twice since they’d sat down.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she began, awkwardly. How was she supposed to comfort him? She didn’t know him. They’d met once by chance and then gotten to know each other through her father’s kindness, how was she supposed to know the right words to say? He gave her a tight smile, and she knew she’d said the wrong thing. He was nervous, Nia could tell. But what… She pressed her head against her headrest in thought. “Tell me what she’s like,” she prompted. “I only know what people say about her. I met her just the once.”

Brennen seemed to hesitate. “That’s right.” He swallowed, and Nia thought he was thinking over his words. “Ms. McGrady started teaching me piano when I was little,” he said, something Nia already knew, but she wasn’t about to interrupt. “My parents were friends of hers before she had all that bad stuff happen. Everyone thought she was guilty, but my parents knew. Mom says they got married because he was dying. He had leukemia and there was nothing anyone could do about it back then.” He paused and looked at her. “I guess that’s why everyone calls her a witch. I didn’t know they were doing that. I guess I tuned it out.” He sighed. “Mom and dad are always busy. They’re nurses. And Connie’s got to work so he can go to college next year. He’s always at work. I’ve been spending more time at her place.”

There was a long silence between them, but it wasn’t the uncomfortable sort Nia was used to. She looked down at her hands, and then her eyes veered to him. It was so simple and such a sad story. Were people in town not aware of how ill the man had been? Was this really the story of a misunderstood woman people feared because they didn’t know her?

“I’m glad I met you,” she said, “I might have ended up believing them, too.”

That seemed to surprise him. He was quiet for a while, and then said, “Maybe we have a chance to tell people the truth. They’re going to be there for my recital, and they’ll see how she is. I know the people around here, they aren’t bad.” Nia thought Brennen’s faith in their neighbors was sweet, but she was concerned. They called her a witch. People could be unkind when they didn’t understand something, and she didn’t think they’d be willing to listen to two teenagers.

They could see a group of people in the garden as they drove up. Brennen gave a sound of relief from beside Nia. It seemed it wasn’t as bad as he thought. There were sixteen people there, and no one younger than forty. Someone parked in the usually empty driveway. Most seem to have walked, Nia thought, as there was a lack of cars parked on the street. Brennen scrambled out of the car, before Nia’s father had a chance to park. He’d swung open the door and pushed his way past the people standing in front of the house. Nia followed him once they’d parked.

There was an upright piano on the porch, and a stool stood beside it. It contrasted with the gray chipped paint of the cobwebbed porch, someone took care of this piano. It seemed to have been newly polished, the way it shone in the dim October sunlight. Once again, Nia observed that Brenny’s hair seemed to react to his mood. She knew it was unrealistic to think so, but it seemed to be just as agitated as the rest of him. She imagined she could hear the gentle sound of it frizzling.

“You got this.” It was something Nia’s father often told her and it’d always helped her feel a bit better. It wasn’t exactly a confidence boost, but maybe it would encourage him. “Are your parents here yet?”

“No,” Brennen said, and then added, “Connie is.” He gestured, and she spotted a younger man than most of the attendees by far. Unlike many of the others, he was grinning. He offered Brennen a wave and smirked when he set eyes on Nia. Oh no. She had a feeling she knew exactly what he was thinking. His hair curled like Brennen’s, but they were slicked back. He was dressed nicely, but almost too nicely--like he’d been working at a casino. Nia almost expected him to take a deck of cards out from his sleeve.

“Hey Brenny, cute girlfriend!” Yup. Connie is a predictable older brother type character, she decided. The cliche character that could have come from any book. Is he going to follow the usual script? “Well, are you going to play? Mom and Dad are almost here, they needed to pick something up.”

“I was going to stall.”

“Yeah? Don’t. All these people came to see you.”

“Ms. McGrady hasn’t come out.” But Brennen sat down at the piano. His hands lingered over the keys, and he hesitated. He didn’t seem to want to start without his parents or teacher in attendance. There was a crash behind them, and Nia whipped around to see what happened. A rock soared past her and through the porch window. Another followed, this one hitting the house siding harmlessly and bouncing off. What was going on? She needed to move closer to the piano to avoid being hit with the next one. It went through the window with a shatter. She heard dishes breaking from within the house. Brenny stood up so fast he’d knocked over his stool, and roughly pushed Nia out of the way. It took a moment for her to balance. He opened the door of the house and went inside.

“She’s crazy!” came a voice. Nia looked over and saw a man standing up. His arm was up like he’d thrown something. She stared at him. She was having trouble comprehending his behavior. Brennen came back outside. He looked furious. There was a bit of blood on his hand and Nia didn’t think it belonged to him, there was no mark on him. She handed him her phone and he took it, moving towards the piano.

What was she supposed to do? She was a kid, and she was facing an angry crowd. Someone had just targeted an old woman-- “You call her the witch?” she cried. She wanted to scream. She swallowed. She hadn’t noticed her uneven breathing or the way her hand had clenched on the bottom hem of her dress. She’d balled it up. She heard the telling scream of a siren, either police or ambulance she couldn’t tell. It ended up being both. Brennen pressed her phone back into her hand and mouthed thanks before heading back inside. A police officer rushed to follow him. “Please tell me she’ll be alright,” Nia heard Brennen saying.

“She’s alright, she’s alright. She’s lucky you were here,” the police officer said. “The rock hit her temple, we’ll have to get her checked out. What was she doing?”

“She made lemonade.”