Broadhead Ave, Our Humble Home

The Porch 

We had a broken door that didn’t stay shut. It made a loud noise when the wind thrust it open. Our sneakers and boots cluttered the floor—right next to the shoe rack. Kimmie hung up lights with batteries that didn’t work, and I hung my beer bottle wind chime in the corner. The screened porch came with a couch: it was gray and thinly striped. I slept there on my 21st birthday. The old, cracked cabinet was an extra seat for when the couch was full and a blunt was being passed around. We sat there with lovers, best friends and people we ended up hating. 

The Kitchen

The kitchen smelled. The sink flooded, the garbage overflowed. The fridge was stained with pickle juice. I made soup all the time. Kimmie made eggs in the morning. We almost never ate together. 

The Bathroom

I sat on the toilet and watched Izzy take a shower. She was telling me about a new boy in her life, one that treated her like she had never been treated before. She hurriedly shaved her legs. Her breasts were cradled between her arms. We were used to being naked around each other. The three of us took pictures in the mirror before our nights out. That sink flooded, too. 

My Room

I slept with 8 boys in that room. It was pink and cozy. It was messy and stifling. It was my scrapbook and cocoon.

Izzy’s Room

Izzy got the biggest room. We left it for her because we moved into the house while she was in Guatemala. It was sunny, but she darkened the windows with red curtains. I laid next to her on a night we didn’t want to sleep alone. 

Kimmie’s Room

Kimmie’s bed felt like a cloud—she had a down comforter that was as light as it was thick. Our friends always gathered in her room because she had a TV and air conditioning. We cuddled around a bowl of weed and watched documentaries and Harry Potter and that one shark movie with Mandy Moore. I wasn’t supposed to hear her having sex through the wall.

The Living Room

There were two couches in the living room, two arm chairs and a coffee table. The arm chairs were in this weird horse pattern that matched the wallpaper in the kitchen. The carpet had a red stain from when Madison spilled paint. She brought a plastic sheet on the day we tripped acid and we painted along with Bob Ross while sitting on the floor. Friends who traveled to visit us slept on the couch; one night stands we brought home from the bar did, too. The desk in the corner was piled with magazine clippings, play-doh, important papers and weed crumbs. We vacuumed when our moms came by.