Eliza and Her Monsters(39)

Sully and Church, thankfully, are attempting to give each other black eyes over a first-person shooter in the living room, and don’t notice me leave.

Wallace lives on the other side of town in a one-story ranch home with a light-up Santa in the yard and a driveway that’s more mud than gravel. Two cars sit in a row, probably neither of them made after the year 2007; the one in the back is Wallace’s, or at least the one he drives everywhere, the same one his sister drives to pick him up from school. I pull in behind it. A warm light comes through the curtains behind the window in the front door.

I take out my phone.

MirkerLurker: So I’m here.

MirkerLurker: At his house.

MirkerLurker: About to go inside.

MirkerLurker: Wanting to puke.

Emmy and Max don’t respond. Emmy’s home for the holidays and Max is off work, so we’re in that relaxed lull where they spend the least time online. I haven’t actually talked to them in the past few days—at least I remembered to send their care packages out. Maybe they’ll see the message while I’m in there.

I rest my head on the steering wheel, pretend I’m doing something in case anyone is watching from the house, count to twenty, then force myself out of the car—leaving my mom’s flyers on the passenger seat—and march up to the front door.

Wallace answers on the first knock. He’s wearing sweatpants and one of his sweaters.

“That is so unfair,” I say.

He smiles. “I thought you’d say that.”

The inside of his house looks straight out of the seventies. Wood-paneled walls, yellow carpet. But it’s warm and cozy as hell, and the smell of sizzling fat drifts out of the kitchen to our right. To our left is a wall that divides the entryway from a living room with a TV on, and a back hallway that must lead to bedrooms.

“So this is La Casa Warland, huh?” I say.

“More like La Casa Keeler,” he replies. His voice is louder than I’ve ever heard it before, almost as loud as Sully and Church, who still haven’t learned the term “inside voice.” He takes my coat and hangs it on the rack beside the door. I stand awkwardly by the door to the living room until someone behind me says, “Oh, you must be Eliza!”

I jump. A middle-aged black woman strides across the living room toward me, arms outstretched. She’s short, plump, and has a smile that looks like it could bludgeon the devil to tears. She gathers me up in a hug. I stare at Wallace.

“Eliza, this is my mom, Vee.”

“Oh, hon, really I’m his stepmother. Don’t want you to get too confused.” Vee releases me and takes my hand instead, pulling me toward the kitchen. Movement in the living room blurs behind us, and then there’s a girl Sully and Church’s age following Wallace, with skin a few shades lighter than Vee’s and about a million thin braids scooped into a thick ponytail that hangs past her shoulders.

“I’m Lucy,” the girl says. “You’re shorter than I thought you’d be.”

Vee sits me down at a small rectangular kitchen table. Wallace sits beside me, and Lucy sits opposite me. Her legs are so long she has to whip her feet back when they accidentally touch mine. The table’s set for six. On the other side of the room, something that smells and sounds suspiciously like bacon cooks in a skillet on the stove.

“I hope you like breakfast for dinner, Eliza,” Vee says, “because it’s Friday night, and you know what Friday night means!”

I don’t, but Lucy shouts, “Eggs and bacon!” and whoops a few times for good measure.

“I don’t understand how anyone is supposed to get any beauty sleep in this house.” Another woman steps into the kitchen, hands on her hips. She has to be in her early twenties, and a thick headband holds a magnificent mane of hair away from her angular face. I think she might burn me alive when her eyes land on me, but after a moment, her features soften and she points at Wallace. “Are you Wally’s girlfriend?”

Wallace’s face flares red. He glances sideways at me. He’s not correcting her.

He’s not correcting her.

“Um,” I say. “I’m Eliza.”

She holds out her hand. Grips like a titan. “I’m Bren. I feel like I’ve seen you around before—do you have a dog?”

“Yeah. Davy. He’s a Great Pyrenees.”

She nods sagely. “I work for the Happy Friends Dog Day Care. We have Davy in there every once in a while.”

“He was there in October for the week-long pack run!”

“Yes, he was!” Bren moves around the table and sits next to Lucy, who immediately tries to stick her finger in Bren’s ear. Bren swats the hand away absentmindedly. “I love those dogs. So does Wally—we pay him to clean the kennels and plays with the dogs at the end of the day.” She huffs. “You know, when I’m in charge of that place, I’m going to feed them in the morning and in the evening, because once a day isn’t enough. Especially not when they’re running around playing. I wish we could have a dog here, but Luce is allergic.” She tugs on Lucy’s braids.

“How do you like your eggs, Eliza?” Vee asks.

“Uh . . . any way. Sunny-side up is fine.”

“Sunny-side up it is.” She finishes with the bacon and starts cracking eggs in the skillet.