My Name Is Venus Black(34)

But of course it is. As I walk by, I try not to be obvious about glancing into the windows through the thin curtains. It’s dark inside, and I can’t see anything. I notice the cement driveway is crumbled and uneven. It appears no one is home, but a pink bicycle has been tossed against the small front porch.

I pass similar but less ugly houses before reaching the end of the block, where I cross the street and turn around so I can pass the lavender house again on the way back. This time, a little girl appears on the front steps of the porch. She looks to be maybe nine or ten. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer!” she shouts at me.

I’m so surprised, it takes me a second to realize her mean remark is aimed at me. Inexplicably, it hurts my feelings. I ignore her, stare straight ahead, and walk faster. I’ve put the incident behind me when, a block or so later, I hear a noise at my back and turn to find the girl on her bike. I stop and step aside, giving her plenty of room to pass on the sidewalk.

But she stops instead. “Where you going?” she asks. She is missing a front tooth and chewing a large wad of blue gum.

“I’m just walking,” I tell her. I wave my hand again for her to pass, but she doesn’t budge. In the bike basket is a blond baby doll whose hair has been dyed purple.

“No, you go ahead,” she says. I can smell her gum in the air and it reminds me of Jackie, who often chewed Bubblicious. I was a Bazooka girl all the way—partly because each piece came with a comic.



I take the girl at her word and start walking again, way faster than I was before. I can hear her pedaling right behind me. If I were to stop or slow down, she’d ride right up my ankles. Once again, I step aside and motion for her to pass. When she stops, too, I ask, “Do you mind?”

“You don’t own this sidewalk, lady,” she says.

“And neither do you. How about if you leave me alone? Maybe you should go home.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” she says.

What a brat! “You’re right,” I tell her. “So go home to whoever is the boss of you and quit following me.” I decide to cross to the other side of the street, but the girl sticks to me like gum.

“It’s rude to ignore people, you know.”

I can’t believe it. Is this how little kids who aren’t locked up act these days? I suddenly whirl around, hoping to scare her. “What is your name!” I practically shout.

She stops her bike just shy of my knee. She’s startled, for sure. The chewing stops. “Why do you want to know?” she asks in a noticeably smaller voice.

“Because maybe your mother should know what you’re doing. Following a stranger down the road.”

“I don’t have a mother,” she says, her attitude back. “So you can’t tell her because she doesn’t exist.” I notice her hair is a little greasy, her brown bangs unevenly cut.

“How old are you?”

“I’m nine,” she says proudly.

“Do you want to quit following me?”

“No,” she says, looking into my face. “I don’t have anything else to do. I’m bored.”

Her honest answer softens me despite myself, because I relate to bored and alone. “What’s your doll’s name?”



“Smelly Shelly,” she says. “I don’t really like her, though. I’m way too big for dolls.” She picks up the doll by its purple hair and smacks it in the belly.

“Really?” I ask. “You like to hit your dolls?” I can see Echo Glen in her future.

She shrugs and looks away.

“I’m done talking now,” I announce. “Do. Not. Follow. Me.”

I walk on, and I can feel that she’s finally stopped following. After a half block or so, I glance back to make sure. She’s sitting on her bike where I left her. “You looked!” she screams, laughing. “Lookers are hookers!”

I turn around quickly to hide my smile and keep walking. At least I know where I’m not renting a room.



* * *



—

INSTEAD OF RETURNING to the hotel, I go straight to the nearest phone booth to call about the other room. I’m worried I’ve missed my chance while wasting time on the lavender house with the horrible girl.

I reach a woman named Josie, who tells me the room is still available and I should come right over. When I find the house, it’s a really nice Victorian painted a soft yellow—and no bratty kids in sight. Josie greets me at the door before I can even knock. She looks maybe forty and is wearing a cool bohemian dress—elegant, not hippie-ish.

The house is immaculate and airy. The room I would rent is even better than I had hoped for. It has a dormer with slanted ceilings; the walls and old-fashioned furniture are all painted a bright clean white. The double bed, covered by a quilt of yellow flowers and blue diamonds, makes me want to lie on it and reread Jane Eyre.

I want the room so badly I can hardly breathe.

The interview with Josie seems to go well. I eagerly tell her about my job at the Dipper and that I recently moved here from Portland. I explain that I have the first month’s rent and the fifty-dollar security deposit. I think I sound smart and responsible, and I can tell she does, too.



Then she ruins everything. “Do you have references?” she asks.