My Name Is Venus Black(35)

“References?” Just to rent a stupid room?

I must have a blank look on my face, because she tries to help me out. “I would just need the phone number of your previous landlord,” she says. “Or were you living at home? I could always talk to your parents.”

“Oh no. There was a landlord,” I say quickly, sounding even to myself like an over-eager liar.

But Josie doesn’t seem to see through my act. I can tell she likes me and wants to give me this room. I imagine she’s thinking how swimmingly we’d get along—and she is exactly the kind of woman who would use that word.

And if I lived here in that room, I feel sure I could become that kind of woman, too.

I beam at her, promising to call her later with my landlord’s number. “I just have to check my address book,” I say.

But of course I don’t have one to check, and I’ll never see Josie or that room again.



* * *



—

ON SUNDAY, I check the paper for new listings, but there’s nothing. Reluctantly, I call the owner of the house with the horrible girl. The guy’s name is Mike, and he confirms the room is still available, which I’d been half-hoping it wouldn’t be.

He asks about my situation, what I’m looking for, and how soon I could move in. He sounds super friendly, like he’s been waiting his whole life for me to call.

I should have known there was a catch. When he asks what hours I usually work, it seems like he is getting too personal. I’m about to object when he finally admits why it matters: He is looking for a renter who could also watch his niece for a couple of hours after school.

“You mean you want me to babysit?”



“Well, I wouldn’t call it that. It’s really just someone to kind of be around until I get home from work. We’re talking a couple hours a day.”

“Oh man. I’m sorry. But I can’t do that,” I say automatically.

“When do you get off work?” he asks. I can’t believe the gall of this guy.

“I work until two. But that doesn’t mean—”

“That will be perfect!” he says. “My niece doesn’t get home from school until around three.”

I don’t respond, and for a second he’s quiet, too. “Okay, Annette. Here’s the deal. If I meet you and think you’re responsible enough, I’d cut the rent in half because of the babysitting.”

In half? That would make a huge difference in how fast I could save up to buy a car and move away.

“Would you need a reference?”

“I guess not,” he says, hesitating only briefly. “I would just need to meet you.”

A few hours later, I’m knocking on the door of the lavender house. When no one answers, I clang the knocker as hard as I can. Someone is home—I can hear cartoons coming from inside.

Finally, the familiar little girl opens the door and sticks her head out.

“Is Mike home?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Why do you want to know?” She sounds wary, the bravado of yesterday nowhere in sight.

“Didn’t he tell you I was coming? I’m here to see your room for rent.”

“Oh!” she says, clearly relieved. I realize then that she’d actually thought I’d come back to her house to tattle on her. Too funny.

She opens the door all the way. “You can come in. Mike is at the store.”

I hesitate, annoyed that this Mike guy isn’t here. He’d made it sound like he’d be around all afternoon.



“It’s okay,” she encourages. “C’mon! I’ll show you.” She has a spattering of freckles across her face and a spot of dried milk on the corner of her lip.

I step inside and shut the door. “This is the living room,” she says uncertainly, waving her arms like a game-show lady. She is wearing dirty white Keds sneakers, a wrinkled polka-dot T-shirt, and grass-stained jeans.

I gaze around the living room. Wood floors, worn throw rugs, and cheap but usable furniture. A large TV is blaring Tweety Bird, the volume painfully loud.

“Can we turn that down?” I ask.

She stomps dramatically to the TV and shuts it off. “There. Are you happy now?”

I take a deep breath and exhale. What a total brat. I’m tempted to leave, but I know from dealing with younger kids at Echo Glen that you can’t tell how a kid really is until you try to be nice to them at the same time as they’re being mean to you.

“Do you want to tell me your name now?” I ask, my tone friendly.

“Piper Porter.”

“Piper?” I ask, not sure I’m hearing right, since I’ve never heard of such a name.

“Yes,” she says defensively. “Piper. P-I-P-E-R. You got a problem with my name?”

“Of course not,” I tell her. “I think it’s a nice name. It goes well with your last name.” I extend my hand, and she reaches out shyly to shake it. “I’m Annette. Annette Higgman,” I add. “Do you want to show me your bedroom?”

She giggles. “Sounds like Pig Man,” she says.

“Yeah, I got teased a lot in school,” I tell her, realizing that poor Annette probably did get teased.

She abruptly turns away and scrambles up the uncarpeted wooden stairs. “C’mon!” she calls. “The room is up here.” At the landing, we turn in to the first door on the left. “This is my room,” she announces. I watch her gaze around, as if seeing her own bedroom for the first time.