The Summer We Said Goodbye [Installment 20]
The Upstairs
I scampered up the bluff and strode straight back to the house, my sights set on the windows just under the upper eaves.
The three siblings immediately above me had graduated or dropped out of college by now and scattered to the winds. None had returned home for the holiday, leaving their bedrooms free for the taking.
I gently shut the front door and tiptoed to the staircase, passing my room next to my mother's. She was still sleeping, and I wanted to keep it that way, intent on executing my incursion covertly on terms favorable to me.
With each step, the certainty of my mission grew stronger, and I reached the small sitting room on the landing.
Three bedrooms and a bathroom radiated out, along with a short hallway leading to the attic.
It was a lot of real estate for one person, and I sank into an overstuffed armchair by the window to survey my new domain.
A bookshelf lined with Encyclopedia Britannica stood nearby. I thumbed through dogeared copies of Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar, Erich Segal's Love Story, and Carlos Castenda's Journey to Ixtlan for clues of anything that might hint at what made my brother and sisters tick.
There would be time enough for that later, though, and I dropped the books abruptly and stood up.
The room that had belonged to the sister closest in age to me was at the front of the house and had a view of the street. It was also the smallest, whereas my other sister's room was the largest and had a four-poster bed. But it was at the back of the house with a single window and a partially obscured view.
The third room that had been my brother's fell somewhere in between the others in size and was west-facing with a flat patch of roof big enough for lounging that caught the rays of the setting sun. It was also outfitted in a cowboy-themed bedroom set in sturdy oak with bunk beds and two elkhorn lamps.
A poster for Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange assaulted me from the wall where it was pinned above the desk. I stood my ground and met a maniacal Malcolm McDowell eye-to-eye as he lunged for me with his pointy blade.
The poster had lost one of its corner tacks and hung slightly askew, only adding to its dystopian demise.
With one swipe, I finished the job, tearing it from the wall and crumpling it into a tight wad.
I aimed for the wastebasket across the room and let fly.
Swoosh
It's all about the follow-through.
This is where I would spend my teenage years.