My house was never really home. I wasn’t safe from my bully. I felt like he could still get to me even outside of school. It was worse at home, with my parents constantly battling for custody of my sister and me. I felt like a cheap prize from a rigged carnival game.
Switching back and forth, between mother and father, I felt… homeless. I was homeless. I had a place, two places, to live. I had a bed, two beds, to sleep in. I had a refrigerator, two refrigerators, stuffed with food. I shouldn’t be complaining, right? For fifteen years, the constant in my life had been Penny.
She was blunt, but she wasn’t mean. She never lied to me. Penny always cared more about me than she cared about herself.
Often Penny and I would sit on the roof at our mother’s house, drinking root beer floats we’d made together in the kitchen with dry roasted peanuts sprinkled between layers of vanilla ice cream and gooey chocolate sauce. Even though they were just simple drinks, they gave me a sense of security.
Sometimes we talked, sometimes we didn’t. Usually we would simply enjoy each other’s company. She would complain about her boyfriend; I would complain about my math teacher. We never talked about our parents. That was the unspoken rule on the roof.
The day Penny finally dumped her boyfriend, she went to the roof. It was December, right before winter break. The snow sparkled like stardust, covering the pine trees, chilling spoken words. Any kind of water was frozen through, even the morning dew that collected on the roof. Penn went up alone; I should have been there.
She fell. Ever tumbling down. Down, down, down, to the car parked below the balcony, crashing like the Titanic into the iceberg. Her body survived. Her brain didn’t. She slipped – more like crashed – into a coma.
By March of the next year, Penny was still in a coma and my sanity had been dwindling. Her health getting worse by the day, until she couldn’t breathe on her own anymore. I was there when they inserted that damning tube down her throat.
The custody case had been dismissed after the fall. The judge deemed my parents too irresponsible to take care of their children. But it wasn’t their fault. It was mine.
Spring and summer came and went until it was November almost a year later. Mom and Dad went to the hospital on the 14th. They were going to make a decision, the decision whether or not to keep Penny on life support.
They unplugged her. She died only a few moments later. My sister, gone from the world, never to see another day. Never another sunset, never another kiss, never another placement of an ice pack on my bruises, never another meeting on our roof.
The roof hadn’t been used since her fall. In fact, it had been completely removed from the house. My parents didn’t want the memories of Penn around.
Everything changed when they unplugged her. My grades dropped, my bully began to physically assault me and my parents disregarded me to the point where social services got involved.
My parents pretended that she had never fallen. They pretended that she had never even existed. I was blind with rage. I saw red, and blue, and purple. Everything was red. And blue. And purple.
It was my fault. It was all my fault that Penny had gone up there alone. She had broken up with her boyfriend, my bully. She never knew it was him. Until that day. The day she found out that her first love was my bully. Her last day of consciousness. She died knowing that her boyfriend was harassing her little brother.
She knew there was a kid at school that beat me up. But I never knew how she figured it out. I certainly never told her.
It was the beginning of the end. The moral to the story. The proof in the pudding. The magic to the fairytale. It was all over.
The roof, the moments I had with Penny, those were when I felt different, like I had a home.
Even years later, I realized. The roof wasn’t a place. It was a feeling. It was the feeling. The most wonderful, glorious, perfect feeling that anyone could ever encounter. It was home.
In December, I was placed in a foster home.
At school, I was the weird kid with the dead sister and the parents who rejected me. At the Home, I was the kid who knew their parents. Wherever I went, I was hated with an unbridled passion.
My (school-appointed) counselor thought I was a suicide risk. I had meetings every week, and I had to eat lunch in the main office. I had to show him my arms as soon as I entered his office.
The meetings didn’t help. The counselor asked me inane questions like, “Do you have dark thoughts?”
“Have you ever tried to commit suicide?”
“Do you hurt yourself?”
“How has your sister’s death affected you?”
“She was my best friend! How do you think?” I would scream. I would scream so loudly, tears running down my face, like waterfalls gushing down the sides of cliffs. He would jot something down.
“Do you get angry often or easily?” I sulked during these sessions. I sulked and refused to talk to him.
I made friends at the foster home. They were just as messed up as I was. I felt comfortable around them, especially Laurel.
Her hair was like fire and her eyes like water. Her face was a masterpiece with her upturned nose and her strawberry freckles. She had lips that I could take a nap on. Sometimes I did.
She always wore black – never any colors. The only colors she sported were her fingernail polishes.
Her fingertips danced along keys. Alternating colors; ivory, ebony, turquoise, ivory, ebony, periwinkle, ivory, ebony, emerald.
You could say I was in love with her. She made me feel at home. No one could make me feel that way, except for Penny. That warm feeling that started at my toes and raced through my body, embracing my imperfections, healing my bruises.
I had my own roof with Laurel. It was the place where a kitten would curl up by the hearth with a ball of string. It was the place where you find yourself the most comfortable in bed. It was the place in your house that you felt the most at home.
My roof with Laurel wasn’t a fixed place like with Penny. It was better, more flexible than the roof. It was anywhere and everywhere I went with Laurel. I could be in a different country, on a different planet and as long as I was with her, I didn’t feel so estranged.
October, almost three years after Penny’s death, I was eighteen and I was finally escaping the foster home. Laurel was still only 16, two more years until she could leave.
“Goodbye Nick.” Laurel only looked at me with happiness. Pure, unadulterated joyfulness. I even detected pride, “I love you.” Before I could respond, she was already back inside the home.
“I love you too, Laurel.”
Two years later, on the anniversary of Penny’s fall, I went to the cemetery to leave flowers at her grave. When I got there, red roses had already been laid upon the ground.
I searched, my eyes darting around the cemetery but stopped when I saw a flash of fiery, red hair, slip into the crowd that thronged the busy street and in that moment, I felt it. That warm feeling from years ago, the feeling of home.
Switching back and forth, between mother and father, I felt… homeless. I was homeless. I had a place, two places, to live. I had a bed, two beds, to sleep in. I had a refrigerator, two refrigerators, stuffed with food. I shouldn’t be complaining, right? For fifteen years, the constant in my life had been Penny.
She was blunt, but she wasn’t mean. She never lied to me. Penny always cared more about me than she cared about herself.
Often Penny and I would sit on the roof at our mother’s house, drinking root beer floats we’d made together in the kitchen with dry roasted peanuts sprinkled between layers of vanilla ice cream and gooey chocolate sauce. Even though they were just simple drinks, they gave me a sense of security.
Sometimes we talked, sometimes we didn’t. Usually we would simply enjoy each other’s company. She would complain about her boyfriend; I would complain about my math teacher. We never talked about our parents. That was the unspoken rule on the roof.
The day Penny finally dumped her boyfriend, she went to the roof. It was December, right before winter break. The snow sparkled like stardust, covering the pine trees, chilling spoken words. Any kind of water was frozen through, even the morning dew that collected on the roof. Penn went up alone; I should have been there.
She fell. Ever tumbling down. Down, down, down, to the car parked below the balcony, crashing like the Titanic into the iceberg. Her body survived. Her brain didn’t. She slipped – more like crashed – into a coma.
By March of the next year, Penny was still in a coma and my sanity had been dwindling. Her health getting worse by the day, until she couldn’t breathe on her own anymore. I was there when they inserted that damning tube down her throat.
The custody case had been dismissed after the fall. The judge deemed my parents too irresponsible to take care of their children. But it wasn’t their fault. It was mine.
Spring and summer came and went until it was November almost a year later. Mom and Dad went to the hospital on the 14th. They were going to make a decision, the decision whether or not to keep Penny on life support.
They unplugged her. She died only a few moments later. My sister, gone from the world, never to see another day. Never another sunset, never another kiss, never another placement of an ice pack on my bruises, never another meeting on our roof.
The roof hadn’t been used since her fall. In fact, it had been completely removed from the house. My parents didn’t want the memories of Penn around.
Everything changed when they unplugged her. My grades dropped, my bully began to physically assault me and my parents disregarded me to the point where social services got involved.
My parents pretended that she had never fallen. They pretended that she had never even existed. I was blind with rage. I saw red, and blue, and purple. Everything was red. And blue. And purple.
It was my fault. It was all my fault that Penny had gone up there alone. She had broken up with her boyfriend, my bully. She never knew it was him. Until that day. The day she found out that her first love was my bully. Her last day of consciousness. She died knowing that her boyfriend was harassing her little brother.
She knew there was a kid at school that beat me up. But I never knew how she figured it out. I certainly never told her.
It was the beginning of the end. The moral to the story. The proof in the pudding. The magic to the fairytale. It was all over.
The roof, the moments I had with Penny, those were when I felt different, like I had a home.
Even years later, I realized. The roof wasn’t a place. It was a feeling. It was the feeling. The most wonderful, glorious, perfect feeling that anyone could ever encounter. It was home.
In December, I was placed in a foster home.
At school, I was the weird kid with the dead sister and the parents who rejected me. At the Home, I was the kid who knew their parents. Wherever I went, I was hated with an unbridled passion.
My (school-appointed) counselor thought I was a suicide risk. I had meetings every week, and I had to eat lunch in the main office. I had to show him my arms as soon as I entered his office.
The meetings didn’t help. The counselor asked me inane questions like, “Do you have dark thoughts?”
“Have you ever tried to commit suicide?”
“Do you hurt yourself?”
“How has your sister’s death affected you?”
“She was my best friend! How do you think?” I would scream. I would scream so loudly, tears running down my face, like waterfalls gushing down the sides of cliffs. He would jot something down.
“Do you get angry often or easily?” I sulked during these sessions. I sulked and refused to talk to him.
I made friends at the foster home. They were just as messed up as I was. I felt comfortable around them, especially Laurel.
Her hair was like fire and her eyes like water. Her face was a masterpiece with her upturned nose and her strawberry freckles. She had lips that I could take a nap on. Sometimes I did.
She always wore black – never any colors. The only colors she sported were her fingernail polishes.
Her fingertips danced along keys. Alternating colors; ivory, ebony, turquoise, ivory, ebony, periwinkle, ivory, ebony, emerald.
You could say I was in love with her. She made me feel at home. No one could make me feel that way, except for Penny. That warm feeling that started at my toes and raced through my body, embracing my imperfections, healing my bruises.
I had my own roof with Laurel. It was the place where a kitten would curl up by the hearth with a ball of string. It was the place where you find yourself the most comfortable in bed. It was the place in your house that you felt the most at home.
My roof with Laurel wasn’t a fixed place like with Penny. It was better, more flexible than the roof. It was anywhere and everywhere I went with Laurel. I could be in a different country, on a different planet and as long as I was with her, I didn’t feel so estranged.
October, almost three years after Penny’s death, I was eighteen and I was finally escaping the foster home. Laurel was still only 16, two more years until she could leave.
“Goodbye Nick.” Laurel only looked at me with happiness. Pure, unadulterated joyfulness. I even detected pride, “I love you.” Before I could respond, she was already back inside the home.
“I love you too, Laurel.”
Two years later, on the anniversary of Penny’s fall, I went to the cemetery to leave flowers at her grave. When I got there, red roses had already been laid upon the ground.
I searched, my eyes darting around the cemetery but stopped when I saw a flash of fiery, red hair, slip into the crowd that thronged the busy street and in that moment, I felt it. That warm feeling from years ago, the feeling of home.