Is this what my mother felt, when she thought about her house? Her mess?
Why is this so hard?
“It can’t be that bad . . . ” Ash says, and it’s clear that he’s about to continue, so I cut him off before he can get another word out, because he has to know what he’s up against before he agrees to anything.
“My mother was a hoarder.” The words spill out of me in a rush. “So picture the worst-case scenario that you can possibly think of waiting for you behind that front door, and then multiply it by a thousand, and you’ll start getting close to reality.” I pull in a deep breath and continue before he can say anything. “So if you don’t want to do this, that’s fine. Just tell me. No hard feelings. But I asked you because I need help, and if what happened at the diner is anything to go by, your job hunt isn’t going so well.”
He looks at me for a moment, without saying anything, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head as he processes what I’ve just told him. Then he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, even though it’s already about a million degrees outside, and takes a step forward.
“I’m in.” He says. I raise my eyebrows at him, surprised.
“Just like that?” I ask, because nothing in my life has been that easy. But he gives me a nod.
“Just like that.”
I regard him for a second, taking in his slumped posture and his ratty clothes. He’s doing about as well as I am, which isn’t good. Maybe together we can get a little bit better. Maybe.
“Okay,” I say, and hold up the keys for him to see them. “Let me show you the house.”
I make it all the way to the front door before my bravado fails me. The knowledge of what’s lurking behind that door weighs on my stomach like a ball of lead. I can’t believe I’m showing this to another human being. But what I said to him was as true as anything I’ve ever told anyone in my entire life. I need the help.
I turn to him. “Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask.
“Look,” he says, pulling his hands out of his pockets and scrubbing them over his face. He looks tired. Even more tired than I feel. That’s saying something. “You saw what happened at the diner. That’s just the tip of it. I don’t know if you know the story, but everyone around here does, so there’s no point in me trying to keep it a secret. I fucked up. I went to a party one night a couple towns over. I got high as fuck and I drove home. I killed a guy.” He stops there for a moment, like he’s waiting for me to respond, but I’ve already heard it from Lacey, so I stay silent and just nod, and he lets his breath out in a huff and continues. “Like I said, I fucked up. A guy died and I went to prison. I just got out, and no one will touch me with a fucking hundred-foot pole.
“So yeah,” he says. “I’m sure. Right now five hundred a month and maybe someone to vouch for me at the end? That sounds pretty damn good.”
“Are you sure?” The words are out of my mouth again before I can stop them, and I want to kick myself, I’m so embarrassed. I can already feel the heat flooding my face, but luckily a tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and he nods.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m extremely fucking sure. What do you want from me? A fucking pinkie swear or something?” He actually swipes his hand against his jeans and lifts it to me, pinkie held out in my direction.
I laugh, I can’t help it. It’s the wrong hand, the left one, so it’s a song and dance for me to juggle the keys and my bag, but I hold out my own left pinkie to him in response. We link them together and waggle them back and forth a bit before it gets awkward. Then we laugh and let go, our hands dropping back down to our sides.
“Well, okay then,” I say, and slide the key into the lock. “I guess we have a deal. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, okay?”
Ash just smiles, and this time it’s a real one, teeth and everything. It’s a good look on him.
“Got it.”
Ash
Star . . . was not kidding about the mess. This place is fucking ridiculous. Who the hell lives like this?
I mean, yeah, my room was a pigsty growing up, but compared to this? Holy shit. No wonder this girl wants help. She needs help. Hell, she needs a freaking army to get this done.
And all she has is me.
That sucks.
I think I actually feel worse for her than I do for myself right now, and that’s saying something.
“So . . . ” I say, looking past her as she holds open the door to the house so I can see what I’m up against. “Where…where do we start?” Please let this girl have some kind of plan, because I’ve got nothing. I don’t even know where to start. There’s barely even enough of a path for me to get into the house. And the path that’s there seems to taper off into piles of stuff after less than a dozen feet. The piles inside are taller than I am.
Star just kind of sighs and reaches inside the door. I’m half hoping that she’s reaching for a can of gasoline and a lighter, that her plan is just to burn the place to the ground. As much as it would violate my parole, I’m kind of tempted. Not really, but shit. This place is insane. How the hell did this end up on Star’s shoulders? Other than having a shitty car—which I’m starting to think isn’t actually her fault, and that it has something to do with this whole house situation—she seems like a pretty normal girl. She was nice enough to take a chance on me, and I am more than grateful for that, so whatever her plan is, I am in. But instead of pulling out a jerry can, she straightens back up with a couple boxes of garbage bags in her arms. They must have been tucked just inside the front door. They’d have to be, any farther in and they’d be lost forever in the hoard.
Before she can ask, I reach out and gently take the boxes out of her arms.
“Thanks,” she says, and reaches up to run her hands through her hair, shoving it back from her face. Then she sighs again. I’m getting the feeling she’s been kind of emotional lately, that she’s been bottling everything up inside and it just keeps escaping bit by bit in sighs and nervous laughter. “Look,” she says. “I don’t even think we’ll get to the house today. I think we need to start in the backyard.”
The backyard? Ah fuck, is there more?
“The backyard?” I ask, hoping I’m wrong. But she just kind of smiles at me, and the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Crap. There’s more.
***
The backyard is nearly as packed as the house is. It’s not stacked as high, but the entire lot is covered. And as far as I can tell, unlike inside the house, where every here and there I’d been able to pick something out visually that might actually be worth something, the backyard is just garbage. Garbage upon garbage upon garbage, as far as the eye can see. Somewhere, my neat freak of a mother is having a mental breakdown and she has no idea why.
Suddenly the Dumpster out front makes so much sense. But as I look at the mess in front of me, and think back to the Dumpster, all I can think is it’s not going to fit.
“Now you see my problem,” Star says, and I turn to look at her. She’s perched on the edge of the porch—which is, itself, covered in enough junk that I’m actually seriously worried that it’s going to give out under the weight and take her down with it. She takes a step down, moving toward me. “I know it’s a lot of work, and I won’t blame you if you hightail it out of here, but I can really use the help. I need to sell this place by the end of the summer, or I’m screwed.”