I think, if I were to see myself, I would see a girl with her mouth twisted over to one side in a kind of pained expression of ineptitude. I would see a semicircle of bros around her at the front door, looking extremely impatient and annoyed, shifting their weight from one side to the other. And I would see the “guy in charge” sizing me up and deciding, fairly quickly, that I obviously must not be the one in charge but the assistant to the assistant of whoever actually was in charge.
“Um. Hello . . . miss. We’re from the MoniCED Company Builders. We’re s’posed to start work today. Out back.” He gestures.
Yes, I know what “out back” means.
“Of course! Yeah, they’re . . . I mean we’re expecting you.”
Now he’s just looking at me.
“Mike. Nice to meet you.” He puts out his hand in what is meant to be a gesture that is returned. Oh! I know! I’m supposed to shake his hand! That’s what men do. They firmly shake hands. They solidify it. Whatever it is. Maybe everything.
I grab his hand and shake it. But now I am shaking it too long. He is looking at me. I put my other hand over our hands. Like I really mean it. Like he’s really super welcome. Like I’ve never before seen another human.
Yup. Miss Awkward van Awkwardington. At your service.
He nods for an uncomfortable eternity and then takes his hand back.
Phew. I didn’t know how I was going to get out of that.
The four guys behind him continue their pantomime of looking up, shifting their weight, and looking anywhere but at me, finding interest in the flagstones of the front walkway. The moss between cobblestones. An ant on the front stairs.
“We can just go around if you want.”
“Go around?” I ask.
“Yes. Go around. The house. We can go around the house. To start work in the back.”
“Yes, yes, of course! Go around. I understand. That would be great. Please do. Be my guest. Go on . . . around.”
He nods, looks back at his guys. A subtle look. They start to move en masse toward the side of the house, the mossy pavers leading through to the back.
I stand there, not offering anything. I think I am supposed to offer something? Or maybe I’m not. I’m the boss! Why should I offer anything? No. They’re on their own. Is that how you do it? You see, I’ve never actually overseen anything. I’ve been in more of an avoid-being-overseen position for most of my life. School. Grades. Teachers. Papers. Extracurricular activities. Debate. Chorus.
But this. This is all uncharted territory. A world of mystery where people shake hands. A job!
Mike, aka the leader of the pack, gives a little wave and heads around the house. None of them say anything, but clearly that is not going to happen until I am out of earshot and then they all laugh and make fun of me. I know how this works.
On the street, down the driveway, the orange and white truck with the insignia on the side “MoniCED Company Builders.” Not the catchiest of names. That’s for sure. Sounds almost . . . medical.
It occurs to me a normal person would be happy right now, considering the nonevent that definitely didn’t take place last night. A normal person would feel safer. Ah, yes. They are here. The men are here.
But that is not the feeling washing over me. Nope. The feeling seems to be more of a widening of the circle. Like . . . there’s the nonexistent entity staring out at me from inside the house and now, in addition to that, there is a group of men staring at me from the outside.
I think of a soft bunny rabbit, which is prey to the fox and the hawk.
Chapter 10
The first day of the renovation is uneventful, other than me trying to pretend that I am unaware of the guys working on the guesthouse. Most of the time I just spend going from room to room, trying to act casual. Now I am reading a book. Now I am “washing the dishes.” (There aren’t any dishes.) Now I am contemplating the universe in this wingback chair. I’m trying to look like a respectable person. Not a freak.
When the guys finally leave, I feel an overwhelming sense of relief. Why? I have no idea. They weren’t paying attention to me in any way. Not once. There really was no reason for me to enact this charade of being a person all day.
I wonder if this is specific to me, or if everyone feels this way at a certain point. Are we all just sitting around pretending to be normal? Pretending not to go through a thousand different emotions in the span of half an hour? I really can’t be the only one feeling this way. I mean, I doubt I can be. I hope I can’t be.
I have a very serious night planned involving the wearing of sweatpants and watching Ancient Aliens. It is impossible to ponder any earthly issues when clearly we are all descended from the Anunnaki tribe. Don’t you see? All of a sudden we were given democracy and harvesting from some extraterrestrial force from above. Otherwise, how could Homo sapiens possibly have been the one form of the human species to survive? We weren’t even the biggest! Our brains weren’t even the biggest!
These are the things I lovingly contemplate in my daydreams.
Also, maybe I can convince myself that whatever it was I definitely did not feel last night was, perhaps, just some sort of alien life-form. A being from somewhere near Orion’s Belt. Perhaps a star traveler from the Gemini constellation. Nothing to worry about. Just studying. Taking notes to bring back to the mothership.
All of this is going swimmingly until the sound of wild-eyed conspiracy theorists on Netflix is interrupted by a subtle noise coming from somewhere near the back of the house, behind the pantry.
A scratching noise.
I hit mute, cutting off a very fascinating theory about the first man called “Adamo” by the Sumerians, created by the Anunnaki as a slave race to mine for gold. I am in the middle of reminding myself to rewind this particular part of the show when I hear it again. Subtle. Scritch scritch scritch.
Not like the sound you would imagine from, I don’t know, some sort of monster outside the house trying to get in and eat you. Just a little scratch. Perhaps, maybe, a cat. A sweet little cat just trying to make itself known. Maybe hoping for a saucer of milk.
These are the fluffy warm rainbow thoughts I force myself to think as I follow the sound out through the hallway, through the kitchen, and to the pantry. The pantry is just a little tiny white room off the kitchen, stocked with cans on the shelves, a broom, a mop, and a few cases of bottled water. Why there would be a cat in the pantry is beyond my grasp and, of course, there is no cat in the pantry.
But the sound of “the cat” is definitely coming from the pantry. It’s not getting louder, exactly, so much as I’m getting closer to it. And as I’m getting closer I’m beginning to realize the sound is not coming from inside the pantry so much as it’s coming from outside the house, seemingly trying to get inside the pantry. So you see, “the cat” must be outside.
That is perfectly logical.
It is at this moment, my dear friends, when I have to make another decision. Here are the choices:
Number one: Go outside and see what, exactly, the sound is.
Number two: Go back in the living room and continue to watch Ancient Aliens. Turn the sound up and pretend I do not hear anything.
Hmm. This is a difficult one. While I don’t really want to go outside into the dark night with a heretofore unidentified scratching sound . . . I also don’t think I’ll be able to actually relax.