First World Problems

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 

About a quarter mile down the road, just when my flats had started to really cut into my heels, Callum’s steps took on an unmistakable bounce. “Ah, brilliant. Here we are. See? It’s a nice place.”

I looked up to see a squat brown building capped with a wavy blue roof. I thought I remembered making something that looked distinctly like it in my fourth grade pottery class—sort of lopsided and slumpy, but definitely solid. It was about twice as wide as the other small houses we’d passed on the way in, but its windows were pathetically tiny. The stilts that held it up looked like toothpicks in comparison. I couldn’t imagine how more than one or two people would manage to live in this…this hovel.

“Is it made out of mud?” I asked, unable to keep the revulsion out of my voice.

“It’s wattle and daub,” he said, picking up the pace even more.

“I don’t even know what you just said.”

 “It’s…well, yes. It’s mostly mud, woven over strips of wood. It serves as insulation—actually keeps it cooler and less humid in there than out here if you can believe it. And with no air conditioning…”

I restrained myself from the intense desire to scream at him. No air conditioning? Even back home in the Northeast United States, air conditioning was a necessity. Without it, my makeup melted and my shirts got pit stains—forget about the underside of my bras. It was so gross. If there was no air conditioning, there was no way I could stay here, just no way.

 But Callum kept rambling away like “no air conditioning” was normal or livable or something. “And the roof is corrugated tin, so it’s much less permeable than the grass thatching that most of the houses have. Luxurious, really. So there’s noticeably less humidity inside, which is sort of the same as air conditioning. When it rains, we avoid the drips. Sound the drops make overhead is amazing, too.”

I studied Callum as he spoke. He had a haircut that any guy I knew back home would automatically be made an outcast for—flopping across his face on top and cut short in the back. Honestly, it looked like he’d done it himself. A strong, round jaw; neck and shoulders like an ox; full lips curving into a contented smile; dark green eyes that sparkled with pride looking at the lump of mud I was supposed to call home for God knew how long. He really was proud of this shithole.

“Well, come on,” he said, climbing the rough stairs and then nudging into the flimsy screen door. I must have looked aghast because he rolled his eyes. “This is your home for the next year. Might as well take a look.”

My stomach twisted. This was not—could not be—my home. But where was my home, after all? Back in Pittsburgh with a dad who thought I was spoiled and a stepmom who clearly wanted me to die in rural Guyana? My asshat twin brother who had barely bothered to call me before I left on this godforsaken trip, except to ask whether he could convert my room into a bar since I was leaving? It definitely wasn’t in Paris, even though that was theoretically where I wanted to be right now.

The whole world felt spinny in the instant that I realized—home was nowhere, with no one. A mud house was certainly not ideal, but even I had to admit it was no less home than anywhere else.

Didn’t mean I had to accept it.

I tried to keep my breaths even. Just get to your room, Sofia. Then you’ll be alone. Then you can lose it.

Inside the house, the setting sun’s rays warmed the tan walls and edged the wood pillars that held the roof in place with deep gold. The whole thing, from clapboard wooden floor to blue corrugated roof, looked thrown together, two-dimensional, like it could blow away with a strong wind. I tried to wrap my head around the fact that people really lived like this.