Hilltop House

Cora, One

Cora rubbed her arm uncomfortably. She wasn't so sure about this bedroom, or really about this house. It was so . . . small. And so dated. That avocado colored rug in the living room? Ew. Her mother had said they'd tear that up, thank God, but what about that kitchen? It looked like it'd last been touched fifty years ago. She just hoped the plumbing worked so she could take a shower; the drive had lasted forever.

At least she wouldn't have to live here too long; one more year of school, and she was gone. She'd be far off on her own, no matter how much her mother begged her to stay nearby. It wasn't as if the woman deserved much say in her life, anymore, anyway, not after the way she'd uprooted Cora from everything she knew and dragged her halfway across the country—senior year, too! And just when she'd gotten close enough to Ben to hope for something more. It'd only taken her two years to get up the courage to tell him how she'd felt, Cora reflected, and just when he'd started to express interest in her, this had happened.

Whatever.

Her mother suddenly entered the bedroom, saying nothing, just plopping down a box reading "Cora's shit" in black permanent marker across the haphazardly duct-taped top. The woman met her daughter's eyes, rolled her own as she pointed at the label, and managed to scold Cora for her language without saying a word before she wafted out the door.

Cora sighed and dropped to her knees, then picked at the duct tape until she pulled up a corner enough to peel it back. The tape predictably split, and the girl growled in frustration as she continued to get the stuff off in string-cheese-like strips, too lazy and stubborn to look for scissors. Eventually, she managed to pool her rage and strength enough to just rip the box flap open, revealing an odd assortment of paraphernalia, a black menagerie of pieces of Cora's life. Death and black metal band posters, a collection of locks and keys—some pairs, some not—she'd collected from antique and thrift stores, a music box from her mother that she'd actually liked, altered Polaroid photos of the sort-of-friends she'd left behind, a huge black stuffed llama Ben had won for her at the Fourth of July carnival, the stack of poetry journals she'd been keeping and updating religiously since middle school . . . There was some comfort in unpacking such items, and yet there was definite sadness, too.

Well, her mother had always hated her dark attire and vibe; now, Cora had every reason to continue dressing the way she felt inside—broken and confused.

Truthfully, though, she felt neither of those things, but how was her mother to know that?

The bedroom, her new bedroom, had a big window which, thank God, faced a privacy wall that blocked it from the freeway; otherwise, it would've let in way too much sun. It was standard enough, though—four walls, wood floors, defunct ceiling fan, closet that was really too small to be called such. Cora stood and, leaving the box and its memories momentarily behind, went to examine the closet. It had one of those ugly slatted doors with a glass knob for a handle, and it opened outward at a strange angle, as if whoever had planned it hadn't accounted for the fact that the bedroom door was right next to it and that the two could never be opened at the same time. Poor design. Shaking her head, Cora went back to her box o' stuff and continued unpacking things that had seemed important when she'd packed them but that now felt rather juvenile and meaningless. The five-day road trip had somewhat killed the person she'd been before making it.

About halfway through unpacking, the girl paused, huffed, and started throwing everything back in, shoving the haphazard box into the closet and shutting it. Stupid. All of it was stupid.

The furniture came later that afternoon, and while it was being set up, Cora ventured outdoors in order to give the street a look. It was a sad thing, dead ended, her new house up on a strange hill above the others, at the very end of them all. There were only about five other houses, and most were to the right of hers (her left as she stood on the lawn looking out) because the privacy wall cut all along the other side and around the back of the strange hill. Of those other houses, most were small, like hers, and were rather unkempt, indicating they were either uninhabited or inhabited by people too disinterested or incapacitated to care for them. Then there were two houses that were too big and new for their own good; no doubt they'd been thrown up without foresight and whoever had bought them now resented such a poor investment but was unable to sell for enough to recoup losses.