No. 62 Claremond Street

1 // Home Sweet Home

The house looks...horrible. Utterly horrible. Ghastly, to be exact.

The dull porch complains with a shrieking wheeze whenever any amount of weight's been introduced. The stained walls are down to their final fragile layer. And, the flaky roof seems, well about to topple down any second.

But Tony gazes at it with the widest, glittering eyes: nobody would even dare to enter this house; the house that is now his.

Almost his.

Tony wishes the roof would fall off right this second, and land over Mr. Eggface's head.

But Tom wouldn't let that happen, if it ever did. Rookie Hero of the Year. Maven Academy's Golden Boy.

His annoying older brother.

12-year-old Anthony "Tony" Banks clenches his jaw, his hazel eyes now glaring at the old estate agent who flips through the thick yellow pages of this house's contract, his bare head creased throughout. Just give us the key, Eggface!

Tony lets out a seething exhale, calming his barbecued brain by glancing at the parched lawn. He brushes the beige-green grass with his dull red 1972 Nike Blazer, a hand-me-down from the Golden Boy, casting a very proud smirk.

Stinky Cruella, known to others from Saintsburg Church as Sister Margaret, would never ever come here, and will definitely not say, 'What in the great God are you doing to our garden? Stop, you disgraceful twit!'

Tony shakes his head when he hears the sound of Cruella's jute snake cut through the quiet air of this neighborhood. Happy thoughts, Tony. You just got out of there.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Banks," Mr. Eggface, estate agent Berkeley says, the porch hitting a wobbly E# as he steps down from it and onto the cobblestone pathway. The top of his head reminds Tony of the plain Easter eggs that would sit there in the orphanage kitchen, away from his reach and rotting under the fierce afternoon sun.

Berkeley puts up his best smile, the one displaying all five of his golden teeth. "No. 62 of Claremond Street is yours."

Finally, Tony squeals, though burying his smile in his soaked turtleneck when Eggface's gaze falls on him.

Estate Agent Pete Berkeley coughs out his ever-growing curiosity; it's not his problem anymore. No. 62 Claremond Street is out of his list for the first time in two decades. He should be glad, he's getting a hefty commission from this creepy house.

But the red-haired widow in front of him, raises a feeling he hasn't felt since his youngest kid secured a job six years ago.

Worry.

Mrs. Nicole Banks, ravishing at fifty one, tosses her silky auburn hair behind her shoulders; the scorching May sun having no effect on her whatsoever. She extends her right hand, her left resting on her blue handbag strap, casting a heart-melting smile.

Tony exhales sharply, watching Eggface being captivated by his mother's "everlasting beauty". He gulps down the rising remains of the sandwiches he ate five hours ago.

Nicole seeing this, clears her throat. "Can we get the key, Mr. Berkeley?" Her voice is divine.

Berkeley snaps out of his daze, nodding quickly as he fishes out a twisted bronze key from his brown jacket. "Yes, sorry." He approaches her with three long steps. "Here, Mrs. Banks."

A rush of adrenaline surges through Tom's veins as he senses the cold metal in his palm. Yes, we got it. We own a house, he squeaks. But that reduces to a mumble the second he realizes the slight wrinkles covering his hand, and the cherry red nail polish glimmering on his long nails.