Marney in the Middle

Chapter 36: Sisterly Advice

A/N: I sincerely apologize for how long this took me. But! I am working on the next chapter now, so hopefully it won't take this long again. Thanks for hangin' in there for this. Enjoy! :)
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"So, this is me," I say while half-heartedly gesturing at my house. Malcolm, whose seen it before, glances at Stevie, whose mouth has fallen open. I turn to verify my mom isn't standing nude in a window or my dad isn't teetering on the widow's peak with a bottle of gin in hand.

Nope, all clear. I place a hand on my hip and frown at him, "What?"

Malcolm rolls his eyes before looking at me. "He just didn't know you lived here."

"And?" I shrug, "It's a house."

"Sure, it's a house, but it's also the sight of some really gruesome murders a few decades back."

I gulp and stare at him. He can't be serious. Murders? In my house? Wait – did someone die in my bedroom? I gulp again and give my house a quick uneasy glance.

"You can't be serious," I stammer out, eyes still wide.

Malcolm's face remains deadpan—for about five seconds. Then he laughs – they both do – and he points at me. My cheeks flush hot as I cross my arms over my chest and glare. "Not funny," I grumble. "You're both so not funny."

"Yes, we are," Malcolm manages between laughter. He shakes his head and smirks at me, "Just because you're not laughing—"

"Oh, shut up."

He continues to smirk. We stare at each other for a few moments, Stevie's wheezy laughter and a lawn mower three houses down the only sound. It's not like one of those suspended animation moments in the daytime dramas. The world doesn't halt, there's no haziness around us that's filled with the dazzle of twinkling lights, and we're not suddenly engulfed in a flurry of snow that has no business existing mid-September on such a hot day. The moment is just normal, ordinary staring. And I'm almost thankful.

Almost.

"So," I say, shaking my head and dropping my gaze to the pavement. "Did you guys plan that or something?"

Smooth segue. I clear my throat and don't bother disagreeing.

Malcolm shakes his head, "Nah, I think Stevie was legitimately staring."

I frown again, "Why?" Then I realize how rude it is to talk about Stevie like he isn't right next to us. So I look down at him; this is actually the first time I've talked to him, I realize sort of guiltily. "Um, so, why were you staring?"

He pushes up his thick-lensed glasses at the nose piece and points to my house. "This . . . used to . . . be the . . . brothel."

I drop my arms to my sides. "Really?"

He nods. Malcolm does, too. "It was really hush-hush, but everyone knew."

I take another look at my house. It's two stories, excluding the attic and basement. Spacious with large bay windows, a wrap-around porch that's covered on the sides and back, and a two-car garage on the right. In the back is a large yard that matches the size of the front yard. With robin's egg blue paint and white shutters, it screams suburb – not strumpet.

"Oh," is all I can think to say. I mean, what else does one say after discovering they live in a former-brothel?

"Anyway," I turn to look back at the two boys, "thanks for walking me home – you really didn't have to."