ava itched her pelvis. "it's not the same."
"i know... but i feel it anyway." she leaned over the table and sighed. "what're you writin' about?"
ava nodded to the old man.
mia glanced over her shoulder, then back to ava. "he looks sad."
"i thought a poem might cheer him up, but..."
"but it's bad?"
ava shrugged.
"of course it is." mia slapped her palms on the table and pushed herself up. "i'm gonna look at shitty gas-station art with mom. let us know when it's safe to leave."
ava nodded. with her sister out of the way, she managed to write two full stanzas. in a kinder world, she would have ripped the poem out of her journal and given it to the man in a meager attempt to spread happiness. instead, she re-read the stanzas, declared it garbage, and sealed her notebook with the leather tie.
the sleet finally stopped. fog dissipated from the gas station awning while the blue lifted from the hills. ava paid the bill for herself and sister, left a thirty-percent tip, and hid her journal in her pants pocket.
mom was perusing rows of plaster crosses engraved with bible verses. her heels clicked as she paced between racks.
"the rain stopped," ava said.
"about time," mom replied. "ready to get this show on the road?"
mia popped out from behind a beer display. "didja finish your poem?"
"nope," ava said.
"you're writing again?" mom asked.
ava shrugged. "i've just been playing around—" something tugged at her back pocket—her journal—and she twirled.
mia was already reading the poem.
"give it," ava said, nine-years-old instead of nineteen.
her sister ripped out the page and scampered toward the old man still frozen in his booth.
ava caught her wrist just before she could reach the man, pried her fingers open, and tore the page from her hand.
"aww, come on!"
the man turned his head toward the commotion and—for a split second—ava found herself locked in his colorless eyes. she broke away, shielded her face behind her curtain of black hair, and shuffled out the glass diner doors.
she was halfway to her car when she decided to turn back. cautiously, she returned to the restaurant and peered through the windows.
the man was scrutinizing mia as she brushed herself off from the scuffle and headed for the exit. then, slowly, he settled into to his stoic stance and returned his gaze to oblivion.
mia stepped outside and slipped her arm around ava. "i figured even a shitty poem would've made him feel better."
ava squeezed back.
mom stepped outside, crossed her arms in her jacket, and marched toward the u-haul. "three miles to go, ladies. ready to see your new home?"
* * *
the podunk gas station diner was the last solid structure ava spotted on the drive to the new house. there was the occasional popsicle-stick cabin and papier-mâché trailer tucked between leafless trees and barbed fences, but everything looked one gust away from total collapse.
every time somethin' gets fixed, a tornado probably tears it down.
she felt like a wounded animal driving between mom's u-haul and mia's silver honda. blood drained from her knuckles as she gripped the wheel. the new plastic hog dangled from her keys. (ten months ago, she had an exact replica of her sister's car. now she drove the newer model.)
her cellphone buzzed in the cupholder with another text from jeff.
she shifted against the leather, inhaled through her nose, and quickly scanned the message. "two days and we'll be on the same campus! i'll see you around?"
ava slowed to twenty-five, deleted the text, and quickly returned her focus to the road.
break lights flared as mom eased the rig into a hidden drive. ava followed, gently careening around a realty sign with "sold" branded in red letters across the salesman's face.
gravel crunched beneath her tires as she maneuvered the narrow path. a flicker in her peripherals turned her attention left. it was a hawk, it's wings still flared as it attempted to balance on the top of what appeared to be an ax. ava slowed down for a closer look... it was an ax standing straight up and down with the tip stuck in the dirt. the hawk clenched the rusty blade with its talons and patiently watched the convoy weaving through its home.
ava shivered, blinked away the image, checked her mirror to make sure her sister was still behind her, then shook her head and muttered, "where the hell are we..."
she barely finished the sentence when the house emerged through the trees. it was a bit dingy, but charming too, caught somewhere between a shack and a plantation manor.
the green door was first to catch her eye, a tacky color among the deep forest greens of the surrounding conifers. there was a small porch. black shutters on three windows. red brick half slathered with primer.
a leaf-infested alleyway separated the house from the detached garage, a few decades nicer than the home with wooden slats instead of brick. several planks were missing from the space above the garage door, probably from a storm.
a truck twice as long as the u-haul dominated the driveway.
her cellphone buzzed again. mia this time. "how dope is this?!?!"
"yeah," ava said aloud. "dope."
magnolia trees brushed the sides of the u-haul as mom slowed to a stop beside the semi. the girls parked in front of the garage.
"sorry about the delay," mom said to the men as they hopped from their truck. "get this stuff inside and i'll make it worth your wait."
"not a problem, ma'am." the men stepped toward the back of the truck—
"you'll help with our u-haul too?" she asked.
the man on the right smirked. "i'm sorry, ma'am, we're only responsible for—"
"i'll add a hundred bucks to your tip."
the men exchanged a glance and a shrug. "sure thing." they rolled open the back of their truck, grabbed hold of a couch wrapped in cellophane, and heaved it onto the lift gate.
"you bought us furniture?" mia asked.
mom started toward the porch. "dad and i wanted you to have the necessities when you settled in."
"we were going to decorate with goodwill," ava said. "how'd you know what to buy without seeing the house?"
"i know your style."
mia narrowed her brow. "we had everything planned—"
"miava!" mom blurted. "if you don't like it, you can sell it. give your parents a break!" (when the twins were little, "miava" was a term of endearment. now it was a curse.)
mia whipped out her cell and thumbed a text. a second later, ava's phone vibrated in her purse. "how many times will mom disapprove of something before she leaves? winner gets the master bedroom! i say 16."
