I don’t have shoes on. The soil lets me know quick, with thorny branches and stinky moss. I walk fast anyway, uncaring for what bites my feet. Between unanswered calls to Ba and Lily, I’ve put together a list. There is one bullet point under Solutions so far: burn it. Cursing, I try Lily’s number again. The little sleep I got outside the house replenished my brain cells, but every thought still leads to fire.
Short of renting a bulldozer, this is the most unrecoverable, cleansing way. As more calls go unanswered, my panic rises. Yet an unexplained tug draws me forward so firmly that I trip over tree roots and mounds of dirt.
The closer I am, the stronger it is.
To find their way to one another, ants leave a pheromone trail. Lost ants, ants with bad inner compasses, and those ants that went out hungry, follow this scent. Nhà Hoa is signaling me, I think, in a similar way. Neither Cam nor Marion have a scent when they appear in person, but I am alive. Perhaps in running away, I’d shed some of myself and now it’s leading me home.
Home.
What a wonderful word that means I don’t have to be alone anymore.
In the mist, the exterior lights shine as bright orbs. At the edge of the woods, I stop. Tiny napkins scurry across the ground, blown from the abandoned party. The house has darkened, stretching unfathomable shadows. Underneath must be walls, but this is a monstrously gorgeous version of itself. In a matter of hours, the climbing hydrangeas have overrun its face, petals a vibrant white.
The house has noticed me, of course. Nhà Hoa’s growing coat of vine and leaves shivers in a way I understand. They’re waiting for you, it promises, and I move forward for an embrace. No heat comes from Ba’s truck when I pass. They really are home, and that’s the most important thing right now: to be reunited, all of us, as a family.
I lean into the plush greenery along one section of wall. The house’s whisper is lower here, but the vines tighten instinctively. Flowers caress my cheek, and I hear: stay. Their sugary scent fills my nostrils. “I will,” I reply, because I’ve always needed sweet to balance me out. My hands curl into the foliage, where a dozen ladybugs crawl over my skin.
You’ll never have to lie again, the mesmerizing black dots spell.
In this world, everyone is mad at me. Everyone has too many questions, and I don’t always know the answer, or the truth. The only escape is inside this house, because it knows me and doesn’t judge. It can make us forget the things that have hurt us. “I’ll take care of you,” I whisper, hugging the hydrangeas harder. “I’m sorry.”
If flowers could bleed, red would soak my áo dài’s sea-foam green for how tightly I hold them. Against the curling leaves the silk is a bright contrast Mom won’t get to see, because I’ve never given her the chance to forgive me. To know me. To decide if she still loves me. “Mom,” I croak out loud, my head pounding and eyes too dry and raw. She isn’t here because I told her to stay away, because it isn’t—
Leave them behind, the house demands against the shell of my ear.
Cam said something similar, but that’s why I am here. To be with Ba and Lily again, my arm, my leg. In a household split as ours, everyone chooses a side, but I don’t want to anymore.
“Mom. Bren.” I say their names as fervently as a chant. I’ve been ridiculous, forgetting that there are people waiting and a home plastered with ridiculous inspirational quotes elsewhere.
This house tells me it is perfect, that I am too. You will never have to hide here.
That is a lie. Cam has always had to hide who she is to survive. Our deepest secrets give it power and leverage.
“Halle.” I hold on to their names, desperate, as I back away. Iridescent beetles drop as I smack my impossibly heavy ears. As if drawn by a magnet, the leaves continue to reach for me, limited only by their vines. Inside, potted hydrangeas smash their heads in watercolor blushes against the windowpanes. Ba and Lily are still in there. What promises did this house make to them? I tear myself back, blocking out the house’s call with my voice. “Mom.” I fumble with my phone again, past the note that says to burn the house, and dial from my favorites.
It’s past midnight now, but she’ll be awake, reading her books on the e-reader we saved up for her last Christmas. My jaw tenses, twitching with anticipation, when it connects.
“Đừng nói,” I say. Don’t talk. Please don’t talk first or I’ll lose my nerve. I press the phone to my ear, close enough to hear air-conditioning and Bren’s soft snores in the background. I used Vietnamese, so she knows I’m serious. The house gnaws at me, replacing my instinct to run away with the desire to walk right into it. But I can’t leave my family and Halle behind to live some fucked-up version of a perfect life with Lily and Ba. “I’ve been lying to you.”
The inspirational decal from our bathroom comes to mind: Be Brave. Be Bold. Be BeYOUtiful.
In a way, being me is what got me into this mess. “There’s no scholarship to cover everything at UPenn. Ba’s supposed to give me money for staying here with him, at least the first year.” I talk rapidly to her silence. “I didn’t want to make you worry or take out loans. You’ve given me enough with what you have. You’ve sacrificed enough.”
Will she scold me in Vietnamese or English?
I weigh the words in my mouth, pretending they’re heavy enough to send me down a roller coaster. Each time I had thought of coming out, I’d imagined Halle with me. No-nonsense, sweet Halle, who knows the names of every boy and girl I ever wanted. Except for the one, now, and the other already dead. “Halle’s not my friend anymore because I did something awful with someone she’s crushed on for forever. Not even because I liked him, but because he liked me, and …”
It doesn’t take even a second for an answer. “I’m your mom, I know.” Her voice is gentle, but I need to say it. Being sure and clear and honest is my way of fighting through this. The fewer secrets I share with this house alone, the less it has to manipulate me with.
“I wanted to distract myself from who I want to be with. One day,” I say, probably not making any sense. My sweaty palms meet silky fabric, drying on the áo dài. “I like a girl.”
An intake of breath: mine or hers?
I can’t bury myself for her, or anyone, or a house anymore. I deliver the finishing blow. “I told Dad to leave. He asked me the day before he left us, if something isn’t happy, is it okay if it goes? Yes. I said yes, because I was tired of picking up his beer cans and him ignoring all of us. And that’s where your fish went too. Right into the Delaware River.” I wonder what hurts more: that I did this to her and hid it, or that Ba asked me to. “I don’t want to be stuck between you two anymore.”
“We can …” My mom starts to speak, then stops.
I feel as if I’ve thrown up stones, each containing a morsel of me or memory I’ve tucked away. I have picked the worst time to have feelings. I laugh and say, “But I need your help. I’m in so much trouble, Mom. This house is haunted. Something’s wrong with Dad, and Lily—” I break for a moment, biting my lip until it bleeds, looking everywhere but Nhà Hoa. Power tools, paint, and fuel litter the back of the truck.
I don’t smoke. I don’t drink, really. I’m only a girl who’s had a lifetime of bad thoughts. Enough practice, like studying for a test. A lighter should be easy. A lighter is easy. I burned those photographs from before. This will just be a bigger flame.
“I need you to call the police, anyone who can help,” I say, the plan coming together in relieved anger. “Because I’m going to get them out of there. I’m going to burn this house down.” The gas carton’s contents slosh around when I pick it up. “’Bye.” I end the connection before she can be angry with me, tell me I’m absurd or straight, or convince me not to hurt Ba’s house.
After twisting the cap off, I throw arcs of fuel on the front steps. My phone vibrates, but I ignore it. “Dad! Lily!” I shout. “Come out, if you can hear me.” I toss one empty bottle aside, yelling for them again as the drenched steps shine. I can’t take being so close, so vulnerable to the house without drowning out the whispers more.
How can I expose this house and still keep myself safe? Hypocrite, bad daughter, slut—“Halle,” I say when her voice mail greets me. It’s noon back in Philly; she’ll check this message right after.
“This is Halle Jones. I can’t come to the phone right now, so please leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.” At the very end is a snort of laughter—mine—before it cuts off, because we’d recorded proper voice mail greetings together one afternoon, in case college admissions called.
“Halle,” I say again, shocked to still hear past-us. It helps me keep emptying whatever bottles I find over the porch. “I’m sorry. You don’t accept that.” I simply want her to know the truth. “I shouldn’t have kissed him back. I fucked up. Bad. I haven’t liked him since, like, elementary school. He was just there that night. It’s BS, because it was graduation, and I still wanted everyone to see me as not … different. There’s nothing wrong with being different. I was always scared of my mom knowing, you know, in the same way your mom scares you. What’s worse than your mom being disappointed? She never really paid attention to how good I was doing, as I was doing it, but I knew if I messed up, that would be that, but—no, just. This is coming out wrong. Halle, I want to say I’m sorry. I know you didn’t shut me out because of Marcus alone. I’m sorry I threw it in your face, like you were blowing it up. I put being scared over being your best friend.” There’s a loud clunk from the garden from someone moving fast—Lily, Ba. They must have heard me. I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m okay—okay, Halle? Thank you. Let’s end with that.”
Our breaking apart is less a wound and more growing pains. Halle has other destinations while I find mine. It is done, which is enough, and I feel drunk from telling the truth, that unbridled joy surging through me. They’re close now, I hear them, and with them beside me, I will set this house alight, and we will leave.
I’m running toward the shuffling feet around the house when a hard, solid plank crashes right into my face, slamming the bridge of my nose. For the first time on this foggy night, I see stars.