"Don't cry/Don't raise your eyes/It's only teenage wasteland." --The Who, Baba O'Riley

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson

"…up here, on your left."

Aunt Nina talks while she climbs the stairs, one hand on the banister. She's built like me, like Mom: dark, slight, small. Too small to hold her liquor, according to Mom, her and Aunt Nina and me, she warned. "Don't you get into drinking. You're a tiny girl, no more than a glass."

A glass of what, Mom?

Aunt Nina's house is nice, but it's not too nice. From the outside, you know her and her husband have more money than anyone really needs, in fact than any six families really need. I mean, imagine growing up in Kenya. Imagine looking at all those animals all the time, imagine herding your entire life, and never tasting a scrap. I mean, imagine living on Madagascar and not having any clue what vanilla tastes like.

Imagine being employed guarding rice. It's like the New Deal or something.

I can see inside half the rooms are fake, dressed up, pretending. But the pictures on the wall aren't Picasso, they were colored in crayon by my cousin when he was in kindergarten. The framed photographs aren't staged; they're sports snapshots, candids from weddings and family events.

These are good people who happen to have a shitload of money.

"I know you two used to go in bed together, but that was years ago, and with you two teenagers," Aunt Nina continues, "well, you know." She still wears her hair in a braid, which she glances around to look for my nod of agreement.

I'm busy looking at the stairs. They are carpeted over with something dark and patterned over with red lines in cross-hatch. "What?" I ask.

Aunt Nina says, "I was just saying how it's not appropriate now, the two of you sharing a bed."

"Oh. Yeah, of course."

She nods and smiles. The smile is stretched too thinly across her lips, and there are lines on her forehead. "We fixed up the spare bedroom," she says. "I don't know your tastes so well now. We made it a little dull so you can fix it up however you like. Your cousin, uh… you'll know what came from him."

I force a smile. "Great." My bedroom at home used to be littered with wrappers—candy bars and fast food, ice cream wrappers, whatever. Half of it came back up in a Technicolor splash into the toilet, or onto the tiles or the carpet, wherever I was. Just like Mom.

Then she does a strange thing: she reaches out and touches my cheek. "We're really glad you're here, honey."

We're really glad your mom is getting her… polite cough… treatment.

"Thanks, Aunt Nina. Um… if I could just get to my room and start moving in?"

"Of course. You're just up here."

I haul my bag up the rest of the stairs and stalk to the door at the end of the hall. "This?" I ask, pointing to the door. She nods and I step in, give one last forced grin and shut the door.

The bag thumps to the floor at my feet. It's a carpeted floor. It's not exactly dull, it's just kind of bare. Obviously the first step will be to put my clothes in the closet, or it should be. I finger the bright bags on the desk: M&M's, peanut butter cups, gobstoppers. I chuckle.

The desk is nice, topped with papers and pens. It's thoughtful, it is, I know that and I want to appreciate it… but I don't.

I flop down onto the bed. Next to the pillow is a stuffed unicorn, sparkling with pink yarn for a mane and tail. I laugh. "Nei-ei-eigh," I say. "Nei-ei-eigh, neigh. Your name can be Anne. Or Sarah. Or Brachel."

I pull aside the curtain. Down the hall, my cousin's room has a view of the street, I seem to recall. He has a great room, really. It's wasted on a boy. My room—I have no trouble calling it that, considering it my room. The view is the next house over. These houses, they are one hundred per cent boring. Someone needs to put up an adobe with a roof in red Spanish tiles and a blue front door.

I flop back onto my bed and close my eyes.

I don't know if it wakes me or it's just the first thing I hear, but there's a loud, rhythmic thudding in the corridor that sounds like a migraine headache. Its movement is halted just outside my door, and the thudding increases to the pace of medical-drama heart about to stop. Then it does stop, and the door is thrust open.

"Maureen!"

My cousin stands there, lanky, padded with muscle. "Good morrow," he declares. He spins a basketball around in his hands. After all these years, he is not what I expected. I expected braces, a quiet geek.

I sit up and push hair out of my face. Of course he, sweaty beast, is allowed short hair. Mine swings down to my ass when it's wet and tangles at the tiniest motion. "Ay, me, the day so young?"

"What sadness lengthens Maureen's hours?"

I open my mouth, then close it and shake my head. "I don't know the next part."

He steps into the room. "Not having," he says, plopping onto the bed beside me, "that which, having," pokes me in the chest, "makes them short." The ball bounces to the floor.

"Roger!" I throw my arms around him.

"Mo." He releases me. "You get my unicorn?" I nod. "Good. You wanna come shoot hoops? C'mon, I'll teach you how to throw like a man."

"Wouldn't you have to learn first?"

He laughs. "Come on. Get'cha outta this room." I grab the ball, hold it to my chest and dash out of the room. "Maureen!" Roger hurls himself after me. We race down the stairs. "Maureen, come back here! Get your hands off my ball!"

Out on the driveway, I hurl it at the basket. The ball doesn't go near the hoop at all. "Nice, Mo-Mo." Hearing the name reminds me that I haven't seen Roger since he was seven and I was six. "Come on. Like this, here." He retrieves the ball and holds it out to me. "Now put your hands… that's it. Lookit the basket. And shoot!"

It hits the backboard and bounces off. "Close! That was good, let's go again."

He runs me through a few more drills, then dribbles around me while I put up the pretense of stopping him. I'm shrieking with laughter. Roger gives narrations that amount to, "He shoots, he scores!" then takes victory laps.

He's half-breathless, and the sun is creeping towards the horizon when Aunt Nina calls, "Boys!"

"Aunt Nina!" I protest.

"Sorry, Maureen. Kids, come inside, there's some dinner for you—and don't tell me you aren't hungry, Roger Davis," she adds as he slinks into the house. "Down." She presses him into a seat. I sit opposite him.

More of Roger's finger-paintings are on the refrigerator, not taped up, just blue and red handprints crawling across the machine.

On the table are cartons of Chinese food. "All right!" Roger pulls a piece of sweet and sour chicken out with his fingers, dunks it in sauce and tosses it into his mouth, then exhales through parted lips. "Ha-a-a-at!"

"Roger! Not while Maureen's here," Aunt Nina scolds. "Please pretend you have some manners."

"Sorry, Mo." Roger gives me a sheepish grin with fringe in his eyes, and I know my cousin is never called on anything. He shakes food out of the carton, onto his plate. It's been so long since I actually sat down and ate like this, I watch him for cues. There aren't many.

"So, Maureen, I'm afraid it's not possible for you to join Roger at St. Francis's, they just don't have any spots at this time, so you'll be going to King. It's a fine school, as well; the bus picks up just at the corner but I can drive you I your first couple days, if you want. Or Roger can walk you."

"No, I can manage for myself."

"Roger will walk you to the stop tomorrow, just to be sure—"

"Ow!" Roger cries. His mother has kicked him under the table. "Okay, okay. Jeez. I'll walk Maureen, no problem, sheesh, pass the fried rice."

--

I can't sleep much that night. In a gated community, there's no noise. I can't hear a single car go down the street. The dogs have nothing to bark at. The cats are kept indoors. Heaven forbid they do anything as ugly as fuck.

Quietly as I can, I push back the covers and step out of bed. It's only September and still warm in the nights; I'm wearing nothing but a ratty old T-shirt and underwear for pajamas, and admittedly I'm a little cold. The shivers down my spine make me horny.

There's noise in the house. The sinks don't drip. The running refrigerator is too far away to be heard. But Roger is snoring. That's enough. The noise rises as I tiptoe closer, and I crack open his bedroom door. He's like a chainsaw.

His view is of the streetfront, and he leaves his window open. Light from a streetlamp shows Roger on his back, sleeping with one hand between his legs. Tasteful, Davis. But what I care about is the snoring. As long as he keeps up that ruckus, I can sleep.

I tiptoe back to my room, slip under the covers and close my eyes. All too soon it's morning.

"Maureen!" Aunt Nina calls from somewhere in the house. "Maureen, wake up!"

I moan. It's too early… I'm too tired. Wouldn't it be easier to just stay in my bed? I snuggle deeper under the covers. Bed.

"Maureen!"

"No," I whine.

"Mau—"

"I'm up!" I jump out of bed. "Fine." My clothes are still in the bag by the bed.

I don't have a toothbrush, but in the bathroom I find one with my name inked on—that is, if my name was Mo-Mo. I rolled my eyes and squeeze on toothpaste. The bathroom is warm and damp from the shower; Roger left his towel on the floor, along with—"Eeew!" It's strange to squeal through toothpaste. Dirty underwear, yuck!

"Maureen, let's go!"

"Coming!"

I spit and rinse. Downstairs, Roger's waiting for me at the door, wearing navy slacks and an undershirt with a blouse, or whatever it's called for boys, tied around his waist. "Bodybuilding?" I ask. "Nice get-up."

"This is my uniform," he says. He picks up his backpack and slings it over one shoulder.

"Doubtful."

"Do you have a bag?"

"What do you think?"

"Hang on." He sets down his sandwich and sprints upstairs. He returns carrying a beat-up old backpack with patches that look like flags of other nations. "Here. My old one."

"Aw. Sweetie," I drawl sarcastically.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay," he calls, "we're going! 'Bye, Mama!" She calls back to say good-bye and have a good day. Roger picks up his sandwich again and leads me out. Through a mouthful of what appears to be a bacon and egg sandwich with at least two sauces, tomato and lettuce—my stomach turns—Roger asks, "Do you have money for lunch?"

"Do I need it?"

He fishes around in his pockets. It's cold out: there's a slight fog waiting to burn off, and it's taking all of Roger's macho prowess not to shiver. He pulls out a handful of change. "Here."

"Don't you need it?"

"St. Francis figures lunches into tuition." He presses the coins into my hand.

"The price you pay for those dorky slacks."

Roger chuckles and bites into his sandwich. Ugh. boys. are. gross. "Who's that?" I ask. There's a boy leaning against the pole announcing that the bus stops here. He's not bad looking at all, nice skin, sort of a muddy olive color that's not quite anything, and curly dark hair. He has his nose in a book.

"Oh, that's Ezekiel. Ezekiel!" Roger calls. The boy looks up. "Yo."

Ezekiel squints at Roger, pushes his glasses up on his nose, and returns to his book. I laugh and slap Roger's chest. "Ooh, you're one cool cat, Roger Davis."

"Suck it, Mo." Roger kisses my cheek. "Take care. Oh, do you want me to wait with you?"

"No, it's fine." I smirk. "I'm sure if anything happens, Ezekiel will protect me."

He doesn't even move.

"'Bye." Roger takes off. I thump down on the bench. Great. I'm alone. I'm a-fucking-lone.

"Scarsdale sucks."

"Amen."

I look up at him, but he's still absorbed in his book.

TO BE CONTINUED!

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