White Smoke: Preface–Chapter 5

Piper’s a strawberry blond with copper freckles and pink lips that rarely form the semblance of a smile.

Change is good. Change is necessary. Change is needed.
I’ve repeated this mantra at least a million times as we’ve driven farther from the past toward an uncertain future.

“No, no no no...,” I whimper, convulsing, as the memorized fact washes over me.

Probably some spooky decrepit shell of old America, hella dirty with World War II-era posters of women in jumpsuits, holding rivet guns.

Well, that’s what it feels like driving up the desolate freeway exit into Cedarville.

We park in front of a bright white carriage house, with a wide unfinished porch, bay windows, emerald grass, and a cobalt-blue door. A stark contrast to the rest of the homes on the block and the only one that has sprinkles of life as construction workers buzz about.

“Oh. Right, okay. Shall we convene in the kitchen?”

He takes off his hard hat and gives us a curt nod.

Terminating the agreement will result in immediate eviction and the artist must pay back the mortgage with interest plus any damages in accordance with the length of their stay.

His brushstrokes are hella rushed and erratic as sweat pours down the back of his neck.

“Okay. So, I know you’re both…apprehensive. But look on the bright side: if it doesn’t work out, we’re only required to stay here for three years.”

And I can’t fail, or I’ll relinquish the minuscule freedom they’ve promised to give me.

Aromatherapy. One of the tricks I’ve learned to ease my anxiety. Soft music, plants, candles...you name it, I came ready. New places like this can tip my scales and I need to prove I can handle myself. Glad I bought an extra pack of incense and a vial of peppermint oil from my favorite apothecary shop back home.

On my hands and knees, I crawl around the room, inspecting the baseboards with a phone flashlight, scrubbing them with hot soapy water, caulking holes, and adding a few drops of cinnamon oil.

Alec's feet storm down the hall and hit my threshold, his mouth in a tight line, accusations dripping off his tongue.

From the floor, I meet his glare with equal disdain.

“No butts on the counter,” Piper admonishes from the stairs.

Mom returns with an older bald-headed man, the resemblance striking. Yusef's uncle takes in the room—the Snickers bar on the floor, his nephew icing some random girl's face—and huffs.

Piper looks on from the dining table, her face unreadable. Probably trying to find something to end our revelry. It’s like she’s allergic to happiness.

“You guys gonna be all right without me tomorrow?” Alec quips, kissing the top of her head.

I stare into the hallway mirror at a welt the size of a large fist on my cheek and the bags under my eyes.

The pungent stench makes it seem like we're living inside a porta potty.

“I see abundances in your future. God knows where the money is and he wants to give it to you. God wants to touch your life! But he needs your help. And if you call now, order your free HOLY SEEDS and follow the instructions, I promise, there will be an anointing on your life. Trust me. I would not lead you wrong.”

Despite the rhetoric, I’m drawn into the skeleton-looking white-haired man who seems to be on death’s door, shouting with his last breath.

Most of those homes were foreclosed in the financial crisis, people leaving in droves.

I relish the natural massage with a few deep breaths, and just as I lean my head back and close my eyes, the water vanishes.

I pull it back up and continue with my regimen—two washes with sulfate-free peppermint shampoo, fifteen-minute deep conditioner, then detangling with a wide-tooth comb before a cold-water rinse.

The fan above my head spins with a click, underscoring the awkward silence.

On first glance, you’d think this was an all-girls’ school. It’s not that I’m looking for boys, but you could practically smell the estrogen permeating the air.

“There ain’t no one in this school who doesn’t know your name.”
“I’m playing right into the New Girl in Town cliché, aren’t I?”

Cliques of girls gather on the front steps, mumbling to each other, their eyes frosty.

Across Sweetwater, the other side of Maple Street is idyllic compared to our side. There’s at least some resemblance of life.

But the moment I jog by, all the reverie is cut short, shut off like a yanked TV plug.

Surrounded by emaciated houses, with no cell phone service, a jerk of a stepfather, and strangers creeping in the bathroom—he can’t really expect me to just deal in these types of conditions.

At the edge of the backyard, I stab a trowel into the ground and scoop up a piece of earth, rubbing the soil between my fingers.

The meeting is being held in a conference room by the history section. Attendance is sparse. A few old women, four college students, and three old Black men.

“I’m also pleased to report that we are this close to approval for a house on Maple Street, which will host our nonprofit city beautification initiative, with a generous donation by the Sterling Foundation. Renovations will start as early as November.”

Once outside, I speed walk around the building to a shed sitting in the grassy knolls at the edge of a crumbling parking lot.

“You see that, children? GOD can move mountains! He is a deliverer! Cast away your sins and put all your trust in him and his prophets. I would not lead you astray. Trust me.”

“I can’t tell you how many gardens I’ve tilled just so folks could plant their seeds.”