We’ve started hanging out after school, the boy and I, on the down-low. Apparently, we’re at the age where boys and girls become a danger to each other, according to society. But at my house, we can see each other semi-secretly as much as we like. No one needs to know, apart from his parents and Miss Mary, who keeps a stern eye on us at all times, even if she honestly doesn’t need to. It’s all perfectly innocent.
The first time he comes over to visit with me, I greet him at the door by clowning around like a maniac, startling Miss Mary.
I bow deeply as he enters the hall and hands Miss Mary his jacket, thanking her politely.
“What’s gotten into you, girl?” she asks. I pretend not to hear.
I think it’s because deep down I’m self-conscious. He’s just stepped into my private world, and I don’t know how he’ll react to it. So I try to disarm him with silliness.
“Welcome to my home!” I shout, jumping about. “Welcome to my Avalon! My Shangri-La!”
I don’t know why I’m yelling or what I’m doing, why is my voice so loud? I’m trying to mask something. Maybe the difference in our backgrounds? He is working class, and I am definitely not. Maybe the size of the house? I don’t want him to notice how long the drive is up from the public road, how tall the trees are, how the garden stretches as far as the eye can see, or just how large this great white mansion of mine really is.
Because I like the boy.
And I want him to come over often. I want him to feel welcome. I want him to see this place the way I see it. I want him to feel at home here. I do not want him to feel less-than, or different, or outside. I want him to know we’re the same. Because we are.
He’s the only fun boy I’ve met in this strange new place, and I want him to like me.
He laughs as he walks through the hall and looks around.
“You belong in the home for the silly,” he says, shaking his head, with a side-eye to a concurring Miss Mary. And I know my act has worked. I grin, self-satisfied, at Miss Mary, who suddenly seems to understand what I am doing.
“This really your house?” he asks, looking around.
“Yup. Want a tour?” I ask.
“I sure do. Thank you.” He smiles.
It is a great house. My favourite of the exactly two homes I have lived in. The perfect hideaway from the real world and all its goings-on.
We have a basement-level theatre-grade home cinema, like the Hollywood people out West sometimes do. One of the local theatre owners has taught Miss Mary and me how to operate it. We receive all the new movies as they come out, often before their official release. I think it’s because Grandpa George has investments in the movie studios out in California, but I’ve never asked. The boy is impressed. He loves the movies too.
“Outside, we have the pool, where long summer days are spent cooling off and entertaining.” I point like I am a grown woman showing the Junior League around her remodelled home.
“Inside, the whole first floor is made for hosting, from the dining room on the left of the hallway to the great big living room on the right. Further down the hall we have the library.”
“It’s all very modern, very chic and rarefied,” I tell the boy as I show him around, now fully in character. “We had it updated just before I moved here. With the latest modern conveniences.”
I say this without quite knowing what these new things are; most of them are in the kitchen and belong to Miss Mary. We certainly did not have many of these new mod-cons back in England. Europe is hopelessly behind America.
“Yeah,” he says, clearly impressed. “This is somethin’ else. Like a dream house.”
“It is,” I smile. “It’s like it exists outside of time and space…”
He smiles back, glancing around. Miss Mary chuckles. I laugh.
“I love living here,” I say delightedly. “It’s the safest haven there is.”
“It sure feels like it,” he looks around, as we walk into the kitchen, where Miss Mary is preparing lunch.
“What would you like to drink?” she asks him.
“Pepsi-Cola, please, ma’am.”
“Well, aren’t you a polite young man?” Miss Mary says, setting the Pepsi in front of him. “I think we shall get along just fine.” She squeezes his shoulder and leaves us to it.
“Thank you, Miss Mary,” I call after her. “You’re the best.”
“I know, baby girl.” she laughs, waving a hand.
I turn to the boy. “You don’t have to ask for Pepsi-Cola here.” I glance toward Miss Mary, smiling back at me from the doorway “We do have Coca-Cola.”
He turns red. “You do? Well… next time I’ll have a Coca-Cola then.”
“Why have Pepsi when you can have Coke?” I ask no one in particular, my eyes facing the row of windows to the garden. I know he only picked Pepsi because it’s cheaper.
I ask Miss Mary if I can take two Coca-Colas from the icebox. Moments later, I plant an ice-cold bottle in front of him, and take his Pepsi to the sink.
“Sorted.” I say.
***
“You actually live here all by yourself?” he asks, puzzled. “Where’re your folks?”
“Oh, they’re here… Sometimes.” I lie because the real story is so sad and depressing, and I don’t want him to pity me. “They travel so much, I can’t keep track. But I always have Miss Mary to look after me.” I say instead of the truth.
He grimaces, still trying to wrap his head around it. My world is all new to him.
“Well, that’s real amazin’,” he says, taking it all in.
“You can come here as much as you want,” I tell him. “You’re always welcome. Us only-children have to look out for each other.
“I’m not on my own,” he says. “I got my mamma and my daddy.” He smiles, taking a sip of his cola.
“Of course you have,” I smile back.
“Mmm…yummy.” he murmurs, then takes a bite of the fresh sandwich Miss Mary has served us both, his eyes go wide with joy.
“You like?” I ask.
“You bet!” He grins.
I sit in silence, watching him eat, smiling to myself. All at once, I feel an urge to look after him.
He’s my boy now.
My World of Interiors 