The Moon and More(85)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“Too bad.” Ivy sighed as, from down the hallway, there was a loud bang, followed by another. She wiped at her face, seemingly not hearing it. One more bang. Finally, she saw we’d noticed and explained, “The screen door in my bedroom is busted. I get percussion when it’s windy. Which is always.”

“It’s broken?” I asked. “Why didn’t you call us to come fix it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, flipping her wrist. “Too busy dealing with arrogant artists and traitorous employees. A girl’s only got so much time in the day.”

“Wow,” Luke said, under his breath.

Ivy looked at him. “Aren’t you the pool guy?”

“Yep,” he replied. “I wear many hats.”

“That seems to be the norm around here,” she observed, nodding at me. “This one has a habit of popping up everywhere I turn.”

“She’ll do that,” he agreed. The door banged again, hard.

“Can I go take a look?” I asked her.

“Sure,” she said, walking into the kitchen and pulling open the fridge. “Knock yourself out.”

I started down the hallway, Luke following. When Ivy was out of earshot, I heard him say, “Man. She’s a piece of work, huh?”

“You have no idea,” I said. “She’s—”

I had to stop there, as what I found myself facing struck me utterly, suddenly speechless. Oh my God.

The airy, expansive master bedroom I’d helped furnish back in May had been gorgeous, with creamy, white walls, a huge bed with a full ivory comforter and pillows, and matching dresser, chair, and bedside tables with pale wood accents. A framed, mirrored mosaic hung over the bed, with a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall opposite. The rest of the room was windows, huge, tall ones, showing the best view of the ocean. It was, seriously, one of the prettiest rooms I’d ever seen, like something from a magazine.

This room, however, was a pigsty: dim, cluttered, and smelling strongly of fried food. I couldn’t even see the ocean, due to the black trash bags that had been put up—oh, God, please not with tape, I thought—to cover the windows entirely. The comforter lay in a heap on the floor, dotted with water and Diet Coke bottles, which also covered any other flat surface, often two or three deep. The floor was equally cluttered, with piles of papers, at least two different laptops, tangles of cords, and, inexplicably, many boxes of cereal, several of which were both open and spilling. And then, there was the banging.

The screen door, I saw as I peered into the dimness, was not just broken. It was hanging by only the top hinges, scraping the house’s exterior each time a gust of wind blew up underneath it. Which, judging by the noise and the plentiful white paint chips piled up along the slim bit of view visible under the garbage bags—which were, in fact, attached with duct tape, oh dear Jesus—was pretty much constantly.

I couldn’t even make a noise. Maybe I squeaked. It was Luke who said, “Oh, boy. Someone’s not getting their deposit back.”

“The windows . . .” I pointed, my finger shaking. “And . . . the carpet. Is that . . . is that blood over there?”

He stepped around me, gingerly, then navigated past a box of Froot Loops, two empty coffee mugs, and a huge pile of clothes to examine it. “Not blood. Cranberry juice, maybe?”

“I think I’m going to pass out,” I said, reaching behind me for the wall. Instead, I hit a couple of plastic bottles, knocking them to the floor.

“Go ahead. I’m going to shut this door up before it makes me crazy.” He picked his way across the floor, over the laptops and cords, and started feeling around under the garbage bags for the door handle. After searching a bit, he pulled the bag loose. And there was light.

I bent down, picking up the bottles I’d knocked over, an action not unlike removing a tablespoon of water from a tidal wave. “Who rents an ocean-view house . . . and then covers up the view?”

“The same person who lets a loose door scrape off half their siding, apparently,” he reported, having finally gotten the sliding door open. Fresh air was coming in now, a stark contrast to the dankness. He stuck his head out, examining the damage. “Boy. Forget the deposit. She’s in for more than that with this repair alone.”

Now that I could see, I went over to the windows and carefully eased off a large piece of duct tape to take down another bag. It took up paint, leaving behind black, sticky residue. Still, the light made me feel better, so I started taking them all down. Luke pitched in, and soon the room was flooded with sunshine. Which, honestly, just made things look worse. The door was still banging.

“I’m going to get the toolbox from my truck,” he said, as I surveyed the clutter and damage again. “I can at least take it off that hinge. Okay?”

I nodded, dumbly, and he headed to the door, clapping my shoulder on the way out. He knew better than to offer anything more positive.

I wasn’t sure how long I stood there, just staring, before I heard Ivy behind me. She was just suddenly there. “What’d you do to the windows?”

I turned, slowly, to face her. “Me? What did I do to the windows?”

She pointed at them. “I had them covered for a reason.”

“With garbage bags and duct tape?” I was pretty sure I was shrieking.

“I’m very light sensitive,” she told me.

“Then sleep in a hole, not an oceanfront mansion!” Okay, I was shrieking. “I can’t believe you did this to this room. It was perfect before you moved in. Pristine. And now—”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” she said, looking around.

“Are you an animal?” I demanded. She looked at me, surprised. “Seriously. Because only animals live like this.”

“It’s just messy,” she told me. “Calm down.”

“Calm down?” I repeated. “The owners of this place are expecting to move in as soon as you leave. Which, by the looks of this, will probably be today.”

“You can’t kick me out,” she said. “I have a contract.”

“Read it,” I said, gesturing around me. “You’re in violation.”

Now, she actually looked sort of worried. “I have to stay here until I finish this phase of the project. Especially since I’m working alone now.”

“You should have thought about that before you trashed someone else’s house.”