Penelope
Francesca Rainosek
The house was one that every neighbor on the street talked about. How could you not? It was a
two-story craftsman laying there dilapidated and vacant, tree limbs falling in the overgrown
backyard, and the garage apartment that had been broken into more times than anyone could
keep up with. The house was quite the conversation starter. Adults wondered what happened to
the neighbors who used to be viewed in such high esteem. Kids liked to imagine ghosts dwelt
there, or maybe something sinister occurred within its walls. Something evil and unholy.
Well, the people who lived there are ghosts now—pale comparisons of the people they
used to be. And something evil did happen there, just not something horror-movie worthy.
I should know. I grew up there.
I was raised sheltered. I mean to the point of extreme. Being brought up in a
neighborhood with a high crime rate, my mother never let me go anywhere by myself and I
probably never attempted to walk down the block until I was a teenager. Even now, I avoid it if
possible.
The intersection is a busy one, the connection of two major streets that can take you
anywhere you want to go. I waited at the light for my crossing sign. Yes, there were opportunities
for me to cross without the pedestrian light, but the way people drive around here . . . no, thank
you. I choose life.
The light turned from the red hand into the walking stick figure and I started to cross with
caution. Just as I reached the middle, a white pickup truck turned the corner without yielding and
did not brake until the very last second.
“Jerkwad!” I yelled as I jumped backwards.
“Hurry Up!” shouted the greasy-looking man who almost killed me.
“Screw you!”
I raised my middle finger above my head and finished crossing.
On the other side of the street, the sidewalk curved around the house of a man who
decided to create a jungle landscape to keep people from looking into his yard. Magnolia trees
pressed on the planks of his fencing, causing them to bend outwards. Weeds and bushes grew
over the fire hydrant and roots cracked the sidewalk. It was hard for me to walk through
everything, dipping and turning and getting my shirt snagged on the stubbed branch of an
unkempt crapemyrtle. Oh, but the city cited my family for having our grass a centimeter past
code? Figures.
It’s hot. What else can you say about summer in Texas? I found it so tempting to strip
down to my underwear to escape the swelter, but had a feeling society would not approve.
Needless to say I remained fully clothed and miserable.
Looking up to the merciless sky, one part of To Kill A Mockingbird echoed through my
head, “Somehow, it was hotter then . . . Ladies bathed before noon, after their three o’clock naps,
and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.” Such a lovely,
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