Read Online It Looks Like This by Rafi Mittlefehldt - Free Book Online
Authors: Rafi Mittlefehldt
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No one’s outside and I have the road to myself. The whole neighborhood.
Finally I take a left onto Hyacinth Court. It’s a street I’ve never been on, and I walk slowly, taking in the block, looking at everything.
All these houses look alike but there are still small differences. There’s a house with a big American flag on a pole; there’s a yard with a tiny landscaped cactus garden; a lawn with four giant oak trees lined up like soldiers, one two three four.
I count the houses on my left side as I walk. At five, I stop.
It’s a red-brick house with white trim like everyone else’s, but I look for those tiny differences. There’s a small mound in the yard covered in shrubs, with a tall tree on either side. Two piney bushes flank the garage door. The address is hand-painted in charcoal gray along the curb.
In front of the garage, a faded blue Ford Bronco, old and weary-looking. Next to it, a shiny gray Lincoln.
I walk up to the front door, thick wood with panels of murky colored glass. I don’t hear anything, so I listen harder.
Once in fourth grade, our teacher made us write down what we hear when it’s quiet. No one understood what she meant at first, but she just told us all to stop and listen, and we’d start hearing small things that we hadn’t noticed before. After a little while, it worked. I wrote about the sound of the building’s heater turning on and off, the wind against the windows, the scratches of pencil and paper. She said sometimes people get so used to background noises that they don’t even realize they’re there anymore.
I try it now, and then I start hearing. There’s a small computer keyboard sound of rain against the hood of my coat, a steady wind, and a dog barking miles away.
I ring the doorbell.
It only takes him a second; through the glass I can see movement but can’t make out his figure. He opens the door and he’s wearing jeans, different from the ones he had on at school, jeans with holes. A plain white T-shirt, no shoes, no socks. His feet are mostly covered by the bottoms of his jeans.
Sean says, Hey, come in.
I step inside.
The entrance is tiled, like our house but a little nicer. Rooms open up on either side, and straight ahead I see the living room, past a bent staircase that leads to a second-floor balcony.
He says, You gotta take your shoes off or my dad will flip.
I take off my raincoat first. They have a little coat stand near the door and I hang it there, and then I take off my shoes and put them as neatly as I can near the door. I hear movement from another room behind me while I’m doing this and turn.
Sean’s parents walk into the entrance hall. His dad is pale with sandy hair, but they still look a lot alike. Same lips and jaw, same eyes.
Sean’s dad holds out his hand.
He says, Mr. Rossini.
I shake his hand, which seems weird to me but I do it anyway.
I say, I’m Mike.
He says, Good to meet you, Mike. We’re about to head out to a movie, so you boys will have the house to yourselves.
His expression is really hard to read. There’s just a bit of a smile but not really. His eyes stay on mine and don’t waver, like he’s trying to read me. It makes me a bit uneasy.
Finally I turn to Sean’s mom, really just to avoid Mr. Rossini’s gaze. She’s wearing a simple gray dress and a handful of necklaces. She has dark brown skin, darker than Sean, and straightened black hair that hangs down to her shoulders. Every strand stays perfectly in place when she moves. It looks like she spent a lot of time on it.
She looks very sure of herself. Confident. Nothing really like my mom.
I say, Good to meet you, Mrs. Rossini.
She takes my hand but only nods once, slowly, in response. Then her eyes flick over to Sean.
She says, He’s here to work on a project, so make sure you actually get some work done.
Her eyes dart back to me right after she says the last bit, and for a second my heart skips. But then she winks at me. Her expression doesn’t
Finally I take a left onto Hyacinth Court. It’s a street I’ve never been on, and I walk slowly, taking in the block, looking at everything.
All these houses look alike but there are still small differences. There’s a house with a big American flag on a pole; there’s a yard with a tiny landscaped cactus garden; a lawn with four giant oak trees lined up like soldiers, one two three four.
I count the houses on my left side as I walk. At five, I stop.
It’s a red-brick house with white trim like everyone else’s, but I look for those tiny differences. There’s a small mound in the yard covered in shrubs, with a tall tree on either side. Two piney bushes flank the garage door. The address is hand-painted in charcoal gray along the curb.
In front of the garage, a faded blue Ford Bronco, old and weary-looking. Next to it, a shiny gray Lincoln.
I walk up to the front door, thick wood with panels of murky colored glass. I don’t hear anything, so I listen harder.
Once in fourth grade, our teacher made us write down what we hear when it’s quiet. No one understood what she meant at first, but she just told us all to stop and listen, and we’d start hearing small things that we hadn’t noticed before. After a little while, it worked. I wrote about the sound of the building’s heater turning on and off, the wind against the windows, the scratches of pencil and paper. She said sometimes people get so used to background noises that they don’t even realize they’re there anymore.
I try it now, and then I start hearing. There’s a small computer keyboard sound of rain against the hood of my coat, a steady wind, and a dog barking miles away.
I ring the doorbell.
It only takes him a second; through the glass I can see movement but can’t make out his figure. He opens the door and he’s wearing jeans, different from the ones he had on at school, jeans with holes. A plain white T-shirt, no shoes, no socks. His feet are mostly covered by the bottoms of his jeans.
Sean says, Hey, come in.
I step inside.
The entrance is tiled, like our house but a little nicer. Rooms open up on either side, and straight ahead I see the living room, past a bent staircase that leads to a second-floor balcony.
He says, You gotta take your shoes off or my dad will flip.
I take off my raincoat first. They have a little coat stand near the door and I hang it there, and then I take off my shoes and put them as neatly as I can near the door. I hear movement from another room behind me while I’m doing this and turn.
Sean’s parents walk into the entrance hall. His dad is pale with sandy hair, but they still look a lot alike. Same lips and jaw, same eyes.
Sean’s dad holds out his hand.
He says, Mr. Rossini.
I shake his hand, which seems weird to me but I do it anyway.
I say, I’m Mike.
He says, Good to meet you, Mike. We’re about to head out to a movie, so you boys will have the house to yourselves.
His expression is really hard to read. There’s just a bit of a smile but not really. His eyes stay on mine and don’t waver, like he’s trying to read me. It makes me a bit uneasy.
Finally I turn to Sean’s mom, really just to avoid Mr. Rossini’s gaze. She’s wearing a simple gray dress and a handful of necklaces. She has dark brown skin, darker than Sean, and straightened black hair that hangs down to her shoulders. Every strand stays perfectly in place when she moves. It looks like she spent a lot of time on it.
She looks very sure of herself. Confident. Nothing really like my mom.
I say, Good to meet you, Mrs. Rossini.
She takes my hand but only nods once, slowly, in response. Then her eyes flick over to Sean.
She says, He’s here to work on a project, so make sure you actually get some work done.
Her eyes dart back to me right after she says the last bit, and for a second my heart skips. But then she winks at me. Her expression doesn’t
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