The Same House
By Charlie Lawley
Inspired by The House On Mango Street
We’ve lived in the same house all my life. It’s old. Before we moved in, it was Mimi and Pop’s house, but then Pop passed, so we moved in. It’s big, and I have a room all to myself, but it’s my house, not my home. My house always seems to feel colder than it should, like it’s slowly dying. Sometimes it’s as cold as January in Alabama, like no one really lives there. Because we don’t really live there, or at least I don’t. I live where my friends are, because they are my home. At my house, I don’t laugh like I do when I’m at home. It’s different. When I’m at my house, it’s just me, alone. I’m always kind of awkward there, like the whole house is telling me to take my shoes off or fix the pillow. But at home, I’m myself. Even though we’ve lived in the same house my whole life, it’s not my home.
My Name
My name is gentle. Light and gentle as cotton candy. It is calm and quiet—Charlotte Anne, sweet and soft, like a marshmallow. My great-grandmother was Anne. I loved her, but the name was more hers than it will ever be mine. She was gentle, like the wind the morning after a storm. She was warm, like the fresh cookies she made. But that is not me. I am not Charlotte Anne. I am not gentle, or light, or warm, or quiet, or anything that my name is. That’s why it’s not my name. My name is loud and funny; it is messy and not perfect. My name means a whole lot more than a soft, quiet, gentle daughter. It means I make mistakes, and I am mean sometimes. Even though my name is Charlotte Anne, I am Charlie.
Rich
People look at our house and think we are rich. People who come inside believe we are even richer. “Your house is huge,” they say, like it’s a mansion, with rooms big enough to get lost in. They say it so much, like a broken record, over and over and over. But that’s because they don’t see what goes on inside that huge house.
We’ve never struggled much, but my family is not wealthy. We have never needed help, but fights are inevitable. Fights in our house are like the seasons changing. It’s always going to happen, no matter what. And sometimes, that big house, which is not rich, is holding its breath. Even though we’re not rich, I am. Not because of my house, which is still holding its breath, but because of what else I have. What’s my own? I have my friends and my family. My nieces and my best friend. They are worth more than we have ever had. We are not rich with money, though some people think we are, but I am still rich in life.
Loud
Everyone in my family is loud. My sister is loud, like fireworks on the Fourth of July. She’s always been like my dad, funny and extroverted. She holds the conversation at family dinners, telling my parents about her day. My mom is quieter than that, but she is still loud. Sometimes she is as calm and placid as a mouse, and other times she is loud like the fireworks that are my sister. My dad is as loud as my sister, so when they’re together, it’s hard not to be quiet. They are like fire, and gasoline, and I have to be the water.
People say a lot about me because my sister and I are yin and yang. They say I’m both my mom and dad. People say I’m quiet when I want to be, but I can also be loud. They say that I am my own person, and my face talks before my mouth does. People say that I’m not loud, but expressive. They have a lot to say, like a parrot with opinions, but I think that I’m loud when I’m around the people that make me loud. It’s hard to be loud when you’re always the one who makes it too loud.
Notice
I pretend that I don’t notice anyone, but I do. Hiding behind a face that’s not mine. A mask. Pretending keeps me safe. It whispers in my ear that it’s better this way. I have to pretend so that no one knows, but I’m lying to myself, too. I pretend I don’t notice, I don’t wish, I don’t look. But I do. Every day, I notice him, like noticing a lamp clicking on in the corner. But he doesn’t notice me. He sees right through me; I’m invisible. He wouldn’t even realize if I were on fire. So I don’t notice him, because if I notice him and he doesn’t notice me, it would be like the bride saying no at a wedding. I would lose face. So I never notice. Not noticing keeps me safe from everyone. But also from myself. Because if I tell myself that I don’t notice, then I don’t have to wonder why I can’t notice. Because I don’t.
