Joni’s house is exactly the kind of place I would have pictured her living. It’s big but not too fancy, there are a few kids’ toys scattered in the driveway, and brightly colored flowers are planted along the front pathway. It’s welcoming, like Joni herself.
There’s a dude in the garage working on some sort of project. I give him a quick wave on my way to the front door, but he stops me. “Hey, can I get your opinion?”
I look around. “Me?”
“Yeah. Come here a sec.”
I go over. The guy is, like, twenty, and has dark skin but bright blond dreadlocks. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in a few days. His hands are gray.
He gestures to the thing in front of him. It’s some sort of sculpture done with clay and metal. It’s almost as tall as I am and kind of like a tree—the trunk is all organic-looking, with intricately carved bark, but the branches and leaves are harder, more geometric, made from welded pieces of pipe and scrap metal. It’s actually really cool.
“What do you think?” the dude asks. “I need another set of eyes on this.”
“It looks like a tree.”
“Yeah, but what do you think about it?”
“I don’t really know anything about art.”
“You don’t have to know anything to feel something. Just tell me your first impression.”
“Well…” I look at it some more. “I think it’s…sad.”
“Sad how?”
“I don’t know, it’s like it was natural and something happened, something came along right around here”—I point to the junction between the clay and the metal—“and corrupted it, changed it into something else. Something less.”
He stares at it a minute. “Yes. That’s exactly right. It’s sad.” I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but he holds out his hand to me and says, “Thank you. That’s exactly what I needed.”
I shake his hand, getting gray clay all over mine. “So…is Joni here?”
“Yeah, she’s inside. You can go right in.”
I feel weird walking into someone’s house—especially someone I barely know—but after two rings of the bell, there’s still no answer, so I open the screen door and go inside. “Hello?” I call out.
“Ryden?” Joni calls from somewhere upstairs.
“Yeah.” I start up the steps as she comes bouncing down the hallway. She’s wearing these baggy linen pants that sit low on her hips and a red tube top. She’s actually got a hell of a body. I clear my throat.
She grins down at me from the top of the steps. “So you just waltz into people’s houses willy-nilly?”
“I rang the bell. Twice.”
“Mhmm, sure you did.” She crosses her arms.
“The guy outside said I should let myself in. I’m sorry, I—”
She drops her arms and rolls her eyes. “I’m messing with you. Lighten up.”
The door off the kitchen opens, and two little kids—a boy and a girl, both with a skin tone about halfway between Joni’s and the dude outside’s—come running in, shrieking at the top of their lungs and firing at each other with Super Soakers. A girl who looks like she’s not that much younger than Joni and me follows them inside, towel-drying her hair and shouting at the kids that the house is a water-gun-free zone. They share a glance and turn fire on her.
“Stevie!” Joni says to the girl. “?Es tu trabajo para mantener a los ni?os lejos de los problemas de hoy!”
“I know,” Stevie says. “But it’s hard, okay? There’s two of them.”
Joni sighs and motions for me to follow her.
“Willy-nilly?” I repeat as we walk down a hall with framed paintings covering the walls. The house smells like fresh-baked bread. “Who talks like that?”
She laughs. “I do, apparently.” She pushes open the door at the end of the hall. “Welcome to Chez Joni.”
Holy. Shit.
Joni’s room is insane. The rest of the house was pretty normal. Colors everywhere and lots of art, but nothing crazy. This is hands down the trippiest room I’ve ever been in. You step inside and it’s like you’re stepping outside. Or through a magical wardrobe or some shit. The ceiling is one large, angled skylight, with a few strategically placed crossbeams supporting the glass. Above us, the sun is still fairly high in the sky, and the leaves of an old elm tree rustle together like they’re trying to keep warm.
The walls, closet door, and light switches are covered in the most intricate mural I’ve ever seen. It’s a 360-degree panoramic view of a city park. The details, the depths, the lighting…it’s like a photograph. I don’t feel as if I’m looking at a wall; I feel as if I’m looking out a window.
All the furniture is white—the bed, the lamp, the desk, the dresser.
There’s some sort of soundtrack being pumped out of hidden speakers somewhere. Street traffic, the constant slosh of water from a fountain, and someone playing the violin far off in the distance.
And the floor…
“Is this AstroTurf?”
“Yeah, my parents wouldn’t let me plant real grass in here, so this was the best I could do.”
“Where are we?”
“Washington Square Park,” she says. “It’s in New York. It’s my favorite place in the world.”