My trepidations of entering Kenzie's home weren't assuaged by the disheveled state of her front lawn and porch.
There was an old, rusted over white sedan in the front lawn, with a pair of tires surrounding tall grasses, several overgrown bushes and tall weeds all about. The porch seemed to be used as secondary storage, boxes stacked upon boxes, from the foundation to the overhang. The house seemed run-down as well, one of the windows boarded up on the face of the building. Wire fence enclosed this entire suburban condemnation, and I felt less confident, not more.
Kenzie gestured to me, sluggish. "It's okay," she promised. "Come on in."
Reluctantly, I followed.
To characterize my relationship with Kenzie, it's simply that we're friends. Mutual outcasts in the disdain of our peer group. We met in our middle school's poetry and writing club and have spent the years checking over one another's prose. To say that we're friends is a frank, if sterile account. We are, but we're also peers. We share our ideas and balance critique off of one another—we know each others' ideas like we know our own hands.
The warmth that is present in our relationship is a calm, steady thing, like a thrumming pulse in some deep wild overrun and lush with green and sunlight. I knew that I could always rely on her, though, I could not say that she had confidence in the same from me. While I take enjoyment from our mutual camaraderie, Kenzie has always been somewhat stand-offish. As if to not put any burdens on me or others around her.
I'd always seen that as just another aspect of her charm.
I had always known that her life at home was somewhat rough, at least as much outside of school as it is inside of school, but I didn't know just how coarse a home situation she'd had until I beheld it with my own eyes.
The circumstances of her home were rife with the trappings of poverty, which quickly explained her shabby style of dress. Kenzie is a taller figure, for a girl, standing at five feet ten inches. She's slender and willowy, with dark hair that falls in her face. She always dresses in bulky, shabby clothes, always from a thrift store or otherwise.
I always thought that she dressed like that for comfort, but now I wondered if she had a choice at all.
Something unidentifiable crunched under my shoes as we climbed her stoop and, when she opened the screen door it squealed loudly. As Kenzie opened the front door, a heavy, humid smell wafted into the air, and I wrinkled my nose, unable to place it. Suddenly, we were beset by no less than five, maybe as many as ten small dogs. Terriers, chihuahuas, yorkies, and others. They seemed to have dirty coats and reeked as they ambled all around our ankles.
"Hey," Kenzie said, gently attempting to gather them back in the house with her hands, stooping down to do so. "Go on, go on."
They didn't listen, however, and they continued to jump and bark and wag their tails, excitedly, perhaps hoping for treats.
Kenzie was clearly flustered, but she kept trying to corral the animals. I leaned down to help as best I could, and soon, we had the door closed behind us. The front room of her home was a dingy affair, the windows drawn with blinds. It seemed darker in here than it should, somehow.
The furniture was a distressing waste of upholstery and seating, everything stacked up with tubs and boxes, leaving little space to maneuver and no space at all with which to sit. Strange odors filled the air.
"Come on," she gestured back towards a darkened hallway's entrance as she walked that way.
I did as she asked, following her into a narrow hall, lit only by the light of an old, naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. Several doorways branched off, most with closed doors, but one opened and even darker. A dubious smell of waste exuded from within, leaving me no doubt as to where the lavatory was kept. I resolved to not make any use of it on my visit.
From somewhere within these doors, I could hear a television playing quietly and I felt ill at ease as she progressed down, past piles of dirty laundry. Finally, she opened the door to a small bedroom, cleaner by far than the rest of the house.
"Come in," she said quietly, perfunctorily even. I felt like I could sense her great shame at the state of her mother's home.
Doing as she asked, I came into the smaller room. It was like a breath of fresh air in here, with a cracked window from which the murky, overcast sunlight from outside could poor in. Her room contained a bed, a desk, a dresser, a nightstand, and a chair. There was a single, thin blanket atop the mattress. It smelt of outside and the promise of rain, not too far away.
"My mom isn't home," Kenzie said, turning to face me.
"I'm sorry," I was unsure of what else I should do or say.
She shrugged. "It's okay. My mom's never home."
"Where does she work?" I asked.
"At a factory," she said, sadly. "They make plastic bags."
"Oh," I nod, reflecting on the pragmaticism of the statement and the dread that working in a plastic bag factory might impart. I fiddled with the small package in my hand.
"Do you want to open your gift?" I asked.
She looked at it, almost suspiciously, staring at the little package wrapped all in blue. She didn't answer.
"Well, it's for your birthday," I said. "I thought it would be nice to give you something."
"What is it?" she asked, looking up at me as I extended the box.
"It's a surprise," I said, almost obligatorily.
She stared at the box, still wary. "Can I open it?"
"Yes," I said, nodding. I smiled for the first time since I saw her home. "Open it."
She took the box from me, gingerly, and opened it. It seemed that she could not suppress a reluctant smile as she started carefully removing tape and unfolding paper. It struck me as surprising that she didn't just tear into it; that had been my intent for it, but instead it seemed that she wanted to preserve all of it.
Inside, there was a small, cardboard box, with a note attached. She read it aloud:
"Dear Kenzie,
Happy Birthday! I hope you enjoy this gift. I hope that it makes you happy.
I know that you don't like surprises, so I've tried to make it a good one.
—Toby"
Kenzie stared at the letter, reading it slowly, word by word. Tears welled up in her eyes, and then overflowed.
"Thank you," she said, sniffling.
"Well open the box," I encouraged her, smiling as warmly as I could.
She pulled the cardboard box, revealing a small book. It was an old volume, printed in black and white, with worn pages.
"Is it... a diary?" she asked.
"It's a book of stories," I told her. "An antique. I found it at a store and thought of you."
She examined the cover of the book, turning it over in her hands. "It looks so old," she said, her voice lilting with a hint of reverence.
"Yeah," I agreed. "It is."
"What kind of stories are they?" she opened the front cover gingerly.
"Fairy tales."
She nods, reading the title of the book: "'A Treasury of Tales' by G.M. Mitchells. Nineteen... ten." A smile curled her lips as she looks up at me.
"You're welcome," I said, embarrassed.
"Thank you," she professed, grinning at me. "I love it."
"I'm glad," I smiled back. In that moment, I discovered for the first time just how lonely she must feel. I didn't want to condescend her or pity her, but I wanted to do something—anything to ameliorate it.
"Kenzie," I started, "