The House on Cherrytown Lane, by Apoorva Malarvannan, grade 7

The House on Cherrytown Lane

The town was nice enough, welcoming and cheery. Except for newcomers, Crystal thought, as she trudged through the muck of April and arrived at her shack-converted ice cream shop. Just another day at work. She served ice cream all day. The town loved her ice cream- shipped in by Kemp because they had no idea what to do with the extra confection- but they kept their distance from her. “Newbie”, they muttered and moved on.

She longed for attention, almost groveled for it, having been on her own since 14. Mom and Dad were dead, and faux Mom and Dad had dumped her the moment they got the social service paycheck. Walking the streets after work, looking for the least vermin-infestedplace to sleep, as nobody would take her in, she came across a neighborhood. A very well-do-to one, with upscale arcitecture and neatly clipped lawns. One house was obviously having a sleepover, as strains of Lady Gaga could be heard as teenage girls swarmed the backyard. She sighed. She slowly, measurably walked towards them, all who on cue screamed, “Freak!” and ran into the house, giggling all the way. Well, it was worth a shot.

And then she saw it. The house. Not a house, a mansion. Sagging, almost drooping with old age, the house-the mansion had missing shingles, a broken,rusted piece of metal on a rotted wooden post that barely passed for a mailbox, and ivy sneaking all around the house, the growth so thick that if you saw it there’d be no way to tell that the house was once painted a warm beige.

Crystal grinned for the first time in days. She knew it was abandoned, it had to be. Who’d live in this miserable dump? I would, she thought as she strode through the door. And I am. She walked through the door and felt a sudden difference in the air, cold and damp, but underneath that the crackling of life. She ignored it, reasoning it as “It’s old, of course this place feels different.” She lay out her meager belongngs around her and fell asleep on the couch.

Snap, snap. Strange combat boots slapped the floor. He turned, and saw a girl with blond hair and blue eyes come into view. There was an impish grin on her face. He smiled, and closed his eyes.

The next day she stayed at home and tried to clean up the place, the dirt clinging to the walls like gum clings to your shoe. There was a sudden crash. She turned and expected to see the police. Nothing.

The day after that she had to go to work. When she came back, there seemed to be more growth, well, everywhere.

Over the next few days, the faces that came in slowly became familiar. She heard snippets of who they were. According to the parents with straight, sensible brown hair, the boy who ordered the rocky road with fudge on top was on the Little League team that was going to state. The punk-emo girl with short black hair with a streak of red, multiple piercings and a skirt so short Crystal thought it was underwear was, contrary to stereotypes, and honor-roll student at the local high school as well as secretary of the Student Council who preffered to have low-fat vanilla ice cream in a cup.

The Americanized Indian teenager was the captain of the debate team, won a national speech competition last year, and loved mint-chocolate-chip ice cream in a cone. But one day, an unfamiliar face skirted in, looking around furtively. Crystal was slightly alarmed but gave the usual greeting, injecting cheeriness like collagen into her voice: “Hi, my name is Crystal, how may I help you?”