The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty

I stared at the large door before me, my index finger lingering above the button that would make my presence known to the inhabitants within. Surprisingly, I had never actually ventured within the house. I had been on the driveway multiple times, but couldn’t recall having ever stepped foot in the dwelling itself.

      It was a homey structure of a stone color with a garage tacked onto the side, and a long driveway leading up to it. A cement path with grass and weeds spiking up between the cracks and colorful but untended vegetation on either side was what led up to the front entrance. There were a few windows scattered about on the front, blue curtains visible from the outside. It looked like a normal, quaint home—nothing overly extravagant, and relatively modest. From what I knew of two of the family members that grew up in the house, it was just right.

      Conjuring up all the bravery I had inside, I dared myself to push the doorbell, a faint echoing sound meeting my ears. Yelling could be heard, in addition to a faint set of footsteps, seeping their way closer and closer to the shut door, where I stood. In a swift second, I was standing face to face with a woman who looked slightly older than my mom, and was more accepting of aging as well.

      Her skin showed signs of a light tan that wasn’t from hours of lying on the beach or from a toxic spray, but rather a bonus of her heritage. In all the time that I had known her children, I knew little about the woman herself, besides the fact that she had Italian blood, and had two kids who loved her very much. She was a petite woman—the top of her head barely reaching past my chin. Dark hair with silver streaks in it was tied into a tight bun, and dark red lipstick coated her thin lips. Unlike both her son and daughter, however, her eyes weren’t an electric blue, but rather a deep brown that almost looked like black. She was in no means an ugly person from an appearance perspective.

      She wore a red apron and had a white collared shirt with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows lain beneath. From what I could tell, a pair of black pants concealed her short legs, and she wasn’t wearing any shoes. There was a certain air about her that just gave off the vibe that this lady was put-together and knew who she was. Though not a word had passed between us, and we were both currently staring at the other, there was something about her that I respected and liked.

      “H-hi,” I finally greeted shakily.

      “Who are you?” she questioned directly, her voice soaked in a thick New York accent that generally tended to subdue the further one went from the city.

      “Elizabeth Turner,” I introduced, sticking my hand out in an attempt to be polite, “Dylan’s friend.”

      She gazed at my hand for a moment, and then cautiously took it, shaking it firmly with her daintily manicured fingers of red. “You’re Lizzie?”

      “Yes, ma’am,” I affirmed with a nod, returning my hand back to my side.

      “Mac’s over at your house with her boyfriend?” the woman interrogated.

      “She was when I left,” I said, recalling that when I had first met Mackenzie I was told that the majority of people referred to her as “Mac.” To me, it sounded like what one would name a child destined to be a truck driver—not that it was a terrible profession, it just wasn’t exactly what I, personally, intended to pursue when I was forced to work. “Mac” wasn’t quite the name I had in mind when picturing Mackenzie Collins.

      “And you’re over here, why?” the Collins’ mother probed.

      “Dylan called me,” I answered with a nervous gulp.