Skeletons in the Rain

CHAPTER 13 | 8 YEARS AGO

Ofelia didn't know what she had expected, but it wasn't this.

When Marcelo opened the front door and saw her standing there, clutching a natural sciences book to her chest, he flinched. And even after the initial surprise faded from his face, he still refused to step back and let her come inside his home.

"Th-thought we were m-meeting in the library," he whispered, running a nervous hand through his wet hair as it dripped droplets onto his shirt.

"I tried a different route, more efficient." Ofelia tucked the heavy book under her arm and stuck a sharp pencil behind her ear. "It's two blocks away from this street."

"What are you talking about?"

"According to the cultural norm, you should offer me something to drink."

"I..." Marcelo glanced back over his shoulder. "I'm not ready to leave yet."

"The route."

"Huh?"

"The answer to your question," she tried to push him gently out of the way. "My new route to the library brought me near here. I'm thirsty. May I come in?"

The boy cast another anxious look behind him, using his body to block the crack between the door and the frame. "Wait outside, and I'll get you a glass of w-water."

Ofelia put a hand up to shade her eyes from the hot afternoon sun that was making heat waves rise from the pavement, and said, "Quaint. Your house doesn't have a porch or a gate. That's not safe. It's an old colonial design inspired by Spanish architecture." Without pausing to breathe, she added. "Your hair is wet."

"I-I took a shower."

"Why are you lying?"

"Wh—I'm not."

"You avoided eye contact when you replied, and that's a clear sign you are not telling me the truth." She slipped inside, taking advantage of his momentary distraction. "Also your pants are on fire." A pause. "That last one was a joke."

"Fine. Come in." Marcelo dropped his hands in defeat. "Don't move. Let me get my books."

"And a glass of water." Her eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the dimness. Sunspots danced across her vision. "And a towel."

He frowned in confusion.

"Your hair." She practiced her smile on him, thinking the situation deserved it. He didn't smile back, however.

Ofelia gazed around and found the contrast between the house's facade and the living room quite odd. Five minutes ago, unless she'd known beforehand that this was Marcelo's address, she would have assumed the place to be abandoned: The damaging effect of rain had aged the front door beyond salvation, and most of the paint outside had cracked and peeled off. But the inside of the house was an entirely different matter; every inch seemed lived in, even comfortable. And yet it gave the same vibe of decay as the exterior.

Unlike her house, this living room was spacious but sparsely decorated, nothing more than a couch, a worn-out easy chair, and a coffee table with an ugly porcelain harlequin doll next to a few magazines that had been flipped through countless times. She could hear, in a murmur coming from somewhere in the back, some soap opera playing on the TV, but she refused to let curiosity get the best of her. That would have been impolite.

Although the living room walls had been painted white not too long ago—around Christmastime, most likely, as was customary in Venezuela—there were watermarks near what must be the bathroom door. Above her, a naked 60-watt bulb jutted from a socket. The stained concrete floor could have used a sweeping, even a wash too, but this wouldn't bother her if they left soon.