Young Writers Society

Catkill Court has seven houses. The L’Enfant and Fukui families live on the mouth, touching Catkill Street proper, and the McCraes live on the opposite end in their little white house with its postage stamp yard and a lonely red Japanese maple by the driveway. Looking from the Fukui house, the McCrae’s neighbors on the left are the Smiths, whose Bavarian-style house somehow manages to be both quaint and gigantic at the same time.

On the right is the new neighbor’s house. It is a calming pastel blue, and one bare dogwood tree guards the entrance. No one is entirely sure who lives there yet, but Ms. McCrae is determined to find out. And without the giant white moving truck sitting out front, she has little reason to believe she cannot walk up to the front door and intrude.

Brooke tags along behind her mother, carrying a porcelain casserole pan and looking back at her own house with the longing of a sailor for the open ocean. She wonders if her hair is presentable or if it has degenerated into massive, unruly wisps and wishes she had a free hand to reach up and check her bangs.

“Mom,” she calls, staggering up the white cement steps up to the new neighbor’s house, “is my hair okay?”

Ms. McCrae pushes the doorbell with two fingers, pinky raised like a mockery of British tea-drinking. “You look fine, Brooke,” she says, stepping back. She twirls her hands and folds them behind her back, elegant and diplomatic. “I would have told you to fix it if there was something wrong.” Then, like the cool mom she is, Ms. McCrae shoots a confident, sunny smile back at her daughter. “I promise you look completely adorable.”

Blushing, Brooke pulls herself up the last step and pouts, puffing out her cheeks. “Mom,” she groans. “I’m in high school. I’m not adorable.”

With a playful roll of her eyes, Ms. McCrae elbows her daughter and rocks on her heels, waiting for someone to come out. A muffled word of apology sneaks through the door, and Ms. McCrae stretches her grin wider and inches her feet closer together. Then the white wooden door swings open, and she is speechless for half a moment.

The new neighbor wears his apologetic, winning smile like the expression was made for him. His white teeth are like snow against the dark tan of his skin, and he has the tiniest sparkle of sadness in his eyes. Everything about him, from his square jaw to his neat brown hair, is indisputably handsome.

Ms. McCrae smothers the surprise from her face and extends a hand. “Hi, I’m Irene McCrae, and this is my daughter, Brooke. We live next door.”

“Oh! Yes, um.” The man gives one short, breathy chuckle and reaches to shake Ms. McCrae’s hand. “I’m Roger… Roger Morandi. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” He waits for Brooke to shake his hand next, but she shrinks away, shrugging and offering the casserole pan in one bashful motion.

“We brought a chicken noodle casserole,” she mumbles.

Nodding, Ms. McCrae nudges her daughter forward. “Mhmm. We thought, since you and your family have just moved in, you might not have time to cook tonight.”

Mr. Morandi blinks. “Err, it’s actually just me… living here. Uh.” He coughs out something between a dry laugh and another ‘um,’ and lifts the casserole pan from Brooke’s arms. “But, well, this does look like a splendid casserole, and I’d love to try it. Why don’t you two invite Mr. McCrae along, and we can all share?”

Pink blossoms across Brooke’s cheeks, and Ms. McCrae’s face turns white as white can be.

“The only Mr. McCrae I know is my father. Brooke and I live by ourselves.”

“Oh. Pardon me for assuming.” Mr. Morandi gulps down his nervousness and steps back through his door. “You’re still welcome to join me though. The more the merrier, right?” He looks at the two women and then at his living room and frowns. “You’ll have to forgive me for the mess though. I’m not exactly done unpacking.”

Ms. McCrae takes a small step forward to peer through the open doorway, but all she can see is a black leather loveseat sitting on the dark, hardwood floor.

“You could join us instead,” Brooke blurts, “like, at our house.”

Both adults turn to stare at her, and Brooke’s stomach falls. She wants to run home, or run to Toby’s house and never have to talk to Mr. Morandi ever again. Her mother will be livid when they return home; that probably was not an invitation Brooke had the power to extend.

“That,” Ms. McCrae starts, “sounds fabulous. Shame on me for not thinking of it first.” Crossing her arms, she leans against the faded cobalt post holding up the roof over the door and beams at Mr. Morandi. “Brooke is absolutely right. You should come join us, Roger.”

He shakes his head, again wearing his apologetic smile. “Oh, I couldn’t impose now. We just met, and I still have a few things to unpack.”

“The boxes can wait an hour or two,” Ms. McCrae replies. Her nasally voice is smooth as honey, and she raises an eyebrow to accentuate her argument. “Besides, can you honestly say you’ve unpacked enough of your kitchen appliances to cook tonight?”

Scratching his chin, where pinpricks of black stubble are beginning to poke out, Mr. Morandi laughs and kicks a foot out, reaching for shoes likely hidden just out of sight. “When you put it that way, it sounds like this is my only option. You aren’t going to let me say no, are you?”

Ms. McCrae answers by pretending to consider the question, but Mr. Morandi already has his shoes pulled on. Slipping a jingling key ring in his pockets, he steps out onto his steps and eases the door shut behind him. His gait is somehow off, Brooke notices, but she ignores it and starts back to the sidewalk, careful to step only on the dark grey stepping stones hidden in the grass.

“I should tell you,” Ms. McCrae says loudly, as though she were announcing it to a stadium crowd, “that Brooke made the casserole. She’s a fantastic cook.”

“Presumably that’s another reason why I’m not allowed to say no?”

As her mother answers, Brooke skips onto the sidewalk and looks back. The adults are still only halfway across Mr. Morandi’s front yard, and they totally ignore the stepping stones, choosing instead a lethargic stroll across the brown, dormant grass.

Wrinkling her nose, Brooke hopes they don’t let the casserole cool too much. It could be forever before Mr. Morandi gets himself and that pan through the front door of her little white house.