The Girl in the Window

The Girl in the Window

The brownstone was quiet, though I couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t. I placed my AirPods in my ears as I walked down the stairs, opened the door, and stepped into the Brooklyn air. It was dry and brisk. I was on my way to the store, mom always had me picking up a few things. I walked past the people walking up and down the street minding their business, as you did in New York. As you did in Brooklyn. It was Tuesday, so street cleaning rules were in effect. Neighbors scurried, hurrying to get one of the last few parking spots still open, because once it hits 11 am, everywhere is fair game.

My neighbors, they’re good people. At least the ones I like anyway. There’s Mrs. Smith, she used to babysit me when I was younger and she’s still watching me now even though I’m twenty-two. I do wish she’d mind her business from time to time though.

Then there’s Mr. Freeman. His wife left him a few years back. Can’t say that I blame her, but he’s been a better person ever since then. Funny how some experiences really humble you. He always thought he was the man, and then his wife left him for a better one.

Isis is one of my best friends and the daughter of Mr. Anderson. He always says to call him Vince but Mr. Anderson feels more right. It’s been just the two of them for a while. Her mom moved down South about six years ago, said she felt like her marriage was suffocating her. But, she left Isis behind in the process.

Last is James, he’s only twenty-five but he came into some real money once he sold his app, Get Right. Now he just spends his days coming up with the next one.

The streets were littered with trash but it wouldn’t feel like home if they weren’t. There were garbage cans on every block. Somehow people just felt more comfortable decorating the street with the remains of whatever they ate that day. Winter wasn’t yet over so all the windows in the brownstone stayed closed, except for one, second floor. Day in and day out I come outside, the window’s open and she sits there, the girl in the window. And she just watches the world as it moves.

I’ve never seen anyone seem so interested in our block, she doesn’t take her eyes off of it. With auburn colored hair and kinks that don’t seem to quit, she bundles up and just sits at the window. I always wonder what she’s thinking. Does she watch me like she watches everyone else? What has she gathered from watching us? And why doesn’t she ever come down? She piques my curiosity. I don’t know her name. I know everyone in the brownstone. But I don’t know her. Her curious eyes have never been anything but curious to me. Never soft, never sweet, never warm. Never anything but curious.

“There you go staring at her again!” Isis calls out as she comes up the block.

“Shhh! Why you gotta be so loud? She can probably hear you, you know.”

“Sorry, but you’re always looking up there, Kennedy.”

“I am not!” I shot back in denial. “I just wonder why she never comes down.”

“I mean, I used to as well. But if she wants to stay up there, be my guest,” Isis shrugged. “She’s not missing anything out here in this place.”

Isis was such a negative thinker. She didn’t see the good in Brooklyn like I did. I always saw myself raising a family of my own, in a brownstone just like ours in the future. But Isis, she couldn’t wait to leave. She said she saw herself as more of a Southern girl, but that was hard to believe. I mean, have you met the girl? I don’t think she could survive in the South. But she took one trip down there with family a couple years back and has been sold on the dream ever since. She said it’d be a change of pace that she could get used to but I’m not so convinced.

They would tell her “Good morning” down there and I’m sure she’d say “What’s so good about it?”. They would simply smile her way and she’d think they’re weird. They would casually walk down the sidewalk and she’d be itching to tell them to pick up the pace. At least, that’s what she does here. Don’t get me wrong—I love her, but no, I don’t see her creating a life in the south. The people there are too nice.

Now me? I love my Brooklyn. Down to my very street. There’s an air about this place that I can’t seem to get enough of with every breath I inhale. The people can be rude, yes, but they can also be pleasant in their own way. And so I see myself in this place, always more than what appears to be on the surface.

“Speak for yourself. I, for one, think she’s missing out on a lot,” I rebutted. I couldn’t think of anything specific in that moment but I chose to stand by my words.

“If you say so. Anyway, where you headed?”

“Mom wants me to pick up a few things, then I have a shift until three. And later, I figured I’d try to find an outfit for tonight.”

***

Tonight was my mother’s birthday and she invited everyone in the building to a party in our apartment. And everyone showed up but the girl in the window. Even her dad made an appearance. He came dressed to impress and I was shocked. He seemed well-mannered enough and well put together. He struck me as a sociable guy but seeing as I haven’t really seen him around, I’d say I was wrong. Last week, I went up to their apartment to give the girl and her dad an invite. I guess she decided to stay home. As usual.

I knocked on their door three times. And after what seemed like a long while, she finally opened the door. “Hey, I don’t think we’ve met yet. My name’s Kennedy.” I smiled, hoping to get the same in return. But she just seemed kind of annoyed. Guess not. “My mom’s turning forty on Friday and everyone’s invited to the party,” I said, handing her an invite.

“Thanks,” she mumbled and closed the door. I was barely even out of the doorframe. Well, she seemed rude. And from the looks of it, she couldn’t be any more than sixteen or seventeen.

Even after that encounter, I still find myself fascinated with her. Focus on the party. She’s not important. I decided to listen to myself for once and just enjoy the party. My mother wanted a 90’s themed birthday and that’s just what she got, from the music to the decorations to the throwback outfits. Her favorite 90s album vinyl covers plastered along the walls; at the refreshments table we had CD-themed plates and boom box napkins next to the punch bowl. In the corner of the living room, there was Twister for anyone who wanted to relive their younger and more flexible days. I went all out for her party, I even got a photo booth with a graffiti backdrop and the “I love the 90s” balloons somehow always managed to end up by it. Everyone came looking like a blast from the past. Looking around the room, I saw letterman jackets, sports jerseys, leggings and legwarmers, paisley and plaid, you name it. I kept it simple with a neon yellow tube top, some acid washed mom jeans, a neon pink-colored fanny pack, and my trusty Dr. Marten’s. And mom, she did the opposite—dressing herself in an abstract printed button-down top and a denim skirt with some fresh white converses. She was turning forty but you could not tell at all. She still had the face and body of a twenty-five-year-old. Black really don’t crack.

Mom was the life of the party and enjoyed every minute of it. I mean, hey, you only turn forty once, right? And I loved seeing her smile. It was always so genuine, you could tell. Her eyes lit up every time and there was a warmth within them. That’s how I knew. All of a sudden the DJ dropped one of my favorite songs of the 90s, Hi-Five’s She’s Playing Hard to Get.

…

I can tell by her smile

That she's shy as can be

(She's playing)

I don't think she can see my crush on her

But I can feel her crush on me

She’s playing hard to get

She just won’t admit

But she likes me

(She likes meee)

I can’t hear this song and not dance. So, I make my way to the dance floor and I can see that James is headed there as well. Isis doesn’t dance so she’s been keeping the couch company since she got here. Mrs. Smith spent the evening talking everyone’s ear off. It was all did you hear about such and such? and can you believe she wore that? Same old Mrs. Smith. She couldn’t keep her lips together even if you glued them shut. But Mr. Anderson, he never left the dance floor. You could tell he hadn’t been out in a while. He needed this. It may have been my mom’s party, but his moves were the hit of the dance floor. James and I danced all night, trying to prove to the adults that we could keep up but it was definitely hard. And judging by stamina alone, I didn’t know who was older, us or them. We partied until 2 am,  and the girl in the window never made an appearance.

I saw her in the window as I headed to class Monday morning. Does she not go to school either? To be frank, I really don’t know why I paid her any mind at all. She never spoke, she never waved, and she never left her apartment (at least, from what I’ve seen). Yet, I couldn’t stop paying her attention. Even from a window on the second floor, she had a presence that was mystifying but I guess I was the only one that felt it. Today felt a bit different though. Her eyes seemed … sad.

Normally, she’d be a vibrant hue of mocha-colored melanin and her eyes always seemed to be searching for something that they looked like they never found. There was never really a smile plastered across her face, but never a frown either. Today was different though. Today she seemed drained, like she’d given all she could to this life. Only seeing her from a window, I couldn’t really imagine her life but I knew it couldn’t be one she enjoyed. Especially not now.

“Hey, are you okay?” Though I didn’t know her, I couldn’t help but be concerned.

“I’m fine. What do you care?” she shot back, obviously hiding something but I had no idea what.

“I mean, you just seem like you could use a friend. That’s all,” I shrugged.

“I said I’m fine.”

“Okay, sorry for asking.” I walked away, regretting that I even opening my mouth.

***

Before I headed back home and called it a night, I popped into the store to grab a few things for the house. Let’s see. We needed bananas, milk, cereal, flour, and some eggs. I picked up everything, hoping I left nothing out. I stopped at the fridge quickly to get a soda. And as I closed the fridge and turned around, I saw her. Her. The girl in the window. In the store. In front of me. I couldn’t decide if I should speak to her or just leave her be.

“Hey,” I said to her.

She said nothing back.

“You live in my building, right?” She just looked at me and I couldn’t tell if she was deciding whether to answer me or not. But she never even opened her mouth.

She looked at me for a little while longer and eventually squeezed out a “Yeah”, almost in a whisper-like voice. Without giving me a chance to respond back, she walked away, paid for her things and left.

I’ve only met her father once, but he seemed like a nice enough man. Neither of them ever socialized with anyone else in the brownstone. There was a lot of talk of the “neighbors who thought they were too good for everyone else”. It became like a game—to guess what their deal was. We never knew if either of us have ever gotten close to the actual truth (that, they kept to themselves) but it was fun to guess.

“Maybe they’re on the run,” suggested James.

“From what?” Isis asked.

He shrugged, “I don’t know. The police?”

“Or what if they’re in witness protection?” I chimed in.

“Whoa, imagine that. What do you think the crime would’ve been?” Isis asked intrigued.

“Ooh! What if they witnessed a murder by a drug lord?” James was getting way too excited.

“Shhh! You guys are getting too loud! What if they hear us? They’re only two doors down remember?” I reminded them. We were in front of Isis’ door and in our building, sound travels.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned for hours, just wishing I could finally drift off into a subconscious state. And if that was enough, Isis was snoring too loud for there to be any peace in my room. I was starting to regret asking her to stay over, feeling frustrated as I pulled the covers over my head once more. But soon none of that mattered because within minutes, red and blue lights engulfed the block with sirens that got louder and louder the closer they got. Two cop cars stopped in front of the building, waking up everyone in the brownstone. Amongst the commotion, the girl’s dad was brought outside in handcuffs while being read his rights and put in the back of one of the squad cars. And she followed suit, headed for only the car left with Child Protective Services. The mark on her arm so glaringly evident while her cheeks were tear-stained as she appeared to be flustered. In this moment, she was surprisingly calm. Like she’d been here before, and she knew the drill. Yet still no words were spoken. But she got in, her face in the window once more, as they slowly drove away. I never did get her name.