The Good, the Bad, and the Gwen | ✔️

2 - Devil's Armpit

Muggy in Ohio is nothing compared to muggy in Louisiana. As soon as we hop into Jolie's car, my skin tries to melt into the seat. It's how I imagine it'd feel to stew inside of a white Toyota Prius slow cooker. When the air conditioning kicks in, I peel my thighs from the artificial leather and tuck my hands beneath them.  

On the drive to the MacKenna's house, we pass several homes elevated on crazy-looking stilts, with steep stairways descending from covered porches. They remind me of giant tree houses, the way they hover above the ground begging someone to climb up.

"It's because of the hurricane," Hartley says, using her BFF powers to read my mind. "The one that flooded the town back in 2005. After the levees broke, parts of New Orleans were sitting under fifteen feet of water. Our neighborhood is above sea level so the houses there were spared." A devilish gleam takes over her eyes. "But the damage here is nothing compared to the ghosts of Katrina haunting the Ninth Ward. Most of those residents were never able to come back."

Her words shoot a chill between my shoulder blades. We weren't alive when Hurricane Katrina hit, but I've read plenty of articles about the destruction it caused and all of the families and animals that were displaced. After Hartley moved, I wrote an essay about it in science. Hearing about the storm now always feels like a sort of dream; something I can almost recall only its hazy around the edges.

When we pull up to a small lavender-colored house with dark purple shutters my jaw drops to my chest. "What in the ..?"

Hartley snickers. "Mom and Jolie painted it last year. We believe in embracing our inner wild child here in The Big Easy."

Their house in Ohio was much larger than this one and super conservative, too. Beige on top of beige with a splash of beige. When I twisted my neck just so, I could see it from my bedroom window. She lived down the street from us in a suburb of Toledo, and in our entire lives, this is the first we've been apart. Our bond over gummy worms and a mutual devotion to Harry Potter securing our status as best friends forever.

"It's nice," I tell her. After all, purple is my favorite color.

"Jolie and I will grab your bags," Mrs. MacKenna says over her shoulder. "Why don't you girls catch up?"

"Thanks, Mrs. MacKenna. That's really nice of you."

"You're welcome, sweetie." Sweetie? She's never referred to me as sweetie before. "And how about you call me Penny from now on? Life's too short for formalities."

My eyes want to pop out of my head, but I force them to stay intact. When I glance at Hartley in disbelief, she only chuckles. "Okay—" I hesitate, expecting it to be some sort of trap. "—Penny." The Penelope MacKenna I remember had been a stickler for manners. I always assumed that's how Hartley ended up with her wild streak. Too many rules can make even the best-behaved kids rebel.

"Just make sure you're back for dinner," Jolie pipes in. "It'll be ready in an hour."

Hartley grabs my hand. "Come on, we don't have much time!" she says, pulling me out of the car and down the sidewalk, my ponytail swishing behind me.

As soon as we near the corner, I root my sneakers to the cement and grab her by the shoulders. "All right, what the hell happened to your mom?"

Hartley shrugs. "Losing my father made her reevaluate her entire life. She's much more laid back than she used to be."

Mr. MacKenna's death is the reason Hartley and her mom moved in the first place. After he wrapped his mustang around a tree, they decided it was time to go. I read somewhere that most fatal car accidents happen within a five-mile radius from home. This one happened at the end of our road.