7. Annabelle
Annabelle
Grant Neverly is my tenant. I’m his…landlord? That just sounds wrong. And awkward. So awkward. He lives here too. We’re going to be neighbors. I’m cringing just thinking about meeting on the stairs or taking our garbage out at the same time. What then?
Then you deal with it, I tell myself. I don’t have a choice. If I’m going to make this work—and I’m determined to make this work—then I need to make the best of the situation. It was my choices that brought me here, and I can do it happy or do it sad.
I decide to do it happy. Or as happy as I can manage. Fake it until you make it, and all that.
I’ve been posting a lot of stills of Echo Creek, but no video on my socials yet.
Time to get some content, and I know what will get me views.
I put on my brightest expression and hit record on my phone.
“Hi, guys!” I pull out the syllable, making “guys” last for several seconds.
“It’s officially move-in day, and I’m taking you with me to see my new apartment for the first time. ”
I flip the camera’s view to show my followers the stairs. I count as I go up. “Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three. Whew. If I disappear, just know that I died doing what I love: card design and endless leg day.”
Two doors face each other across the hall, and I figure I’ll try my key in both to find mine. I refuse to go back downstairs to ask Grant. I’ll be talking to him as little as possible from now on, thank you very much.
I can’t open the first door, so I move to the second. My key turns easily in the lock and the door swings open.
I step into full-bodied sunlight flooding through the tallest windows I’ve seen outside a Parisian daydream.
The glass is a little rippled, just enough to make the view shimmer.
I lower the phone a second and then remember myself and lift it again.
“That’s not a filter,” I say. “That’s what I’m seeing. I hope you’re seeing this too.”
I have to stop recording, set up my tripod, and then start again.
This time, the camera’s facing the couch, which is plush and oversized.
I practice falling into it a few times until I’m ready to do it for the camera.
I start recording again and execute a flawless drop.
“Tell me this couch isn’t welcoming me home after a hard day.
If you need me, I’ll be here with a blanket and some snacks, watching the snow swirl outside. ”
I’m back to hand-held now, panning the camera like I’m filming a very low-budget home show.
I swing open the bathroom door. It’s big enough to host a support group.
The mirror’s edges have the faintest patina, and the tiles are mismatched in a way that feels intentional, even if it’s not.
I crouch and zoom in on a pink one near the baseboard that sits slightly crooked.
“Look at this tile,” I say. “She’s imperfect.
She’s trying her best. She’s my favorite. ”
The kitchen is outfitted with plates and silverware and a coffee maker. I open cupboards as I talk. “I knew it was furnished,” I gush. “But didn’t know it had everything.”
I get out my tripod again and set it up to get as much of the apartment as possible. I stand in the middle of it, arms wide. “This,” I declare while turning in a slow circle, “might actually be love.” And I swear the sunlight brightens in agreement.
I end the video but stand there for a moment. I send a silent thank you to Stan for giving me this.
I head back downstairs for a load of art supplies, filming a quick time-lapse of myself going down the stairs and hauling bins up twenty-three steps. I unpack pens and paper on the kitchen table, since there isn’t a desk. I put them into an artfully messy arrangement and snap a photo to post later.
The bedroom is last. I open the door with my hip, narrating as I go. “And here we have—oh, gross.”
I stop recording when I see the rumpled bed. Free furniture? Yes please. A bed that looks like it’s been slept in? No thank you. And also, eww.
I remove the quilt and sheets, throwing them in a corner along with the pillows.
Thank goodness the mattress is protected by a zippered plastic cover, and what’s under it looks brand-new.
I get my own mattress pad from the car along with my own sheets and pillows so I can make the bed properly.
When I’m finished, the room feels like it exhales in relief. Or maybe that’s just me.
I record the bedroom reveal all over again, as if the bed always had a pink ruffled bedspread and crisp white pillowcases.
I admire the big closet and the old-fashioned radiator under the window.
I use the word “mine” too many times, which I’ll edit out later when I’m splicing the parts of the video together.
For now, I’ve got more than enough usable footage.
I get the rest of my belongings upstairs in four trips, muttering about leg day the whole time.
I unpack most of it, then go out again, this time to find cleaning supplies and groceries.
There’s a small supermarket a couple miles east of town.
Lia also mentioned a Meijer store in Escanaba, making a point to tell me that it’s open until eleven o’clock every night, even in winter.
She emphasized that last part. “Eleven every night.” I’m not sure why.
Super Savers seems to have all the basics and I’m happy shopping there.
On my way home, I locate a vet clinic, which happily takes the pillows and sheets I found in my apartment. A thrift store called The Restyle Room takes the quilt off my hands. I’m now officially moved in.
It gets dark early in winter, and I drive home in fading sunlight.
My best working time is mid-afternoon to midnight, and my fingers itch with the desire to create.
Luckily, when I get back to Elk Street, the first floor of my building is quiet.
The maker space is closed for the day and the rage room hasn’t opened yet.
I circle to the back, unlock the outer door, and head upstairs.
The sensible part of me says to get my admin work done before I draw new designs, since I tend to lose hours when I’m creating.
I should edit the apartment tour into a usable reel.
Add to my social media presence. I also need to order a new print run and do my accounting.
But if I’m not creating new designs, then what’s all this for?
When I started, I could only do cards as a side hustle, making cards every night after work. On weekends, I’d sell cards at any craft show I could find within a fifty-mile radius. Sometimes I barely made back the table fee, but a decent pop-up would net me several hundred dollars.
When business improved, I started doing print runs. Then I made a website, and started feeding content into the endlessly hungry social media algorithms.
I’m not famous. Not by a long shot. But I’m getting my name out there, mostly because of people who are already famous.
It started innocently enough. I discovered that I shared a birthday with Cate Blanchett, so I made her a card.
I sent it through her publicist, which was the only contact information I could find.
I don’t know if she ever got it. It didn’t matter either way, because I took a photo of the card before I sent it, posted it on social media, and tagged her.
Cate Blanchett never responded to the post, but some of her fans did. They loved it. I got lots of new followers, who must have liked what they saw, because they stuck around, engaged with my posts, and sometimes ordered cards from me. Business ticked up a little. So I did it again. And again.
Not in a cynical way. I don’t send birthday cards to people I don’t honestly admire, because shitty people don’t deserve handmade cards. I send cards to people like Dolly Parton, Amanda Gorman, Jacinda Ardern, Naomi Osaka, Dwayne Johnson, and Darla Lee.
I might have given myself golden handcuffs, though. My followers expect a lot of content from me, and I try to post at least once a day. I give them speed drawings, office tours, inspirational photos, and anything else I can think of to keep the algorithm happy.
I pull up my February list. LeVar Burton was born on February 16th. That man taught us all to love books. I’d never miss his birthday. Michigan’s favorite son, Jeff Daniels, was born on the 19th. Another must-do. Darla Lee on the 23rd. Sean Astin on the 25th.
Grant’s February 14th birthday flashes in my mind. I wonder if everyone forgets it in the flurry of Valentine’s Day. Is that why he hates the holiday? I could make him a card, but I’m not going to. What would a birthday card for him even look like?
I can’t help myself. I’m already designing one in my head.
Front of card: A cartoon of a birthday cake and a party hat on fire inside a trash can. Streamers and confetti litter the ground. In the corner, a half-deflated balloon says “Yay.”
Front caption: I was going to get you something special for your birthday, but then I remembered who you are….
Inside caption: And decided it was way too much effort.
I bat that thought away. Grant doesn’t deserve my attention. You know who does? People who appreciate me and what I can do.
I set my supplies on the kitchen table and get to work.
By the time I look up, it’s past seven, and I have a crook in my neck. I can’t sit like this a moment longer. My next order of business will be buying a proper office chair.
I massage the back of my neck while tilting my head up. The night is clear. Even with the streetlights, the stars are glowing in a way that makes them seem almost touchable. What are they like in true darkness? I grab my coat and my keys and head toward the lake.
It’s slow going, as I’m mindful of ice. I should get a dog-walker flashlight, or one of those hats with the built-in headlamp. For now, I keep my head down, watch my step, and make it to the beach without wiping out once.
I step off the boardwalk, lift my head and stare. And stare. And stare. The last time I saw this many stars, I was in a planetarium. My eyes can’t take them all in, and yet I keep trying, like my soul is a sponge that’s been parched for constellations.
My chest tightens with a kind of fullness, like it can’t decide if it’s thrilled or terrified. How can existence be so big, when I am so, so small? I want to memorize this night, the way the stars glitter over the dark lake, how the cold makes my body come alive in a way warmth never could.
I stay until my fingers are frozen popsicles and my cheeks are burning. Which means I stay about ten minutes. It’s enough. I’m rejuvenated. I’m alive. I’m inspired. I can’t wait to get back to work.
The minute I step into my apartment, it begins.
A loud bassline thumps through the floor, followed by wailing guitar and shouted lyrics that seem to tear through my skull.
My heart pounds with the drumbeat, matching its angry rhythm.
A moment later, the sound of breaking glass is followed by male voices whooping and hollering.
It’s absurd. Who builds a rage room without noise-proofing? Another sound crashes through the music, a series of smacks like a bat hitting plastic, so loud that it feels like I’m getting hit. Does this building have any insulation at all?
There’s a second set of stairs that leads to the front of the building and ends in the maker space of The Break. I stomp down them and pound on the locked inner door in futile little whacks, with no hope of being heard above the noise.
To my shock, the door swings open and Grant’s standing there with a big pair of headphones around his neck. His flannel shirt is open to reveal a t-shirt with Bigfoot on it. “Can I help you?”
“Can you please turn it down?” I hit the word please extra hard, stomping my foot for emphasis.
Grant gives me a long, hard stare. “The music?”
“Is that what you call that noise? You’re shaking my floorboards.”
Grant’s face is blank. “And?”
“I’m trying to work.”
“And?” he says again. He wrinkles his brow, pretending like he doesn’t get it. It’s infuriating. “I’m working here too.”
“I’m your landlord,” I remind him, still shouting to be heard above the music. “Managing the building is part of my job. I’m going to have to set some reasonable quiet hours.”
Grant laughs in my face. “The fuck you will.”
“The fuck I won’t.”
“You live above a rage room.” He leans against the doorframe, folding his arms like a man who owns the universe. “What did you expect?”
Dammit. He’s right and he knows he’s right. I stare at him, picturing a life where every sunset is accompanied by a bass drop that rattles my bones. “Just a little?” I plead. “Can we go from…I don’t know…nuclear meltdown to mildly annoying?”
“I can ask.” He goes through the door, holding it open for me to follow.
Ask? Who’s he going to ask? Oh, no. Seriously?
We walk through the maker space toward the rage room in the back. At the entrance, he motions for me to stand behind him. “Watch out,” he warns. “We don’t know what’s going to come flying through that door.”
I growl, super unhappy with this situation, but I scurry behind him when he cracks the door open. “Hey, guys?” he yells.
A face appears at the door. A short man with oddly overdeveloped muscles. When he speaks, his voice is high-pitched and strained. “We still have twenty minutes left.”
“Just checking if you want the volume down,” Grant says.
The man disappears to check with his buddies. A moment later, a chorus of voices screams, “Turn it up!”
Grant closes the door, calm as a saint. “There’s your answer.”
I storm away, cursing the day I ever thought about moving here.
“You leaving already?” he calls after me. “I thought we were negotiating terms.”
I turn on my heel, glaring. “Negotiating terms implies you listen. And clearly, you can’t hear me over that—that—” I’m sputtering now, trying to form words. I stab a finger toward the door behind him. “Demolition derby run by rabid squirrels.”
“Oh I like that.” He grins. “I should get a t-shirt.”
“Make me one too. Then we can both look like idiots.” I march up to my apartment while the apocalypse rages on.