eerieindiana | Eerie, Indiana fanfiction: Remodelling (Reply)

There was a wrap-around wooden veranda in the middle of their living room. Harley edged through the narrow gap between the front door and the short flight of steps that curved elegantly up towards the long walkway, glossy with varnish.

“Hey,” he said. The air was thick with the good warm smell of wood shavings and new paint drying in the sun, and on the porch a pair of hand-carved rocking chairs creaked in a non-existent breeze.

Sara Sue dumped a handful of brushes in a pitcher of what looked like iced tea, but smelled suspiciously like turpentine, and grinned at him.

“What do you think?” she asked.

Harley shut the door behind him, blocking any passing neighbours from spotting the Tardis-like interior of their small top-floor apartment, and took the broad steps two at a time. They creaked underfoot, exactly the right amount of creak to speak of well-aged timbers, much-loved and carefully maintained, and he bounced on the balls of his feet to hear it again.

“It looks great,” he said, taking a seat on the old-fashioned porch swing and setting it to swaying. He twisted, looking left and right along the length of polished boards. The porch protruded beyond the outer wall of their building, the tired beige plasterboard fading to ragged-edged nothing as the worked fretwork handrail burst through it, jutting out into space as white and empty as a blank canvas.

He wondered if people passing by the Eeriemat could see it, sticking out over the trash-filled alley, suspended in thin air. Probably not, he decided. Even more than the usual Eerie weirdness, Sara Sue’s abilities seemed to fly under the radar.

“I drew lunch,” said Sara Sue, gesturing at a four-tiered cake plate glistening with tiny macaroons awash in pale watercolours.

Harley held up a bulging brown paper bag, stained with grease.

“I got takeout,” he said.

Sara Sue reached out for one of the delicate meringues in front of her. She took a bite, and made a face.

“You win,” she said, spitting the remains into a napkin folded to look like a dinosaur fighting a swan. “It tastes like paint.”

Harley began removing white boxes of waxed cardboard from the bag. Fragrant steam wafted from the vents. Sara Sue climbed over the fretwork railing to reach the narrow galley-style kitchen, returning with a handful of plastic cutlery. She poked about the open containers, one eyebrow raised.

“Peanut butter bacon noodles?” she asked.

Harley shrugged.

“It was the special,” he said. “I’m pretty sure Elvis has sway there.”

Sara Sue took a mouthful, chewed thoughtfully.

“Weird,” she said. “And yet, oddly satisfying.”

Harley grinned, moving to one side to make room on the swing.

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