The Girl's Guide to Homelessness by Brianna Karp

free of her “my house, my rules” mentality when I lived on my own, and she knew it. Although she didn’t necessarily approve of my lifestyle, she was wont to rant about it less, and the opportunity for physical abuse had been stripped from her when I moved out. The occasional mom-daughter thrift store shopping trip or lunch at BJ’s Pizza could even be plenty of fun. At these times, we could laugh with each other, truly enjoy the dry sense of humor that we shared and leave the past, not forgotten, but lying undisturbed, as if shallowly buried underneath a pile of brittle, brown leaves.
    These were the times I saw clearly just how lovely my mom must have been as a young, vivacious kid, beloved by all her friends and classmates, if not by her own mother. It was so easy to say “water under the bridge” when I didn’t have to cohabit in close proximity with my mother’s demons as well as my own.
    Yet, she persisted. Where else would I go? I couldn’t make my rent payments. I would just ruin my already dipping credit if I added an eviction to my record.
    After two months of demurring, I finally called my retired, gray landlord, Dave, and informed him that I had to end my month-to-month tenancy. He was saddened, as he had grown fond of me and even of mistrustful Fezzik, whom he inexplicably adored and had gradually befriended with hot dogs and biscuit treats. Dave had hoped that I would eventually sign a one-or even two-year lease, as he was rarely gifted with single, quiet tenants, but alas, it was not to be.
    â€œYou know, I’ve been doing this a long time, and you’re by far the best tenant I’ve ever had,” he told me, over and over again. “I’ll rent to you again in a heartbeat, if you’re ever able to come back. And if you need a letter of reference, don’t hesitate to call me.”
    I spent a week cleaning out my beautiful little vintage cottage. My parents came over and helped. I shuddered, seeing my baby grand piano, Ingrid (a once-in-a-lifetime FreeCycle gift from a woman who could no longer keep the 1934 relic and thought it was wrong to sell something that had been in her family for generations and brought her so much pleasure), dismantled and packed into a storage van.
    I had taken a few months of piano lessons as a child, but mom cut them short because Molly lost interest, and there was no room for extracurricular activities unless both of us were willing to participate—or, at least, that was the case for me. I suspected that my mom insisted on Moll accompanying me to keep an eye on me, to make sure that I didn’t get too close and friendly with “worldly people.” It was definitely a double standard because she trusted Mollto pursue solo activities. Perhaps she felt that my sister was too goody-goody to dare make friends outside the Organization. My teachers told me that I showed a fair amount of promise and encouraged me to go further. I picked up music and dance very quickly and evidenced a strong, innate love of art and culture—qualities frowned on as frivolous and ungodly by Jehovah’s Witnesses, highly suspect even as mere recreation, much less potential career choices. My artistic aspirations were further hampered because Molly got bored quickly and never stuck with anything very long. I had been pulled out of ballet, jazz and piano in quick succession when Moll quit and, after that, I realized the hopelessness of the situation and gave up on even trying anymore. She went on to attempt guitar, flute, horseback riding, drama and ice skating, dropping out of each one and rapidly hopping onto the next.
    Ingrid was a major unexpected windfall for me. I named her for Ingrid Bergman because Casablanca was one of my favorite classics. Immediately upon bringing her home, I had her tuned and painstakingly set about trying to reteach myself piano. My brain was no longer quite so much of a sponge as it had been when I was