by Mae Respicio
We roll through the hills and I rest my head on the window. It’s a little fogged up, so I draw a smiley face.
* * *
—
The bus stops in Sausalito, a charming touristy town Mom and I visit to eat bowls of clam chowder and stroll along the water. It also has one of my favorite things: houseboats.
We pull up to the curb and I hop off.
It’s a perfect day, with sailboats dotting the bay. I’m in the middle of a good people-watching spot, on a busy block of fancy stores. This main street will take me to the water.
It feels friendlier here than in the city. Gum doesn’t blotch the sidewalks, it doesn’t smell like pee, and there aren’t areas to avoid once the sun sets. It’s a good thinking place.
Along the bay, paddleboarders balance, pushing forward with oars while cormorants float around them. One of the birds dips in and pops up again with a fish in its bill. Out here something in the water’s always moving, making patterns, changing.
The rows of houseboats sit anchored near faded wooden docks, and each one’s a little different. I take photos all around: an herb garden planted in a giant cowboy boot; bicycles chained to the fences; a nautical steering wheel hung on a rail, splitting the sun into triangles on the ground. A cat saunters to a bowl of water left outside of someone’s bright green door.
I love it out here. Ideas stream into my head.
“Lou from Nubby’s class?” says a voice.
A boy who looks like Jack Allen walks out of a houseboat. It is Jack Allen. What’s he doing here?
“Oh, hey,” I try to say like it’s no big deal, the way Alexa or Sheryl might act around a boy.
“I saw you from my window. I thought that was you. Why are you taking pictures of my house?”
His house?
“Do you live in one of these?”
“Sort of. That one.” He points to a blue houseboat a few feet from us. “I’m here with my dad and John. Our neighbors call us the three boat bachelors.”
Jack has an older brother in high school, and they look alike except that John’s taller, stockier, and more jocklike. The eighth-grade girls love it when he picks Jack up from school.
“These houseboats are super cool,” I say, to avoid his question.
“Technically it’s not a houseboat.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because there’s no motor. It’s a floating home.”
“Oh,” I say. “Right.” I give him a smile. I don’t want to seem dumb.
“Have you ever been inside one?” I shake my head. And then—amazing!—he says, “You wanna come in?”
I bite my lip and glance around to see if Carver Jamison or anyone else from the popular group is hiding out, in case they’re playing some sort of mean joke. But we’re alone. For a second I almost say no—he makes me too nervous—but I can’t not see the inside of a house on the water.
“Yeah, sure, that’d be great. I mean, sure, I guess.”
* * *
—
We’re standing at Jack Allen’s front door.
The girls. Are going. To freak.
“How can you live on a boat? Doesn’t it get all rocky?” I ask.
“Duh, it’s just like a normal house.” He opens the door.
Inside, it’s small but cheerful. There’s a couch and TV in the living room. Plants hang in the corners to “bring in some nature,” as Lola would say. A spiral staircase leads up to a second level. I knew floating homes could have more than one story, but it’s different to see it in real life. It feels homey, like a place where I’d want to hang out and play board games.
“I like it. It’s so cute in here,” I say.
“If cute means small, then you’re right. There’s no room for anything extra.”
Kind of like a tiny house. He walks in deeper, and I’m not sure if I should follow. He was probably only trying to seem polite.
“Does your mom live with you guys?” I ask. He didn’t mention her earlier.
“Nope. She’s in France somewhere with her rich French husband. I’ve never been there and she never comes to see us anymore,” he says, matter-of-fact.
So Jack’s a guy with a mom and a dad but not both at once. That’s still probably better than never having known one of your parents.
“Do you miss her?”
“I remember in summers we’d spend the whole day having water-gun fights. I miss stuff like that.” He looks off as he says this. I probably brought up something too sad for him to think about.
“My dad’s not around, either,” I say.
“Are your parents divorced, too?”
“No, he died before I was born.”
“Oh, wow, sorry,” Jack says.
“Thanks, it’s okay,” I say. “Hey, how come you go to school in the city but live all the way out here?”
“I don’t. This is where my dad lived before John and I were born. We come on the weekends.”
“Where are they?”
“My dad’s out for a run. Not sure about John. I’m staying in to work.”
“Where do you work?” I picture Jack as a friendly nature-camp counselor for cute little preschoolers, where they all wear the same shirt and he has a catchy name like Juniper-Berry Jack and carries trail mix in his pockets for them.
“I’ll show you,” he says. “Just don’t make fun of me.”
I should probably remind him that our entire school made fun of me because of the nickname he started. But I don’t, because I might discover something about Jack Allen that no one else knows.
We wind up the stairs, passing a wall of framed photos. There’s one of the baby Allen brothers as Halloween pumpkins. Oh my goodness, so sweet. There’s another of Jack and his dad—Jack’s holding one of those black-and-white clapper boards that movie directors use when they shout “Take one!”
His dad has black hair and darker skin than Jack, but they have the same eyes and nose. There’s also a picture of a woman with light skin and hair who somehow looks like Jack, too—his mom. So he’s a mix, like me.
I’d like to see all the pictures, but I don’t want him to think I have a crush on him. We don’t have time, anyway, since we’re walking right into his bedroom.
Jack. Allen’s. Bedroom!
My friends will never believe this.
* * *
—
Jack’s room has light blue walls. His bed isn’t made, and there are crumpled clothes all over. A poster of The Goonies hangs lopsided on the wall, and his desk sits under a big window with a view of other floating houses. People in skinny red kayaks row past, and I wave to them. What a cool place to live.
“Here it is, my million-dollar masterpiece.” Jack points to three large computer screens on the desk, attached by a wad of tangled cords.
He sits down and types into a keyboard. An image jumps out, of sailboats gliding along the bay on a pretty day.
“I’m making a promo video for Frank’s Diner,” he says.
“Was that for media? I thought shop was your elective.”
“It’s not for school, it’s sort of my hobby. Frank knows my dad, and he hired me to make a commercial for their website. I want to go to UCLA and study filmmaking and win an Oscar one day.”
I never thought of Jack as artsy.
A video plays, with customers chowing down and saying how much they love Frank’s spicy gluten-free kimchi breakfast burritos.
“You sold me. I’d eat there.”
“John thinks making movies is for geeks, but I don’t. There’s this film camp my dad said I could go to in L.A.—you stay in dorm rooms and everything—but I have to apply with a short movie or documentary. I’m going to make it this summer so I can send it in the fall.”
“What’s it going to be about?”
He shrugs. “Not sure yet.”
I tell him how it’s too bad we’re not in Hong Kong because then he could film the Aberdeen Floating Village. It has ancient Chinese sailing ships called junks, hundreds clustered together with thousands of people living in them. Behind them, there’s a skyline of shining high-rises.
“I’d like to see that,” Jack says.
“I wish I knew how to edit catchy videos. I want to post some to teach other kids how to build stuff.”
“The Lou Channel,” he says. “Do-it-yourself at its finest.”
Jack stays at his desk and I sit on the edge of his bed, and here’s another surprise: We keep talking, about all kinds of things. Movies and floating homes and his brother’s pranks, like last night when John wore a scary clown mask and tapped Jack while he was asleep. The neighbors came over because of all the screaming. They both got busted.
Jack’s a performer, waving his arms around and using goofy expressions to tell his stories, and it makes me crack up. Now I see why everyone likes him. Sitting here, talking about whatever, he’s not intimidating like other popular kids.
“How come you’re so good at shop class?” he asks.
No one’s ever wanted to know that before. “I probably get it from my dad and grandpas. They were all handy. Plus, I used to take Woodworking for Kids at the Y, but it got canceled because some parent complained about the dangers of using tools, which is ridiculous because organized sports are way more hazardous.”
“Yeah, like the time I got smacked in dodgeball and lost a tooth.” He opens his mouth and points to the fake replacement, a little whiter than all the rest.
“Thanks for sharing,” I say, and we laugh. “I don’t know. I guess I like seeing when I transform ideas from my head into real-life things. It’s kind of hard to explain.”
“That’s how I feel about making movies,” he says.
Jack Allen and I have more in common than I ever would have guessed. I decide to take a chance and tell him my secret. “The reason I was taking pictures out here is for inspiration. I’m building my own house.”
“You said that in Nubby’s class.” He remembered? I didn’t think anyone was listening, especially him.
“It’s going to be a tiny house.”
“Like for Hobbits?”
“No, they’re for anyone.”
“How tiny’s tiny?”
“Way smaller than this houseboat.”
“Why would you want to live in something that size? I already feel squished in here. John takes up half the room when we’re together.”
I count out the reasons on my fingers: “There’s the saving-the-planet part because they’re more efficient….There’s the saving-money part since you wouldn’t have a bunch of bills because you’re not living in a mansion….Then there’s the whole wow factor because, well, you’re building a house!”
I’m probably talking too fast and getting too excited, since I can feel my heart thumping. He stares at me like I have a booger hanging from my nose (which I sure hope I don’t).
When I stop rattling on, it gets quiet, even though we’ve been talking back and forth nonstop. Jack jiggles the computer mouse. We’ve run out of things to say. Now he’s going to tell all his friends, Yup, she’s a weirdo.
“Thanks for showing me your houseboat. I mean, your floating home with no motor,” I say, getting up. I hop over a pile of clothes, bolt to the staircase, and spiral down as fast as I can.
“Hold on,” he says, following me.
We reach the front door and he’s looking at my face. I have to glance away.
“I can’t miss my bus.”
“Do you hate me?” he asks. It doesn’t seem like he’s joking.
“For what?”
“Because everyone still calls you President TP.”
“Oh yeah…that.” How could I forget?
“I wish I could take it back.”
I can’t believe it’s something he’s thought about.
“It’s okay, I forgive you,” I say, and his expression turns into a smile. At me.
Jack Allen’s exactly like a floating house—unexpected. I think we count as friends now, even though he gives my stomach the flutters. It’s kind of a nice feeling.
I board the bus and find a seat. We bump along, and after a short ride, the bus stops at a curb. Passengers step off and on.
A kiosk poster catches my attention: Go Tiny, Live Large.
Under the slogan is a picture of a tiny house with a bright red door. It says Open House, Seven Days a Week, and there’s an address and some hours.
I’ve seen this poster around the city, and I’ve always wondered about it. Sheryl once told me she saw a commercial for it and that they sell tiny homes.
The last of the passengers steps down, and the bus doors clamp shut.
“Hold on, please!” I yell, getting up, and once again they open.
* * *
—
I punch the address from the poster into my phone and see that the open house isn’t far. Cool. After a few blocks I find myself standing in front of a cottage that’s been turned into an office. Before me stretches a whole block of offices that look like gingerbread houses.
A colorful sign greets me: Welcome Home!
* * *
—
Inside, the living room’s a lobby, with a desk of brochures stacked high and a woman who asks, “May I help you?”
“Uh, hi. My name’s Lou, and…ummm…I saw you were having an open house?” I look around. “I was just wondering…What is this place?”
She gives a friendly laugh. “We sell homes here. Tiny ones. There’s one out back that folks can tour.”
“Seriously? It’s my dream to own a tiny house. I’m building one right now.”
“That’s quite a project.”
I shrug. “For some people, maybe, but I’ll do it. Except I’ve never seen one in person before.”
“Well, we can definitely change that.”
* * *
—
The nice woman takes me through a hallway with old bedrooms turned into offices. Some have people sitting at their desks, and they look up at me and smile as we pass. We end at a door in a kitchen.
“Watch your step,” she says, opening it.
We walk into a backyard, but instead of a garden or patio, the yard holds another house, one with a bright red door, sitting on a bed of bark. The same house as in the poster.
“Here she is, our star. One of our most popular models.”
I walk up to the structure. It’s not much taller than I am. “Do you help people build these?”
“No, it’s what’s called a prefab. That means it comes fully assembled.”
I try to understand. “You mean people don’t have to build the house themselves?”
She nods. “We have a few different models to choose from. Our company takes care of the hard part. Then we ship them out and the owners can move right in.”
“That sounds much easier than what I’m trying to do,” I say, and the woman laughs.
“Would you like to take a look?”
* * *
—
It’s a real, physical, finished tiny house. For a second I even have to catch my breath—that same feeling I get after making something I’m proud of. I’m seeing my dream. This is a thousand times better than pictures taped to a vision heart.
The space is a single room with a shelf and small love seat, and a pretty vase of flowers in the kitchen nook. The living area has the kind of table I want to put in my house. “May I?” I ask, and the woman gives me the okay. I bend the legs in and fold the table right into the wall—it works!
I turn in a circle and look around. It’s kind of like a dollhouse come to life, and everything’s w
ithin easy reach.
I’m hit with a memory of my family in Grandpa Ted’s guesthouse, an afternoon when we crammed everyone in—Lola, my cousins. One of the uncles brought his guitar and everyone sang and ate, and the cousins played inside and outside, blending the indoors and outdoors so it all seemed like one.
“So, what do you think of this model?” she asks. “Would you live here?”
“It’s perfect.”
A ladder leads to the sleeping loft, and I climb up, crawl in. A skylight shows off blue sky and clouds. Peering down from up high reminds me of sitting on top of Lolo’s shoulders while we’d walk around Barrio Fiesta, seeing things from a new view.
Now I’m even more curious. “How much does a house like this cost?” I ask, climbing down.
“It varies depending on a homeowner’s needs, but the base price for this model is about sixty-five thousand dollars.”
Oh. My. Gosh. “People actually pay that?”
She laughs. “Yes, we’ve sold quite a few. Some of our newer models have wait lists.”
I ask her more questions and she’s not staring at me like I’m loony, only answering the way she might with any adult. She grabs a brochure from the bookshelf and hands it to me.
“It’s been wonderful to meet you, Lou. Good luck on your project. You’ll have to keep us posted.”
Before I leave, I turn around one last time and snap a photo of myself so I can remember all of it.
* * *
—
I head back to the bus stop and think about what I did today—and what I need to do next. It felt great on my land, but now I know for sure: Building my house will take work. Lots of it.
On all my favorite design shows there’s an expert who guides the DIYers. I could use an in-person guru to help, instead of me pausing and rewinding how-to videos every few seconds to follow along. If Dad was alive, he’d be that person.
Maybe I could still ask Mr. Keller. He lives in this neighborhood. When Lolo was alive, he and Lola would visit Mr. Keller at his house. I’ve never been, but he’s invited us over before. Lola said she’ll take me one day because he lives in someplace unique that she wants me to see.
