From Marisol Moves In: Marisol Arranges Her Bedroom

Yes, Marisol writes poetry, and no, you can’t fucking read it. She glares at you over a mountain of hoodies. Stop asking so many questions, she says. Stop talking.
Marisol moves into the guestroom and your parents have to remind you several times to stop calling it the guestroom. Your mom says, Sadie will help you get settled, but when you open a box, Marisol glares and turns the radio up loud. So you dangle your legs over the side of her bed while she’s unpacking, arranging each item carefully, deciding what her new life will look like.
When they’re all empty, Marisol stacks her boxes into an unsteady tower against the wall. She turns the radio off and surveys the room in silence for a few minutes. She asks, Where does your dad keep his hammer?
You drag the toolbox in from the garage. Marisol grabs the hammer with two hands and takes a swing. She tears a hole clean through the striped wallpaper. When the drywall splinters, she tunnels through the dusty pink insulation, then swings again harder, smashing through the clapboard. Thick beams of sunlight pour in through the holes.
Hand me the saw, she says. You move in close.
She saws until she’s half in the house, half out. It takes forever and the sawdust makes you cough but you can’t stop watching. When she emerges, she’s covered in a thin film of debris. So is the bed. So are you. She saws until the rectangle has more-or-less even sides. You’re pretty sure you couldn’t have done as well. From his mailbox across the street, Mr. Ruzansky gapes at you, his flannel robe flapping open in the breeze. You both wave.
That’s much better, Marisol says. Don’t you think that’s better?

You nod, yes, it is.