nineteen and unravelling
"It smells like paint fumes and despair."
"It's a blank slate," I corrected, my natural hype-girl energy kicking back in because I refused to let the sterile white walls win. "Give me two hours. We are turning this place into an editorial."
We went to work like a military unit. We blasted an old-school Destiny's Child album from Talia's speaker, using the bass to drown out the sound of screaming parents and dragging furniture in the hallway. I hauled the boxes, my 5'9" frame giving me the leverage to stack storage bins all the way to the top of the built-in closets without needing the desk chair.