If the people outside their homes had had lawns or garages, they would have been playing, or lounging or just working outside. Instead, they were up to mischief, or loafing around.
Another rule of Trailer Parks is that anyone living in them is fiercely proud of whatever they’ve managed to scrape together and anyone not living there finds themselves having arrogant, judgemental, and classist thoughts interrupt their inner monologue; even if they grew up in places just like this one.
Misty Brook was a Little’s Trailer Park, however, and that meant there were extra certainties. Any vehicles big enough to move the trailers were illegally tinted, so that Amazons couldn’t tell who was driving. A Little standing on the driver’s seat while their partner worked the pedals was still illegal, if necessary. Rent was always paid on time for fear of adoption and everyone knew if you were leaving and when to expect you to be back. Lastly, anytime someone taller than six feet was nearby, everyone old enough to know better slowly and inconspicuously found a reason to go inside.
I looked at the Littles reading books on their front stoops, politely not noticing our ride. I nodded the grimaces from old timers listening to their radios who’d seen Tracy. I appreciated the school kids playing hopscotch who were too involved to notice. No one was going back inside, thank goodness. Scooters and sidecars were still in plain view.
I looked at Catherine. “That could have been worse,” I remarked.
“Yeah,” Catherine said. “Because my dad spread the word.”
“Would you rather your folks risk driving the car to the bus station and back like last time?” I elbowed her, playfully. THAT visit was close to a year ago, and I’d yet to let Catherine the paranoid live that one down.