Naomi says, racing toward the small window, then pointing outside at the surprisingly full tree that stood alone in the alleyway on the east side of the house. “You sure that’s a crabapple?” I ask. She nods. “You can see the fruit.” “So then this,” I say, turning back to the modest room lined with family photos, old track team trophies, and a National Geographic foldout poster of a mountain lion, “this is where Superman was really created.” “They painted over it, but there’s definitely wallpaper here,” my dad adds, already tracing the wall with his fingertips. For a moment, I forgot he used to be a painter. “Here’s the seam,” he adds, nicking the 1970s cocoa brown wallpaper with his fingernail. “So what now?” I ask. “Peel the whole room down?” “I peeled wallpaper in my old apartment,” Naomi says. “Best thing is to wet it with soapy water—it’ll come right off.”
