Rosie Girl

by Julie Shepard

  wanna meet at sky square?

  whos this?

  Joe. yes or no?

  I don’t know any Joe, and he hasn’t messaged me with the right information.

  what’s the code?

  That’s right. We have a code. Mary and I created an account on letshookup.com. According to the website, users have been screened for “past sexual offenses,” so I figured we were semi-safe. But semisafe isn’t good enough, which is where rule number two comes in—Mary never meets anyone alone.

  When this guy doesn’t text back, I suspect someone’s been talking. Maybe Todd. Maybe Mary gave him my number, which is the contact. I make a mental note to rip her a new one.

  code? I text again.

  hilarious—u got a real biz going—come on, lets meet at the square

  I consider this guy’s offer. If he is a friend of Todd’s, he can’t be all that bad. Maybe another guy from school, or even another school. But Sky Square Mall? I don’t think so. There are boundaries that must be kept. No cars. No parks at night. No best buddies who want a special, like two for one. Mary’s not a loaf of bread. And no out-of-the-way places that could threaten her safety. So this suggestion to meet at an abandoned strip mall is immediately shot down.

  No

  u got somethin against parking lots?

  Only those that haven’t had cars parked in them for over ten years.

  Yeah they give me the creeps

  Obviously, I pretend to be Mary. Why confuse things? Also, if a guy thinks there’s multiple people involved, he may get spooked.

  It only takes ten seconds for his reply.

  u got a better idea?

  Before I think of a response, ten more seconds pass and he sends another text.

  hey I asked you a question

  I don’t like this guy. He sounds like trouble. I ask him where he got my number because clearly he didn’t find us online.

  A friend

  I dont hav any friends (Which isn’t exactly true, because I’ve got Mary and Paula in World History and plenty of other girls who compliment my outfits on a regular basis.)

  A customer

  I dont hav those either

  Dont fool urself honey. u charge to spread ur legz

  Oh my God. He did not just say that. I feel a flash in my chest that sets my whole body on fire. I manage to lock the phone with my shaky thumb. And then I jump in my seat when it vibrates again. Another text, but not from Joe.

  You on your way?

  I need a minute to steady my nerves, then tap out a quick message.

  Yes. T minus ten.

  • • •

  John William Brooks, PI, sits in a booth at Lou’s Deli with a steaming mug between his hands. I know him by the bright yellow shirt he said he’d be wearing. He’s older than I had imagined. For some reason, I panic when he flashes a crooked smile and waves me over. Do I really want to do this? It’s finally showtime and I’m frozen, a petrified actor about to go onstage.

  He waves again, this time with both hands in the air like he’s flagging me down, and when someone enters the door behind me, I’m forced to move.

  “Rosie?” He rises from the seat to stand tall and thick like a tree.

  “That’s me.” I slip into the booth, fixing Ray’s shirt so it doesn’t bunch up behind me.

  “John. Nice to meet you.” He crinkles his sunburned nose, which deepens the lines in his face. “Would you like something to eat? They’re famous for their pie, you know.”

  I do know, and my mouth waters from the offer alone, but I say, “No, thanks,” afraid that satisfying my sweet tooth will send me into a sugar high. I need to stay grounded and focused.

  We sit in awkward silence, the buzz from the overhead fluorescent bulbs filling the space like angry bees. Only a couple other booths are occupied. Near us, an old man sits at an otherwise empty counter eating cherry pie, my favorite. I glance over at him every time his spoon clanks against the plate.

  “So.” John raps all ten fingers on the table, which reminds me of my father’s piano playing—the way his hands barely moved, while his fingers did all the work. But John isn’t making music. He’s making the table vibrate, so I drop my hands into my lap. “Why the rush to meet tonight?”

  “Well, I’m in school during the day, so—”

  He peers at me with his steely gray investigator eyes. “Haven’t you graduated already? I thought you told me you were eighteen.”

  “Almost eighteen.”

  His entire expression changes, like I just unplugged the light from behind his eyes. “You’re a minor, Rosie.”

  “So?”

  “You can’t enter into a legally binding contract with me.”

  “But I will be in three weeks. May twenty-ninth.”

  “Then call me May twenty-ninth,” he says, beginning to dig behind him, probably for his wallet to pay the bill and scram.

  “No!” I fling my hand across the table to make him stay put. “Please don’t leave. I’ve already waited so long. Can’t we work something out?”

  He’s got his wallet in his hands now but doesn’t open it, which is a good sign. I can tell he’s running the situation through his investigative filter, looking for a solution. Then he says, “It’s unethical, but I guess I could postdate the contract.”

  I don’t exactly know what that means. But I say that it sounds like a great idea and remind him it’s only a few weeks he has to be unethical.

  He chuckles, but only slightly, and says, “So you’re seventeen, which means you’re a senior in high school. Shouldn’t you be at home studying or something?”

  “I already have a parent,” I snap. “Well, sort of. Honestly, I’m here now because this is the only time I could sneak out.”

  John crosses his hands in the air like he’s surrendering. “I don’t want to know.” He takes a sip from his mug, and I suddenly want to drink something hot, too. My stomach is in knots. “Scratch that,” he says. “I do want to know.”

  “What, you never snuck out of the house when you were young?” I challenge him.

  “Sure, to go to a club or some party. Not to meet a private investigator.”

  “Look. I’m not in any trouble. I promise.”

  John squints at me and bides his time by taking a long sip of his drink. He’s sizing me up, wondering if a seventeen-year-old girl who sneaks out of the house is more trouble than she’s worth. “When we spoke a couple months ago, you said you were looking for someone.”

  “I am,” I say, relieved he’s decided to continue the conversation.

  “Well?” He raises his bushy eyebrows. “I’m a private detective, not a mind reader. You need to tell me who you want to find.”

  “So you’ll take my case?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Before I unload my hopes in your lap, I need to know.”

  “So do I. Who is it you want to find?”

  “You first. What if you get busy again and blow me off?”

  “Let’s not play chicken here, Rosie.” John’s face has grown stern, almost annoyed.

  Across the way, the old man takes a final bite of cherry pie and drops the spoon onto his empty plate. He looks over at me and dips his bald head. “Damn good,” he says.

  I pull my eyes away from him and back to John, who’s waiting for my response. Realizing I won’t win, I dig into my bag. “Here.” I hand over my share of everything Mary’s earned in the past couple months, less ten dollars. I wasn’t about to give him a dime more than he asked for.

  “What’s this?” he asks, not touching the bills resting on the table.

  “Three hundred dollars. Your retainer fee.”

  He frowns, making deeper lines around his mouth. “My retainer’s five hundred, Rosie. I already cut you a deal at four.”

  “Y
ou said three.”

  “I never said three.”

  He did. I could’ve sworn he did, but it doesn’t matter now. I riffle through my purse and pull out the remaining ten dollars from my wallet. “Before I was sort of broke. Now I’m completely broke.” When I slide the bill across the table, his face sags and a weak smile rises to his lips.

  “That’s all you’ve got?”

  “Yep.”

  More squinting. It seems like this guy believes only half of everything I say.

  “I swear. If I had more, I’d give it to you.”

  “Keep it,” he says, letting out a sigh of resignation. “I’m already postdating the contract. What’s the harm in bending another rule?” He smacks the table with both enormous hands, making me jump in my seat. “Besides, I couldn’t live with myself, knowing I’d taken your last ten bucks. But if I do take your case, I have to know you’ll be able to pay me for my services. No one works for free, even nice guys like me.”

  I guess he is kind of nice, and the sheer size of this man instills confidence. I imagine all he has to do is ask a question once to have it answered.

  So I say, “Of course I can pay you. No one expects things for free, even nice girls like me.”

  He smiles at my joke, then pulls out a piece of paper from somewhere on the seat next to him. Probably a briefcase. “Then let’s make it official.” He asks me for my driver’s license so he can verify my full name and birthdate, then scribbles down information from it.

  John spins around the paper—which I now see is a contract—and slides it in front of me. Easily working upside down (seems he’s done this before), he indicates the parties involved, the retainer I’ve given him (three hundred dollars), and his hourly rate (fifty dollars), which unhinges me but I will myself to hide the shock.

  There’s some other stuff I’m too lazy to read, and when I glance up, he says, “Just sign here,” and points right below a line that already holds his signature and the date, May 29, 2017. He offers me his pen to use.

  “Okay, then. We’re in business.” He clasps his hands in front of him, ready to listen for the long haul. “Now. Who is it you want to find?”

  I reach into my purse, pull out a picture, and slide it across the table. “My birth mother.”

  4

  KNOWING THIS probably comes as a relief to you. Lucy—the excessive drinker, smoker, and Judd the Dud lover—is my stepmom. She married Dad when I was five, two years after what I thought was my mother’s death.

  On my first day of kindergarten I was preoccupied with pairing striped shorts with a plaid shirt (even then I was serious about my fashion choices), when my father sat on my bed and drew me in close. He made sure I was listening, then said, “Mom’s going to pick you up today, okay? I’ll see you when I get home from work.” I must have looked confused because he swept the curls out of my eyes and cupped my chin in both hands. “She’s your mother now, Rosie Posie.” His face confused me even more—he looked happy and sad at the same time. It was too much for my five-year-old brain to comprehend, but I trusted him, so I nodded, then dropped to the floor to put on neon-pink socks that matched neither the shirt nor the shorts.

  And that was that. I never called her Lucy or referred to her as my stepmother when introducing her to friends. As young as I was, I could still tell my father was trying to cement this new bond, and not long after they had married, he gave me a necklace with two silver hearts and a handwritten card that said, Death has taken one mother, but Life has given you another. Looking back, it was corny and morbid, but I was still crushed when I lost it during recess in second grade. I didn’t want to lose any more things or people, yet looking back, I’d never really had Lucy. This started to become clear after his death.

  Which brings me back to that chilly October day. After he fell face-first into his plate of eggs, Dad was rushed to the hospital, where they performed emergency bypass surgery. Mom and I sat in a nearby lounge drinking warm sodas from a broken vending machine. Around noon, a doctor emerged and pulled up a chair in front of us. All of his skin was paper white, cracked, and covered in moles, even his hands. Everything from the faded name tag to the bleach-stained white coat made it seem it had been a long time since he cared enough to find just the right words to break bad news.

  “Mrs. Velvitt,” he said. “The surgery went fine, but it’s still too early to tell.”

  Tell what? If he’s going to be okay? I wanted to blurt out a hundred questions, but I could tell he wasn’t done talking.

  “He’s got quite the history, your husband. Years of heart disease. Both parents and an older brother deceased due to cardiovascular issues. We’ll need to keep a close eye on his recovery.”

  Heart disease? Since when?

  The doctor’s face was grim, his hollowed cheeks sinking into a set of crusty, thin lips. “Plus, he’s got arrhythmia, so that puts him at added risk.”

  Mom didn’t look fazed by all this news. Her stony expression made it clear she already knew my dad had a fragile ticker. I felt betrayed in that lounge, sitting on a smelly, ratty couch. But more than that, I was terrified of losing another parent. First my real mother and now my dad? Could life really be that cruel?

  Later, when Dad was moved to another room, I asked Mom why I hadn’t been told about his bad heart. I would’ve helped somehow. Gone on walks with him, swapped his beloved pound cake for fruit.

  “Because kids don’t need to know stuff like that, Rosie.” And then she left with a lighter and her pack of cigarettes. She left a lot that night, and because there was a NO SMOKING zone around the perimeter of the hospital, she had to cross the street to puff away. That was fine by me. It gave me more time alone with my father, which turned out to be a terrible thing.

  Around midnight, Mom said she needed something sweet, maybe a cookie. She offered to bring me back one, which sounded good since I was hungry and tired and studying for a math test I wanted to do well on.

  Maybe she pulled it closed. I don’t know. But that time she left, the door made a loud bang when it shut behind her. From my chair, I saw Dad’s eyes open. Then he cleared his throat and patted the blanket with trembling fingers. I shuffled over with my hands stuffed into the kangaroo pocket of a University of Florida sweatshirt.

  He looked old, a blanket drawn up to his neck, oxygen tubes plugged into his nose. I sat on the edge of the bed, scared to get too close and accidentally yank out something that was attached to him.

  The box, he said.

  What box, Dad?

  Brown box . . . at . . .

  Where? Tell me. I’ll bring it to you.

  No. There was a slight movement of his head. For you, Rosie. It’s . . . for you.

  And what happened next is why being alone with my father was a terrible thing. His face seized. It literally froze. I started shaking him because now I didn’t care about pulling anything out. I just wanted his face to move, twitch, anything. All the machines hooked up to him went berserk, and a team of nurses came scrambling in and shoved me aside. But it was too late. That thing called arrhythmia the old doctor had mentioned earlier? Caused a stroke.

  My grief was dulled only by Dad’s cryptic message. All I could think of was racing home to dig around and find the box, even though he never told me where it was. I didn’t get the chance until the following day. I needed to do it when my mom wasn’t around, since it seemed like it was meant for my eyes only. So when she went to the funeral home to make arrangements, I got busy snooping. In closets, drawers, even deep inside the garage where I was afraid of running into roaches. I was determined to find that brown box, but all the determination in the world didn’t help me.

  • • •

  “Looks kind of young to be your mother,” John says, waving the picture between us.

  “It’s an old photo.” Duh. Taken years ago. My mother is cocooned in bulky ski clothes; even her hands are
tucked into gloves. Only her face is exposed, beaming and pink on a cold winter day.

  “I was joking. It’s part of my job to inject humor whenever I can.”

  “I’m not hiring a comedian.” My words come out sharper than I intend.

  He examines it with one hand while holding his mug in the other. If he spills anything on the picture, that would be the end of that, so I snatch it back.

  “Can you find her or not?” I ask.

  “I once found a needle in a haystack.” John fishes out a five-dollar bill from a weathered black wallet and slips it to the waitress when she drifts past our booth.

  “If you don’t think you can, let me know now.”

  “Why, so you can google her?” he asks, which of course I have. You’d be surprised how much you can’t find when all you have is a name. “Everyone thinks they’re Sherlock Holmes these days because of the Internet.” He rolls his eyes like he’s had this conversation a hundred times.

  I suffer enough with adult attitudes from Mom, some teachers, and Archie the bus driver, who ignores me. I unzip my purse, place the photo in a separate compartment, and slide across the vinyl seat. Then I throw out my hand with an open palm. “I’ll just take back my money and you can rip up that contract.”

  He stands to intercept me. “I’m not ripping up any contract. But if you want to find her, you have to be tough. And you have to put up with my jokes.”

  “Your bad jokes,” I clarify.

  “Those, too.”

  He puts a ginormous hand on my shoulder, the weight of it feeling firm and safe. “I’m good, Rosie, but not good enough to pull a calf out of a donkey’s ass. An old picture isn’t much to go on. I’ll need more.”

  “I have more,” I assure him, then sit back down in the booth and order a piece of that cherry pie.

  5

  OBVIOUSLY, I found the box. Otherwise, how did I have that picture of my birth mother to show John? I know you’re curious, but I actually love this part of the story, so don’t rush me.