Rosie Girl

by Julie Shepard

  “What do you think?” He forces his arm through the slim opening and when I look down there’s an open jewelry box in the palm of his hand.

  “For me?” I ask, hoping to mask the shock.

  “No, it’s for Lucy,” he says, like I’m an idiot. You can’t even joke with this guy, he’s so thick.

  A not-too-shabby diamond ring sits nestled in a black velvet pillow. My heart lurches, thinking of the ring Ray gave me. It wasn’t a diamond, but it still sparkled and he said the blue sapphire stone matched my eyes. Before he’d given it to me, had Ray shown someone, too, hoping to impress them?

  “Uh . . .” I’m not sure what to say, because I know what this means. Judd the Dud is going to pop the question. “It’s pretty.”

  “Do you think she’ll like it?”

  “Why wouldn’t she?” The question is rhetorical. We’re not friends. We barely like each other, and yet here he is, asking for . . . what—my honest opinion?

  “Come on, Rosie.” He squints at me with his dead blue eyes.

  “I said it’s pretty.” Pause. “She has to say yes first.”

  “I’m not worried,” he says. “Hey, can I come in?”

  I’m still clutching the door frame, ready to slam it shut if he makes one wrong move. Even though he’s been with my mom for over three years, I still don’t trust him. And the older I get, the more I sense him ogling my body. Something about Judd has always given me the willies.

  “I told you—I’m studying.” I grab my World History textbook from the dresser and wave the heavy tome between us. I really should be studying because I’ve got a sneaking feeling we’ve got a quiz tomorrow.

  His face drops and he snaps the jewelry box shut. “Fine. Just wanted your blessing.”

  “You have it,” I say flatly. Honestly, how much enthusiasm does this guy want? Why would this be any kind of good news for me? As her husband, he’s only going to further push me to the edges of any relationship I have with my mom. Those few months before she found Judd were actually the best we had. Crying through movies we sought to escape in; banging out chopsticks on Dad’s piano even though neither of us knew how to play; going through his clothes he hadn’t fit into in years and chuckling about the weight he’d put on. This ring meant she was officially moving on—probably without me.

  I’m about to close the door when he grabs it and says, “You would’ve had plenty of time to study if you hadn’t snuck out.”

  I refuse to fess up. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Next time”—Judd motions with his head to my bedroom window—“you may want to put the screen back,” he says, and slithers down the hall.

  10

  TODD IS GIVING ME dirty looks. At first, I think he’s just aggravated that I got a B on today’s World History quiz and he scraped by with a D. Everyone else did pretty well, especially Paula, who’s basking in the glory of her first A. I turn away and return my attention to the two answers I got wrong. But when I look over at him again, he flicks out his tongue and swipes his upper lip with it. Shocked, I spin around in my seat, certain I’m blushing. Then a sickening thought pops into my muddled brain. Did he see me yesterday, hiding behind the corner when he and Mary parted ways?

  When I mentioned that I thought he was cute (while he was with Mary), I failed to add that for the past few months we’ve been kind of flirting and using our grades as a springboard. Not that there’s any real competition between us. Todd isn’t the greatest student. I’m pretty good and can pull off a fairly decent grade without burying my head in a book to get it. But the way he’s looking at me now doesn’t feel flirty. It just feels . . . dirty.

  For the remainder of class, I don’t look at him. It’s hard to concentrate (but let’s face it, World History is always a challenge), and when the bell signals our freedom, I make a beeline for the door. He’s quick. One giant leap and Todd’s able to block my path.

  “What’s the rush?” he asks. He’s wearing his school football jersey like a trophy, like he’s some big shot, when in reality he’s the team’s third-string quarterback who’s never seen a minute on the field.

  “Lunch. Someone’s waiting for me.”

  “Got a hot date?”

  “Maybe.” I can do coy. I’ve never really had a “hot date.” Even dates with Ray were only lukewarm. You can ask him, and he’d tell you in a sarcastic tone that would paint me as a prudish girlfriend he was smart to get rid of. Maybe I was. Just because I was crazy about him didn’t make me crazy enough to lose my virginity to him. Eddy had ruined that for me. There was no doubt I was going to wait until I was married, when vows had been made and I’d been chosen as a mate for life.

  “You mean ‘probably.’” Todd’s devilish grin confuses me.

  “Whatever.” I try to blow past him. The whole tongue-flicking thing kind of turned me off. Innocent flirting is more my speed—a wink here, a longish gaze there. Besides, I know Mary’s waiting at our spot near the faculty parking lot, beneath a gigantic tree that provides privacy and shade. Today’s menu: Hot Pockets she swears will still be hot from microwaving them this morning. Says the foil keeps them warm. The thought makes my mouth water, another reason to get moving.

  “Hey, what’s your problem?” he asks.

  “Nothing, Todd. What’s yours? Are you angry that I got a B and you got a D? I asked if you wanted to study together.”

  He narrows his eyes. “No, you didn’t.”

  I thought I did. I say a lot of things to Todd when we’re flirting. “Well, maybe we should.”

  “Should what?”

  “Start studying together.”

  “Studying?” he asks, as if I’ve proposed the wildest idea ever. He fist-bumps two guys as they pass us, says he’ll meet them in the cafeteria. “You’re kinda nuts, you know that?”

  I think of his tongue flicking and say, “And you’re kinda nasty.”

  He grabs my wrist, and when I look into his eyes, there’s a familiar angry gloss to them. Why do guys get so mad when they don’t like your response? A flash of Ray—shoving me aside when I’d stopped his hands from crawling into my panties—has me yanking free of his grasp, and I punch him near his right shoulder.

  “Hey, that’s my throwing arm!” he says, which of course I knew. He rubs it while trying to laugh, but I’m sure it hurts. I made sure to dig some fingernails in there.

  Paula had been hovering near us and says, “Like it would make a difference, Ryser. You’d still suck.”

  I appreciate the backup and link arms with her to leave, giggling in that conspiratorial way that pisses guys off. But once we’re out of class, I drop Paula’s arm and start walking ahead of her.

  “Hey!” she calls out after me. “Where are you going?”

  I don’t answer her. I don’t even turn around to wave goodbye. My legs can’t carry me fast enough, down the hall, the stairs, and outside where I can shake off whatever just happened.

  • • •

  Mary’s already eating, camped on her backpack beneath the tree. A toasty May afternoon has driven everyone else inside, which is fine by me. Let them all eat frozen fish sticks at sticky cafeteria tables. I’d prefer to be outside any day. Mary indulges me since she hates the heat. She’s already piled her long hair into a knot on top of her head.

  “Those things really still hot?” I ask.

  “See for yourself.” She tosses one at me and I almost drop it. “They’re not called Hot Pockets for nothing.”

  I take a bite, careful not to burn my tongue. “I don’t think you should meet any more guys from school,” I say, tossing my backpack on the ground and sitting down next to her.

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause Todd was all weird in World History.”

  “News flash—Todd Ryser is weird, period.”

  “No, he’s not,” I shoot back, the part
of me that’s attracted to him rearing up in defense. I don’t think Mary would be too happy if she knew I had a thing for him, so I quickly add, “I think he saw me.”

  “What do you mean?” Mary hands me a cold water bottle, which I immediately uncap. The cool liquid feels great going down my throat.

  “Yesterday. When I was hiding behind the wall.”

  “No way,” she says dismissively, and takes a swig of her own water bottle. “You’ve gotten good, Rosie girl. You’re fucking stealth.”

  As confident as Mary is, I’m not convinced. “There are plenty of guys outside of school. Ones who don’t know us. Why did we set up that online account if we’re just going to take risks like this?”

  “I can’t help it that these guys trolled the Internet for sex and stumbled across our page. It is set up to be ‘geographically accommodating,’” Mary says, mocking one of the website’s promises. “You’re being paranoid. It’s only been two guys from Del Vista—Todd and Ivan.”

  One more bite and the Hot Pocket is gone. “And that’s all it will be.” I grab both of her hands in mine and give her the death stare. “I mean it, Mary. No more guys from school.”

  “Wow, what happened between you two?”

  “Nothing.” I’m afraid to tell her more—that our flirting turned sour and may have aggravated him to the point of squealing to the cops. For all I know, he thinks we’re running some grand prostitution ring. Who knows what crazy things hormonal guys do?

  “Fine. No more Del Vista Devils.” Mary pulls a napkin from the bag and wipes her chin. “Jesus, it’s hot out here. The things I do for you . . .”

  “You want to go sit in that disgusting cafeteria? Be my guest.”

  “Stop,” she says, knowing I’m on the verge of a mood. The swift turn with Todd from friendly to frosty has left me irritated. “Here. This ought to cheer you up, calm you down, or whatever.” Mary hands over a pouch of chocolate-covered cherries. They’re my favorite, even when they’re melted, like now.

  “Thanks.” I pop two in my mouth.

  Mary rests against the tree, fanning herself with a notebook. A group of teachers piles out of a single car, growling about returning to class. Seems students don’t have the lock on dreading school.

  “Adults are so fucking bitter,” she says, and we take a moment to digest her truth. I eat two more cherries, then finish my water.

  “Speaking of adults, how did it go last night with the PI extraordinaire?”

  “He’s pretty cool, I guess.”

  “Did he show you his badge?”

  “Private detectives don’t have badges. They’re not the police.”

  “Then identification of some sort?”

  Come to think of it, he had asked all sorts of questions about me, but I hadn’t asked John one about him. Only if he could locate my mother. “Yeah, he showed me something that looked like a driver’s license,” I lie. “Anyway, he needs more than the picture I gave him.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “I’ll have to give him the birth certificate, too.”

  “Make a copy first.”

  “Of course,” I say, even though I hadn’t planned to. Mary’s always been savvier than me.

  “I’d have him sign some sort of paper for everything.”

  “Like a receipt?”

  “Yeah, to show that he’s kept your stuff,” she says, rolling her eyes.

  I hadn’t thought of any of this, but Mary’s right. What’s to say he wouldn’t just keep everything, lose it in a closet somewhere, and then say he doesn’t know anything about anything when I try to claim it?

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll get a receipt.”

  “Seems like you’re putting a lot of faith in this guy.”

  I know this tone, the one suspicious of adults. Mary suspects her parents snoop through her bedroom when she’s at school and go online to check every move she makes on her cell phone. I don’t have that issue with Lucy—at least I don’t think I do.

  Mary wipes away strands of hair sticking to her neck and complains again about the heat.

  “I have to have faith in this guy,” I repeat. “He’s my only hope.”

  “So you’re going to hand him the box with a bright red bow on top?”

  “No,” I say, quick to tell her that I have no intention of giving him the box. “What’s your problem?”

  “I just want to make sure he’s not taking you for a ride.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosy,” I say. “It’s not like I had my pick of PIs eager to take my case. I’m also underage, so that’s another strike against me. John was cool and postdated the contract to May twenty-ninth.”

  “Is that legit?” she asks, on the verge of totally annoying me when my cell vibrates in my backpack.

  I race to get it from the side pocket. “It’s him.” I read John’s text aloud.

  Need to meet. Lou’s @ 8?

  Mary covers the screen with her hand, preventing me from responding right away. “Get your shit together, Rosie. I mean it. Faith can blind people sometimes.”

  “Or light the way,” I say, while tapping out Sure. C u where the pie flies.

  11

  IT’S EIGHT FIFTEEN on a Thursday night, and Lou’s is empty except for a guy wolfing down a giant hamburger at the counter. I feel his eyes on me as I make my way to the same booth John and I shared last night.

  All day I’ve been nervous about this meeting. It’s impossible that John would have any news in only twenty-four hours, especially since I hadn’t given him any more pieces to the puzzle yet. So it’s another kind of news—the bad kind.

  When I reach him, there is no mug of steaming anything on the table. A sweating glass of water with a lemon floating on top holds his attention. The moment he rises, my fears are confirmed. He’s wearing a heavy, tired look, not the friendly one he greeted me with last night.

  I toss my backpack into the booth and slide in. “What’s wrong?”

  “What makes you think something’s wrong?”

  “You don’t seem quite as cheery as you did last night.”

  “Really?” He pops a big smile and his crinkled nose forces his cheeks into large, ruddy circles. “Is that better?”

  “No. Tell me what’s going on.”

  The smile drops, leaving behind a set of sad gray eyes. He fiddles with the loose tie around his neck, then steeples his hands in front of him.

  “Can I get you something, hon?” The waitress has appeared, ready to take my order.

  With a hangdog expression, John asks me, “Piece of pie?” I shake my head, and he politely dismisses her, says, “Maybe later.

  “Remember that big case I had been working on? The one I was into when you first contacted me a couple months ago.”

  I nod, bracing myself.

  “Got split wide open again.”

  I drop my head and start picking at the chipped Formica along the table’s edge. I’m pouting but don’t care.

  “You knew I was worried about this, but you reassured me.”

  He makes a fist and props up the right side of his face with it. “I know. I’m sorry. This happens sometimes. You think something’s sealed up tight and then it—”

  “Gets split wide open,” I mock. “So now what? I assume you rip up the contract and give me my money back.”

  “Well, I could do that,” he says, and rakes his hand through his sandy brown hair. “Or I could pass on your case to someone else.”

  “I want you.” It just comes out, whiny and desperate. No one can beat this gentle giant.

  “I’m sorry, Rosie. Really, I am. But I can still help you find your mother.”

  Totally resigned, knowing he’s my only option, I ask, “How?”

  John motions to the burger wolfer at the counter who’s spun around on his stool, wiping
his mouth with a napkin. He waves sheepishly at me with the other hand. “That’s how.”

  • • •

  “This is Mac,” John says, scooting over to make room for him.

  “Nice to meet you,” he says, extending a hand across the table. I shake it, but weakly. The name rolls around like a marble, pinging with familiarity in my head. Let’s see. There’s the Big Mac at McDonald’s. Mac computers. MAC makeup. He looks about my age, with wavy brown hair to his shoulders and not an ounce of stubble on his face. When he walked over to our table I was able to make a quick style assessment—stiff khakis with a belt, an equally stiff green polo shirt, and boat shoes with socks. Not exactly a fashion plate.

  He’s brought his soda with him and slurps it through a straw. I don’t want to like him because he’s replaced John, the first person who’s given me hope in a long time. But I can like his eyes. And possibly the hair, even though it’s a little long for my taste.

  “Mac here goes to the University of Miami,” John says.

  “Congratulations,” I say, nice and pissy.

  John ignores my attitude and then surprises me by wrapping a long thick arm around this guy. “Yeah, I’m pretty proud of my nephew.” He gives Mac’s shoulder a squeeze when he follows up with, “Go, Canes!”

  “Your nephew?” What kind of operation is this?

  “Took him under my wing years ago, right, Mac?”

  Mac nods. “Yes, sir.”

  Yikes. This guy is as stiff as his clothes. He probably wears a suit to mow the lawn.

  “I’ve gotten Mac up to speed. He’s ready to take over.”

  As certain as John seems, I’m still on the fence. Just because this guy has the best green eyes I’ve ever seen doesn’t mean they’re trained to find long-lost relatives.

  John squeezes Mac’s shoulder again, maybe too hard, because I catch Mac wince and then laugh it off. “You two good?” he asks.

  “Yes, Uncle John. We’ll be fine.” He offers a confident smile meant for us both.