Rosie Girl

by Julie Shepard

  “Then I’m off,” John declares, starting to nudge Mac aside.

  “Wait!” There I go again, unable to hide my anxiety. “Do you really have to go?”

  “Rosie,” he says, reaching across the table for my hand. “You’ll be fine. I promise. And you’re not losing me altogether. Anything Mac needs, I’ll do my best to assist, but I can’t take the lead on this.” He releases my hand. “Now I’m going to skedaddle so the two of you can get to know each other.”

  I watch John leave, his big, lumbering body growing smaller as he crosses the restaurant and pushes through both doors to exit. I feel like a child watching a parent who’s getting on a train and never coming back. And then it’s just me and this guy Mac.

  “So, how often do you get your uncle’s leftovers?” I ask.

  “Not often,” he says, draining his soda. “Only when he thinks I can handle a case with the investigative tools I’ve already acquired.”

  “You look like you’re sixteen,” I snap. “There’s no way you could even have a toolbox yet.”

  “I’m twenty. A junior at UM, double majoring in criminology and psychology. Plus, I’ve already satisfied a minor in political science.” He twirls a finger in a circular motion next to the side of his head. “I’m learning how the mind works, so it will make me the best kind of investigator.”

  He’s no slouch; he wants me to know that. University of Miami is a premier private school in the heart of Coral Gables. The only people at my high school who have applied there are at the top of our class.

  “Just because you’re book-smart, doesn’t mean you’re street-smart,” I challenge him.

  “I guess that’s true,” he says, “but my mom, Uncle John’s sister, used to be a cop.”

  “Your mom? Really?”

  “Until she swapped her patrol car for an office in the detectives’ bureau. So, as you can see, this business is in my blood. I’ve been hanging around my uncle’s office since I was fifteen.” He stretches his arm across the table, his fingers almost reaching the fabric of my shirt. “See these pores? I’ve absorbed everything like a sponge. He even let me take over his old partner’s office when he left last year. Got it fixed up real nice, too.”

  Blood? Skin pores? I want John back. He instilled a confidence that had actually given me some hope. This guy Mac is only flapping his lips about himself. Nice lips, but flapping, nonetheless.

  He calls over the waitress. “Hungry?”

  “Didn’t you just have a massive hamburger?”

  “There’s always room for dessert. Uncle John told me this place is famous for their pie.” When the waitress arrives, he says to me, “You’re a peach kind of girl, right?”

  “Wrong.”

  “Wait. Let me guess.”

  The waitress rolls her eyes, in no mood for this little game, so I say, “Cherry.”

  “Of course,” he says, and I wonder what he means by that. “Two.” He holds up two fingers, nice and manicured.

  “Whipped cream?” she asks.

  He waits for me to answer. “None for me.”

  “For me,” he says, trying to be cute, and when she walks away I tell him that whipped cream only ends up melting into a milky mess and ruining it.

  “How many cases have you worked on with John? Specifically missing-persons cases.”

  “Well, according to my uncle, your mother isn’t technically missing. You’re just trying to find her. There’s a difference.”

  “Answer the question.” I tilt my head to the side when he remains silent a beat too long. “Am I your first?”

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “Like it’s a bad thing, you mean?”

  He nods, staring at me with eyes the same color as his shirt—pale, faded green, like moss that clings to a tree.

  “Because it is!” I can’t hide my frustration and just want to leave.

  “Not necessarily. Haven’t you ever heard about the new broom?” Measured pause. “It sweeps clean.”

  I know what he’s getting at, but refuse to play along.

  “I’m not some old, burned-out PI who will drink away your money and lie about hitting dead ends. Not that my uncle is one of those, either,” he quickly adds, although he didn’t have to. I can tell John’s a decent guy.

  I remain silent, still skeptical.

  “Give me a shot,” he says earnestly. “Let me help.”

  The waitress delivers two plates of pie and we both dig in. He polishes off his first, then asks to see the box.

  “I don’t have the box, but I have the stuff that was in it.” I clutch my backpack, ready to unzip it.

  “That works.”

  “But only if you promise to treat this like a real case, not just some extracurricular school activity.”

  He draws an imaginary cross over his heart. “On my honor.”

  I pull out the Ziploc bag I’d transferred everything into before I came, keeping it close to my chest. “And only if you really believe you can help find her.”

  “I once found a needle in a haystack.”

  “Is that a family joke or something? It’s not funny.”

  Mac hangs his shaggy head, twists his mouth into a half smile. The longer I sit here, the harder it is to deny my attraction to his boyish good looks. He’s kind of the opposite of Ray, who’s dark and was always fighting a losing battle with stubborn facial hair.

  “You know what else isn’t that funny? The business of the business,” he says.

  I find myself clutching the bag even tighter. “The what?”

  “The business of the business. That’s what my uncle calls the finance part of his company.”

  “And he wants you to do it? Let me guess. You’re actually a triple major, getting a degree in accounting, too.”

  This has him breaking into a full smile, giving me a glimpse of two straight rows of nice white teeth. I imagine he’s the kind of person who goes every six months to the dentist, whether he needs a cleaning or not. “No. No accounting for me. But if I want to become a partner one day, I need to learn all aspects of the job, and his fee is one of them.”

  “Well, he took everything I had last night.”

  “That’s what he told me.” Mac pauses, an idea seemingly stuck in his throat. “Which got me wondering how you were going to pay his subsequent bills.”

  I hope my face doesn’t flush at the answer I have no intention of giving him. He probably wouldn’t be too keen to learn how I made the money to pay his uncle’s retainer fee and probably less keen to learn we’re going to keep it up until my mother’s found. I scrape up the last bits of crust to fill the silence.

  “No, not wondering—considering,” he clarifies. “Considering an alternative plan.” He’s got a solution. I see it dancing in those mossy-green eyes of his. But he’s busy scraping up the last of his whipped cream and licking the fork clean. Finally, he says, “Don’t worry. I’m here to help.” He slides his plate to the side and clasps his hands in front of him, back to business. “We can work something out, I’m sure.”

  Did he just wink at me? I hadn’t thought anything of it earlier, but was he trying to peek down my shirt—Ray’s shirt—when he first sat down?

  “Of course.” I nod knowingly. “There’s always the barter system, isn’t there?” I shove the Ziploc bag in the knapsack again.

  “What are you talking about?” Mac asks.

  “Hooking up. I get it.” Oh, the irony. If he only knew. But it hasn’t been me doing the dirty deed, and no matter how not-terrible-looking he is, it never will be. “Thanks for the pie, but no thanks for the deal.” I drop my fork so it clangs on the plate. Bits of cherry sauce fly up and land on Mac’s shirt.

  He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care because he softly says, “Wait,” before I take off. He slides out of the booth so we’r
e both standing. “That’s not what I was implying. How could you ever think that?”

  Uh, because that’s all guys ever want in exchange for favors, that’s how. But he seems legitimately insulted.

  “Let me ask you something, and be honest.” When I hesitate, he continues. “I mean it, Rosie. I need honesty.”

  I nod begrudgingly.

  “What can you afford to pay?”

  I’m not prepared for this question. Honestly, I don’t know. How long can Mary and I keep doing this? I feel sick, fearing I haven’t thought things through. A retainer was one thing. How did I think I’d be able to continue to pay a private investigator for his work?

  I must look weak and wobbly because Mac is guiding me back into the booth, saying, “Come on. Sit back down.” He signals a waitress and asks for a glass of water. I know it’s for me.

  “Let me put it this way: If you can’t afford to pay, then you won’t. The agency has done pro bono work before.”

  I know what pro bono means, even though I can see he’s studying my face to see if I do. It’s what I was originally hoping for since I had no money, but none of the investigators I called made the offer. “Your uncle will never go for it. He—”

  “Will be proud of me for volunteering my services to a young lady in need.”

  “Look. I don’t mean to be ungrateful . . .” Mary’s words are swimming in my ears—all that stuff about being indebted to people. As much as this seems like a gift, I’m not so sure. I push aside the straw and finish my water with a final gulp. “Can I let you know?”

  “You can,” he says, all proper, dipping his head like he understands.

  We say our goodbyes, but I leave the booth first. I imagine him watching me walk through the diner and out the door that jingles as I pass through it.

  12

  I CALLED MARY the minute I left the deli, but she preferred to hash this out face-to-face. Said this was way too much to discuss over the phone, especially after I mentioned Mac’s eyes more than twice. So here we are at her house on a Friday night, sharing a culinary feast of popcorn and gummy bears.

  “Sounds too good to be true,” Mary says, chewing on a kernel. I tell her to be careful, it could crack a tooth. So she spits it back into the bowl and I tell her she’s gross. The bowl sits between us on her bed where we’re both stretched out, stacks of pillows behind our backs.

  “Which part?” I ask.

  “All of it. The hot guy. The free lunch.”

  “Lunch? We only had pie.”

  “It’s a saying, Rosie. There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch. Want my two cents?”

  “Obviously. I can’t make this decision without you,” I say, because we’re a package.

  “Don’t take him up on it. We can afford this guy. Besides, if he’s half as good as he says he is—plus the help of his uncle who, according to you, said he’d be available for whatever—then he shouldn’t need all that much time to find your mom.”

  I suck on a lime gummy bear until it dissolves in my mouth. “I guess so. I mean, I hope so.”

  Mary’s hair is still damp from her shower, and it falls in a straight dark sheet over the shoulders of a blue cotton shirt. I could never leave my hair free like that. If it isn’t blow-dried and tamed immediately, all hell breaks loose. My only saving grace when it’s wet is to knot it into a bun, which minimizes the frizz and creates some decent waves.

  “Do you really want to owe him? Remember what I said about being indebted to someone. Totally blows.”

  “I did remember, which is why I told him I wanted to think about it,” I say, as a disturbing thought occurs to me. “But aren’t I sort of indebted to you?”

  “Absolutely not. I’m benefiting from this little arrangement, too.” She scoops up a handful of popcorn. “We have a good thing going, don’t you think? Screwing guys for cash, or . . .” Mary makes a wicked grin. “Screwing guys out of their cash. I kinda like it.”

  “You do?”

  “I’m not digging ditches.”

  “Seriously, Mary. We can stop. We’ve been given an out here.”

  “You’ve forgotten an important thing, which is sort of selfish on your part, but I won’t bust your chops.” Mary moves so she’s sitting up with her legs crossed. She means business. “If we stop, the money stops, and there goes my plan to blow this joint.” She scans her bedroom, her gaze resting on the corkboard above her desk, plastered with things we’ve gathered these past couple years—ticket stubs, pictures, menus, and loads of junky bracelets held up by thumbtacks.

  “You’re going to miss me if you leave,” I say.

  “Yeah, but not this place. I’m literally suffocating here.”

  “Your parents aren’t that terrible.” I flick a dismissive hand near her face. “Have you peeked inside my house lately?”

  Mary’s face turns grim in two seconds flat. “Look, Rosie, there are things you don’t know. Things I haven’t told you. Just trust me. It’s better if I go.”

  “What things? We’ve been best friends for over three years. And now you’re telling me you’ve been keeping stuff from me? Serious stuff that has you wanting to run away?” I feel a sting of betrayal, since I’ve never kept anything from Mary. “I thought you just didn’t want to stay and work in your dad’s store.”

  “That part’s true.”

  “But what else? Tell me.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Rosie. Besides, you’re getting off topic and killing my sugar buzz.” She polishes off the remaining gummies, then says, “I want to continue. If you don’t want to fork over your half to one of the Hardy Boys, be my guest. Rule number three—it’s none of my business what you do with your share.”

  Maybe I am being selfish. As long she’s okay with it, I should be okay with it, too. And the more I think about it, twirling lemon gummies with my tongue, I don’t want to feel some sort of blind gratitude to a guy who wears boat shoes with socks and piles whipped cream on a perfectly good piece of cherry pie.

  Mary plops back down, throws a piece of popcorn in the air, and actually manages to catch it in her open mouth.

  I love our Friday-night sleepovers. When there isn’t a party we feel like crashing, or a new teen club to check out, we kick back and stuff ourselves with junk food and watch slasher flicks. And we always do it at Mary’s house because her parents belong to a church group that plays poker on Friday nights.

  I’m feeling a little better about my decision not to take Mac up on his offer. I prepare two bowls of ice cream, then meet Mary on the living room couch for a movie. We’ve just settled in when my phone buzzes in my lap. It’s a text from a number I don’t recognize, and I shoot Mary a look; she’s already checking out my screen.

  Tod gave me ur nuber

  Everyone’s guilty of typos, but this guy’s extra-sloppy. Or nervous. I wait for more, tell Mary to pause the movie. Then I scroll through my earlier texts to check this number against the one from last night, the one from the guy who wanted to meet in an abandoned strip mall. They’re different, so I text back.

  Okay

  There’s no reason to ask for the code, since clearly he’s not going to have one. I just hope he’s not another guy from school. I don’t care what Mary says. Del Vista stairwells are too risky.

  Wanna hook up?

  Mary and I are reading the texts together, and she gives me a thumbs-up.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Tell him eighty bucks.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  So I text him back: $80

  Tod tld me 60

  I slide my phone off. “Put the movie back on.”

  “What are you doing?” Mary asks, trying to grab my phone.

  “I’m not negotiating for you like a used car. The price is the price. Forget it. Besides, this is nice,” I say,
gazing around the dimly lit room and focusing on the two bowls of mint chocolate chip in front of us. Our feet are bare, entangled on the coffee table. Her mom would definitely pitch a fit about that.

  Mary looks stunned. Or annoyed. I’m not sure. “You’re going to get all sanctimonious now?”

  “What?”

  “We just agreed twenty minutes ago that we’d keep going. You started all this—”

  “Uh, no. You started all this. You offered.”

  “Because you needed me. You were fucking hysterical when you called me from the mall.”

  “I was not!”

  “Trust me, you were. Crying like a little baby because some guy wanted to pay you to get it on with him.”

  hey u there? Another text, and this time, Mary successfully grabs my phone and taps in a response.

  She tosses it back in my lap, says, “Let’s go.”

  I read the exchange.

  Mary: 80.

  His reply:

  • • •

  We share a tense, silent bus ride to this guy’s house, which is in a decent neighborhood about fifteen minutes away. I use the time to process the information he provided to the rest of my screening questions. He is a friend of Todd’s, but doesn’t go to Del Vista. He’s a jug head at some military school in Ocala. I imagine him with a buzz cut and lean muscles that have been on the receiving end of an instructor’s baton.

  Now, I’ve said it before: Location is key. No abandoned strip malls. No beaches. No warehouses. A girl could get into serious trouble in those kinds of places. But in the backyard of some guy’s house? A scream across the lawn could reach the neighbors in a matter of seconds, plus I’d be crouching in a nearby bush with some bug spray, anyway. It’s half the price of pepper spray, and if it can take down nuclear-disaster-surviving roaches, it can take down some guy who can’t take no for an answer.

  Once the bus drops us off, at a stop that should only be a few blocks from his house, Mary ends the silence. “Sorry.”

  “Me, too,” I say, even though I don’t know what I’m sorry for. I just wanted to eat ice cream and watch teenagers get stabbed to death in their own homes.