Rosie Girl

by Julie Shepard

She dips her head and smiles at me. Her hair shines in the moonlight, silky and straight, oblivious to the humidity. People say I should be grateful for my thick hair, but it’s hard to be grateful for something that causes you so much aggravation. I smooth back a set of stubborn curls that refuse to be part of my ponytail.

  “Was I really crying like a baby?” I ask, trying to remember that day two months ago. The memory’s blurry but still manages to sting.

  “Yeah, but it’s okay. You’re soft like that. If Aaron had propositioned me, I would’ve been like, Let’s go, dude.”

  I bat her arm. “You would not!”

  “Maybe not with such gusto, but opportunities are rare in this world, Rosie girl, and when they come your way, you gotta grab ’em. By the goddamned throat, you know?”

  I’m not sure if this whole thing is an opportunity or a disaster. As much as Mary’s been on board, I’ve never lost the nagging feeling that this is somehow going to end badly. We seem to be playing with fire, and you know how that usually turns out. So now, as we’re walking along the street at eleven o’clock at night, I’m afraid of getting burned. This causes a swift panic and has me reconsidering Mac’s offer. I take Mary’s hand, prepared to turn around, when she stops and says, “This is it. Not bad.”

  Not bad at all. The house is a big two-story with a wide circular driveway lined on either side by palm trees. A newish Cadillac sits near the front door, lit up by two sconces on a wall, its rocky surface etched with ivy.

  Glad Mary stuck to her guns and got the eighty bucks. Clearly, this kid can afford it.

  He told her to meet him around back, in the shed. Based on the house, I’m now imagining it more of a small guest house used for storage than a shack with tools. Mary tiptoes around the side of the house to scout the location. She signals to me that the shed is on her side, so I go to the other side of the house and jam myself between a hedge and a wall. The concrete is unfinished and scrapes against my soft cotton tank. I know I’ll have to dump it after seeing the damage. Already I hate this guy for ruining one of my favorite shirts.

  I move sticks and leaves out of my way. The hedge is dense, but if I keep my head just right, I have a pretty clear view.

  Someone emerges from the shed before Mary reaches the door. He’s been waiting for her. Under the moonlight, on a freshly mowed lawn, they exchange words I can’t hear. They both enter the shed, Mary first. Something about the way he ushered her in there bothers me. Like a predator who’d been waiting for its prey, not just some guy waiting to get lucky. He watches her enter. I wonder if this is it—if this will be the time something goes terribly wrong. I don’t understand why I’m so spooked. Maybe it’s that rickety shed, how it looks like something out of a Chainsaw Massacre movie. I realize I can’t hang back here, so I decide to risk it and move closer.

  It looks nothing like a small guesthouse. I was wrong about that. It’s one of those old-school sheds built out of wood. It rests on a concrete slab, but must not have been constructed too well, because the entire frame tilts to the side and a series of rusty nails poke out at odd angles. I walk around the back, hoping my sandals aren’t crunching through the grass as loudly as I think they are. There’s a window on the back side. I hoist myself up on the chain-link fence to see through it.

  On the way up, I scrape my knee on the scratchy metal and squelch a whimper. Once I’ve settled onto the top rail, I find the glass is blurry and dirty. There’s a hole in the bottom, probably the result of a wayward baseball. The view isn’t great, but it’ll do.

  It’s dark inside until he pulls on a piece of heavy string in front of him, and then the shed is full of a dull orange glow. I get a good look at him. No wonder he’s paying eighty dollars for sex. This guy needs to pay. His face is covered in acne, bright and red with tiny white bumps. Above hooded eyes are brows so sparse they seem to have been shaven clean off. I was right about the buzz cut, but didn’t imagine the lightning bolts carved into the sides of his head. In both earlobes, flat black discs serve as spacers for larger future discs. I didn’t know a military school would allow stuff like that. A cross dangles at the bottom of a chain around his neck. He’s wearing a white tank top and jeans hanging so low, half his boxer shorts show. Ready to play.

  When he opens his mouth to speak, I’m surprised I can hear him. Many thanks to the hole in the window and the person who put it there. “Raphael, but everyone calls me Ralph,” he says, and makes a lame attempt to shake Mary’s hand. She brushes his fingers with hers.

  “Hey,” she says. No names for us. That’s part of the deal. I mean, we’ve made some up if we’re pushed: One of my favorite designers is Coco Chanel, so we split it up. I’m Coco and she’s Chanel, but we’ve never used them.

  “I don’t get to know your name?” Ralph crinkles his pimply nose.

  “What for?” She flips on a winning smile. It’s one of her best assets, since her teeth are pearly white and straight, and when her lips curl wide the gloss stretches across them like a raspberry slide.

  But the smile doesn’t work. He appears confused and cocks his head. That’s when I notice he kind of looks like a dog—a bloodhound, maybe, with those droopy red eyes. But an irritated bloodhound because the acne makes him look angry. He turns the bolt on the rickety door to lock it.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Mary says, flipping the bolt the other way.

  “You want someone walking in on us?”

  “Who’d be coming into a shed now?” Mary snickers while making another attempt to unlock the bolt.

  “Relax,” he says, which is a command that always has the opposite effect on people. “I’ll put this down.” He pulls a scratchy-looking blue blanket from a broken shelf. Then he grabs a bag of mulch and places it at one end of the blanket. I guess that’s supposed to act as a pillow. He appears proud of this makeshift bed and extends his arms. “After you.”

  “We can just do it here, like, standing up—” Nothing fancy for Mary. Stairwells, sheds, it makes no difference.

  “Suit yourself.” He stands back, crosses his spindly arms over his chest. “You gonna take that off?” he asks, pointing at the black cotton tank dress she threw on before we left.

  Mary says this is the worst part, when she has to get crafty about keeping her clothes on. Getting naked would kill any possibility of a swift escape. Besides, she says the guys couldn’t care less if she stays clothed. A grope here, a touch there—that’s all they need.

  “I can just lift it up,” she offers, reaching down for the hem of her dress.

  “Well, that’s no fun,” he says. He pulls the undershirt over his head, revealing a pale chest with dark, hairy nipples. I catch a glimpse of Mary’s face and know she wants to leave. “Come here.”

  Mary inches closer, her ballet flats sliding with dread against the concrete floor.

  “Payment first,” she says, holding out a palm. Mary always asks for money up front so that if she ever decides to scrub the mission, we’re at least compensated for my time and her suffering. It happened once, which is why it became rule number five.

  “After.” He leans in and tries to kiss her, but she turns away.

  “No kissing.”

  “What?” He backs up, insulted.

  “No kissing,” she repeats. “That’s my rule.”

  “Then no standing. That’s my rule.” Ralph takes her hand and pulls her down onto the blue blanket. Now I have to crane my neck to see what’s going on, and I lean closer to the shed wall. “Take off your underwear.”

  She does, then balls it up and jams it into her purse she’s kept close by. He wipes the sweat from his forehead. It’s hot out here—it must be like an oven in there. His hand disappears under her dress as he tucks his head into her neck.

  “No.” She bats his hand away, maybe a little too hard.

  “For fuck’s sake! What’s with you?” Ralph has just crossed th
e line. I mean the line. It happened with Ray when I’d let his eager hands go only so far before pushing them back.

  “Sex. That’s it. No touching. You knew that.”

  “I didn’t know shit.”

  Uh-oh. Once a guy gets mad, it’s tough to make a U-turn.

  Mary tilts her head, offers up another smile to placate him. She doesn’t need some nut job losing his marbles in a toolshed. Any one of the items hanging along the wall could be used to bludgeon her to death.

  She needs to calm him, and she does. “Come on.” Her voice is soft and sugary. Mary reaches over and touches the bulge in his jeans. He responds immediately, pushing her over so that she’s pinned beneath him. He tries to kiss her, but she turns away.

  “Stop!”

  “Kiss me,” he says. “It gets me superhard.”

  Mary shoves him off, pushes down her dress.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Leaving,” she says, and when Mary leans down to get her purse, I see what she doesn’t. Ralph has already popped up and barricaded the door with his body.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Move.” Her back is to me, hands planted on hips. “I reserve the right to leave at any time.”

  “You’re some professional,” Ralph mocks. “With all your rules and shit.”

  “And you’re some horny fisherman who’s just lost his catch.”

  I don’t know if I would’ve egged him on like that, but Mary’s braver than I am.

  He doesn’t budge from the door. She inches forward, clutching her purse. Sensing the heat of a threat, I’m ready to move in if I have to. I don’t know what I’d do, but at least we’d outnumber this guy. Plus, I’ve got a mean bite. I’ve used it before.

  “Look, Ralph,” Mary says, back to her warm-glazed-doughnut voice. “It’s nothing personal. Sometimes this just doesn’t work out.”

  Ralph’s face remains stony, which is good. He’s thinking about what she said, maybe even agreeing with her. She waits—the right thing to do. Give this guy a minute to come to terms with this sudden change of plans.

  “No hard feelings, okay?” Mary actually touches his shoulder.

  I think she’s successfully put out the fire until he says, “I’ve got hard feelings all right,” and forces her hand onto the zipper of his jeans. He grabs the thin shoulder strap of her dress and uses it to tug her close. “You’re gonna kiss me.”

  “No, I’m not!” She wrenches out of his grasp and lunges for the rusty knob, but the door’s locked. I want to go in there but force myself to follow rule number four—no barging in unless she calls out to me for help. One time I did that, and Mary became furious, claiming she had things under control. We blew the whole thing and the guy bolted without paying (another reason to follow rule number five and get payment first).

  It doesn’t look like Mary has things under control now, yet she does manage to flip the bolt. The door cracks open, but Ralph is quick and slams it shut before she can escape.

  “You’re a tease, you know that?” His face grows angrier. “Now get down on the floor and take off that stupid dress.” He pushes her. She slides next to the blanket, but not onto it.

  How is she going to get out of this? I free my sandals from where I’ve secured them in the fence, ready to save her and screw rule number four. Then I hear Mary say something surprising. “Fine. But you first.”

  When he pulls off the jeans, the boxer shorts come with them. My heart skips at the sight of his body. I’ve never seen a naked guy before. Ray got naked once, but it was pitch-black, and still I touched him with my eyes squeezed shut.

  From the ground, Mary says, “You need to bag that thing.”

  Ralph’s already prepared. He leans down and picks up the jeans to riffle through one of the pockets. Mary’s fiddling with something on her dress.

  “This ripped.” Her attention is on the strap he pulled. “I have to knot it.”

  “Here.” Ralph attempts to inspect the damage, like a hero who’s going to fix what he broke. “I’ll do it.”

  “No, no, I just need some light.” She gets up as if needing the bulb’s glow. I have no idea what she’s doing. I can’t believe she’s going to go through with it. He lies back down, out of view. I start to carefully, quietly remove myself from the fence so I don’t have to actually watch the rest. I guess I’m curious about certain things, but not everything. I’m about to lift myself off the rail when I spy Mary lunging for the door. It flies open and she races out. Ralph follows, yelling at her to come back.

  I pass him, trying to catch up to Mary, but trip on something, a sprinkler head, maybe. Ralph stomps toward me. I turn back and our eyes meet. He lunges for me. Terrified, I force myself to get up and run—run as fast as I can, ignoring my bloody knee and the howls of a naked mad dog.

  13

  BACK AT MARY’S, we need something to calm our nerves and so break into her parents’ stash of rum. Vendors from her father’s hardware store always give it as their company’s holiday gift. That’s good for us. Since there are like twenty stuffed in the back of their kitchen pantry, they won’t miss one.

  We’re three shots in when my phone vibrates. I fear it’s Ralph, and so does Mary. She shoots me a look and knocks back another. I’m already slow and fuzzy from the rum, so when the name appears on the screen, I assume my eyes are playing tricks on me.

  As fast as my clumsy fingers can, I answer the call and say, “Hi.”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  I haven’t heard Ray’s voice in nine months, aside from some saved voice mails I listen to when I feel like torturing myself. I also have a few videos we made together (fooling around in a Coconut Grove head shop, licking a shared ice cream cone at Dairy Queen), which are even tougher to watch because he’s not just talking to me, but with me. Still, I concentrate on the unique sound of his voice—deep and strong with a slight lisp that always made my insides feel like jelly.

  Mary wants to know who it is, so I mouth his name. She rolls her eyes and tells me to tell him to go fuck off.

  “You there?” he asks.

  “I’m here.”

  “It’s like old times,” he says, and I know what he means. He’d always call late, and I’d huddle beneath my covers so Mom wouldn’t hear me on the phone. We’d talk until we were too tired to say another word, then hang up with the promise of meeting before the first school bell rang.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, because I’m equal parts confused and elated. Ray had been gone barely a month when he gave me the old heave-ho back in September. My friends had told me to expect it (not just Mary, but girls like Paula, as well as Rachel and Iris, who shook their tangerine heads more than once at our relationship) even though I had a ring. That had to count for something. But it didn’t. He broke up with me in a text, three weeks after he got to Tallahassee. I wasn’t just crushed. I was pulverized.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “How’s FSU?”

  “Hard. Enjoy high school while you have it easy.”

  “You remember Fitzpatrick, don’t you? I’ve got her for Science this year. Guarantee you she gives those professors a run for their collegiate money.”

  Mary’s annoyed I haven’t hung up on him yet, and makes a show of throwing back another shot and scrolling through her phone like she’s bored by The Ray and Rosie Show, which she stopped watching long ago.

  He doesn’t respond to my pathetic attempt to remind him of our old life, the one we quasi-shared while he was a senior and I was junior—cramming down Wendy’s during lunch because we only had forty minutes, texting during class even with the threat of losing our phones, and studying in the library after school, our textbooks touching.

  All I get is a deep inhale as I clutch the phone for dear life.

  “Ray?”

  “Yeah.” Deep exhale. “So how’re you doi
ng?”

  “Good,” I say, which is the furthest thing from the truth tonight. I’m getting drunk because my best friend was almost raped—because of me—and my whole body hurts from running so far, so fast. What I really want to say is, Good, but I’d be better if we were still together. The words are perched to slip off my lovesick tongue. “And you?”

  “You know . . . college stuff . . .” His voice trails off, followed by another inhale. He’s smoking something, which means our altered states create an even playing field. But I wonder what we’re playing.

  Mary settles into her bed and grabs Henrietta—a creepy, faded purple hippo that would give me nightmares if I woke to it. She nestles it into her freshly scrubbed face and kisses it with lips free of her beloved raspberry gloss. On the floor, her shot glass lies next to the black dress that doesn’t actually have a broken strap. She faked the rip, used it as a distraction to get out of the Rape Shed.

  Desperate to keep the conversation going, I say something lame. “I can’t believe your freshman year is almost over.” Tell me you’re coming home for the summer. Tell me you realized you made the biggest mistake ever by breaking up with me. Please tell me.

  He exhales. “Been thinking about me?”

  “Of course.” Oh my God. He wants me back.

  “When?”

  “When what?”

  “When have you been thinking about me?”

  I’m flustered, because I can’t tell the truth—that I go to sleep thinking about him, and wake up with the same thoughts. “Uh . . . I don’t know. At different times, I guess. Especially when I pass by Dairy Queen. Remember when—”

  “I remember.” He cuts me off. “When else?”

  Is this a test? Is he looking for a particular answer? I go in for the kill. One of our most romantic nights happened at Crandon Park on Key Biscayne, near the spot where we’d met a month earlier. One blanket plus two wine coolers equaled a partial skinny-dip and kissing in the ocean. “Whenever I go to the beach.”

  “And when else?” he probes. “Are you thinking of me when you’re screwing guys for money?”