Rosie Girl

by Julie Shepard

  “Mary?”

  “By the way,” she says, as if she hasn’t been listening. “I’ve been thinking. Where does all this leave me?”

  “Where does all what leave you?”

  “Without the cash flow.” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I’ll tell you where. Out in the cold, that’s where. And now I’m freezing, Rosie. Thanks very fucking much.”

  I make sure my tone is soft, not accusatory when I say, “You’re the one who wanted to stop after the whole Ralph thing.”

  “Well maybe I don’t want to stop anymore.”

  “We agreed, Mary. That night was seriously messed up.”

  “The last few days have given me a chance to think. Take stock. It’s fast, easy money I still need.”

  I thought we had both agreed we were done. Charging for sex was only a means to an end, and now that I’ve got that end taken care of, I’m not about to put Mary into any more potential Ralph situations. Or worse. Why is she refusing to hang up her stilettos?

  “How much more do you need?” I ask.

  “A lot.”

  “Like how much?”

  “I don’t know, Rosie! A lot, okay? Do you really want me to spend the rest of my life hawking hammers and nails? And get this: Last weekend, my dad said he’s going to put me in charge of key making. Key making! Maybe if I’m good, I’ll land the dead-bolt section, too!”

  She’s hysterical. I imagine her pale complexion turning beet red.

  “That’s it,” I say, nice and firm. “Working at your dad’s store can’t be the only reason you want out.”

  “It’s not. I told you I’m dealing with some shit at home.”

  “What kind of . . . shit?” I ask, not used to cursing.

  Mary huffs and puffs in irritation, then says, “I’m only going to tell you because I don’t want you harassing me anymore.”

  I didn’t think I was harassing her. Best friends don’t harass each other. They only want to know when something seems really wrong. I have to prompt her three more times until she finally caves.

  “It’s my dad.”

  “What about him?”

  “He hits my mom. Happy now?”

  “Oh my God, Mary. I had no idea.”

  “You’re not supposed to. Why do you think she wears all that makeup? Looks like a fucking clown half the time.”

  “I can’t believe they haven’t split up. Why doesn’t she leave him?”

  “Don’t ask me. I’ve begged her. She says it’s against our faith. I say that’s crap. She’s just weak. He could end up killing her one day. I’ve done the research. Abuse escalates.”

  I’m at a loss for words. I feel terrible that she’s had to deal with this all on her own, that she hadn’t chosen to confide in me. But I get it. There’s a lot of private stuff that goes on behind closed doors, and it’s not always other people’s business to know it. Not even best friends’.

  Now I understand and don’t think twice before saying, “You can have my money, too. Mac returned it to me yesterday. Three hundred dollars. It’s yours.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” she asks.

  “What are you talking about? I’m trying to help.”

  “You don’t need me anymore, especially because you’ve got Mac. You’re probably hoping I’ll take off so you don’t have to split your time between us.”

  Mary’s never spoken like this before, cold and bitter. Maybe spilling her family secret whipped her into this frenzy. She’s not making sense.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “I’ll always need you. You’re my—”

  “Savior,” she says. “I know.”

  And then there’s silence, because she’s hung up on me.

  17

  I COULDN’T SLEEP last night, plagued by visions of Mr. Perkins slapping his wife’s face or pushing her against a wall or . . . worse. And the thought of Mary witnessing it has me hoping she takes all the money, even though I had planned to spend my share on a bike. I didn’t want to take the bus any longer or hitch a mercy ride from Todd. And I definitely didn’t want to ask Lucy anymore if I can borrow the Slaabmobile. But I have to scrap that plan, so I’m on the bus, heading to see Mac.

  Mary was a no-show in school today. I wasn’t all that surprised. Her mom will sometimes let her stay home if Mary puts on a convincing enough act of being sick—an act she probably started right after she cut our call short last night. This way, there would be no awkward hallway run-ins, and I could enjoy my tuna fish sandwich under our tree in peace. Paula came over (with Rachel and Iris in tow, of course), wondered why I eat alone, and I was like, I don’t, Mary’s usually here, but she skipped today. Paula elbowed Iris in the waist when she and Rachel looked at each other sideways, then asked if I wanted to eat with them in the gym while watching the guys shoot hoops. I appreciated the offer, but told her I needed to study for a Science quiz and pulled out a notebook to prove it. But there is no Science quiz. I just wanted to be alone to mentally prepare for my meeting with Mac after school. I’m excited to discuss my case, but I’d be lying if I said it was the only reason I labored over my outfit this morning and settled on white skinny jeans and a red tee that hugs my curves in all the right places.

  I’m also trying a new look. It has absolutely nothing to do with Lucy’s hateful comments yesterday, but I’m not above hearing a message, regardless of the messenger. So I blew out my hair this morning and pulled what I could into a ponytail, though my bangs still hover like a blanket above my eyes. I put on a little makeup—powder foundation, light mascara, and clear lip gloss.

  I’m busy with my sketchbook when the bus makes its first stop. During World History class, while I should have been thinking about Genghis Khan, I was thinking about gingham fabric. I had an idea for a wraparound skirt, ready to flow from the tip of my sharp HB pencil. I’m focusing on the waistband when someone sits down next to me. Instinctively, I move over to make more room, and when I look up, it’s the old lady from last week. She’s clutching the same quilted bag. Thinning white hair is combed neatly behind her ears, rimless glasses sit high on her nose. She smooths out the yellow cotton dress beneath her before sitting down. There are plenty of seats on the bus, so I can’t imagine why she’d choose the one next to me.

  “Hello,” she says, surprising me. I give her a half nod. I can hold a grudge with the best of them and continue sketching without looking at her again. Then, so she gets the hint that I’m not about to engage in any polite conversation, I pull out a set of earbuds from my backpack, ready to plug them into my phone and ears so I can tune her out.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you.” When she stuffs her bag between us, she must get a glimpse of my sketchbook because she says, “That’s very good.”

  I don’t want to thank her, but I do, because having anyone compliment my work feels pretty fantastic.

  We ride in silence for a few blocks, the air between us charged. I can tell she wants to say more, but I’m not about to encourage her. The sting of her comments last week feels fresh with her sitting next to me. I keep drawing, working on the skirt pockets. Since I’m sketching the skirt in gingham, I decide to rotate the checked pattern and put the pockets on the outside. The look is fresh, and I like it.

  During the next stop, while people bustle down the aisle, she turns to me and says, “You look nice today.”

  I thank her again, this time with a little more conviction.

  “Such a pretty girl. How old are you?”

  “I’ll be eighteen in a couple weeks.” I push the earbuds in deeper to let her know I’d rather listen to music (even though there is none) than chat. She puts a bony, wrinkled hand on my phone. A gold band, too big, rests scratched and old at the bottom of her finger. I imagine it once shiny and new, fitting more snugly when it was originally slipped on.

  “Please. Would you mind?”
>
  I remove the earbuds as the bus pulls back into traffic.

  “I was hoping I’d see you again. I’m terribly sorry about last week. I was having a rotten day, and I took it out on you.” She casts her gaze down, the lids of her eyes creped and folded.

  “No, no. It’s okay . . . ,” I say, because that’s what you’re supposed to say, but it’s not. That was the day Mary was with Todd, and I’m never okay after one of her meetings. I was already fragile when this lady unleashed on me.

  “Something about you reminded me of my granddaughter.” Her eyes brim with tears as she studies me. “The hair maybe . . .” She lets her voice disappear into space, then clears her throat and starts again. “She took a wrong turn about a year ago and never came back.”

  I’m not sure if she means literally, like the girl ran away, but I’m not about to ask. I’ve got enough crap in my life without wading through someone else’s.

  “She looked like you, even smelled like you. Teen spirit, I guess you could say.”

  “What’s in the bag?” I ask, partly because I’m curious, partly because she’s freaking me out and I want to change the subject.

  She doesn’t answer, just pulls out the most beautiful scarves I’ve ever seen.

  “So you do knit—”

  “No, I crochet,” she corrects me. “There’s a difference. For starters, this is a hook, not a needle, and you only use one.” She wipes her eyes dry. They’re the palest blue I’ve ever seen, almost gray, and they twinkle from a beam of sun breaking through the bus window.

  “Now this,” she says, plucking a scarf from the pile, “would look perfect with your outfit.” She’s right. It’s got layers of pink, red, and white. “Allow me.” The old lady wraps it around my neck, then twists it in an unusual way so it looks like a loose collar. I take out my compact to use the mirror.

  “I love it,” I say, admiring the delicate design and hard work that must have gone into making it. “But I can’t accept it.”

  She hushes me.

  “I can’t pay you for it.”

  “There are currencies other than money,” she says. I don’t pull away when she rests her hand on mine. “I’m Elaine.”

  “Rosie.”

  18

  HE COMPLIMENTS MY SCARF, then gets down to business.

  “Let’s talk about your mother,” Mac says, then corrects himself. “I mean, Lucy.”

  “I think she’s bipolar.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because we had this major blowup yesterday and then she knocked on my door late last night, trying to make nice.”

  “Make nice how?”

  “Apologizing, saying she was just excited about the ring, blah blah blah . . .”

  “Hold up. What ring?”

  “Judd the Dud asked her to marry him.”

  “And that’s a bad thing because . . .”

  “The guy’s a douchebag,” I say, unleashing another one of Mary’s words that’s so right on, even if it’s harsh. I have yet to hear a slang word out of him, let alone a curse word, and Mac winces at the sound of it.

  “All right. The boyfriend is no good,” he rephrases. He doesn’t realize how no good, how he eyes me like a shark circling bloody bait. “Let’s get back to her. Why was it strange that Lucy came in to ‘make nice,’ as you say?”

  “Because she never has. Once, when I was nine, I vomited rice pudding all over a chair in the living room. She threw a towel at me, told me clean it up. I was a kid and kept apologizing for the stain she swore would never come out. She ignored me for two days.” I pause, play with my new scarf. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you pity me. Poor Rosie. Lost her father. Lost her mother. Break out the Kleenex.”

  “I’m not,” he says, and comes around from his side of the desk and sits in the chair next to me. “I’m not looking at you with pity. I’m looking at you with admiration.”

  “Why do you always talk like an old person?”

  “I do?” When he scrunches up his face, it makes his straight nose fold in like an accordion between his eyes. Clearly, he’s never been accused of that before.

  “Yes. Very sophisticated,” I mock.

  “You haven’t seen me slurp spaghetti and meatballs or curse at the television during college basketball.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Or fling a slice of pizza at the screen during the Super Bowl.”

  “You did?”

  “Horrible call by the referee.” He waves his hands. “I don’t want to talk about it. Terribly upsetting.”

  I snicker, and when he knocks his knee into mine, I get that lit-match sensation deep inside.

  He gets all serious again. “I admire you because you’ve got guts to take this whole thing on, not knowing what you’ll find.”

  He’s right about that. “Thanks,” I say. “Okay, so back to the bipolar evil stepmother.”

  “She’s the key, Rosie.” Mac adjusts in the seat, flips a leg over one knee. “I got to thinking. She still works at the scrap yard, right? Where she met your father?”

  “Of course. She was there two years before him and will probably stay forever because she thinks she runs the place. It fuels her ego. I’ve seen her boss around everyone from temps to construction workers.”

  “A real gem,” Mac says, and I love how he’s totally on my page.

  “Sparkles like a diamond.” I pause. “Not like the one Judd gave her. Could be cubic zirconia, for all I know. It looked kind of pasty in the box.”

  “Does the timing of Judd’s proposal seem odd in any way?”

  “Well, they’ve been together a long time, like over three years. The only thing odd is that he waited so long.”

  “Had Lucy been pressuring him?”

  I pause before answering. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “So why now?” Mac asks.

  “I have no idea.”

  “I’m a guy,” he says, as if I haven’t noticed. “No way I’d pop the question without timing it perfectly.” My heart lurches at the thought of him asking someone to marry him and before I have the good sense to stop my mouth, out it comes.

  “Are you . . . ?” That’s the problem with guys being engaged— they don’t wear a ring to let the world know they’re off the market.

  “I’m only twenty!” he exclaims, rubbing his wrists. “I’m not ready for shackles just yet.”

  “Are you close?” I can’t help myself. “Do you have a girlfriend? I’m sure UM is full of pretty girls looking for more than a college degree.” I imagine the same at FSU and Ray trolling the campus for them.

  He shakes his head and returns to his side of the desk. “We’re getting way off topic here.” Great, now I’ve aggravated him. I go on the offensive.

  “I already feel like a third wheel. Maybe this is Judd’s way of giving me one last kick so I fall off.”

  “Possibly,” he says, considering my theory. “But there may be a stronger motive than that.” He pauses, and I can see the gears slowing down in his head. “Let’s get back to her job.”

  “What about it?”

  “There may be something there.”

  “There where?”

  “At the scrap yard. Look, Lucy’s definitely hiding something, right?”

  I nod.

  “She’s not going to hide it at your house.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Years of investigative work,” he says, buffing his nails on his lapel.

  “Very funny.” I go along with the joke, but I am hoping his uncle is bringing his experience to the table and not relying on Mac to carry the load.

  “It’s not that funny. Don’t forget—I’ve been around this office for years,” he says, sweeping his hands i
n the air. “Got bitten by the bug in sixth grade. I was running for vice president of my class and suspected ballot tampering during the election process.”

  “Because you didn’t win?” I’m surprised, not figuring Mac as the sore-loser type.

  “No, because I did.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I was new to the school and figured I didn’t have a shot of winning but ran anyway. Mothers make you do that kind of stuff.” He flinches, knowing the subject of mothers is a testy one for me. “Anyway, my dad was a pilot, and someone started a rumor that he had his own plane and he would take my friends anywhere in the world they wanted to go. I know,” he says, acknowledging my skepticism. “It’s stupid. But kids are stupid in sixth grade. I guess all two hundred and seventy-nine of them thought if they were nice to me, I’d take them on my dad’s plane.” Mac pauses for dramatic effect. “Which of course we didn’t have.” He shakes his head and breaks into a grin, the memory of it still holding comic value. “So I did some digging. My first foray into investigative work yielded quick results. Just so you know, people talk for candy bars.”

  I’m smiling so wide he must think I find the whole thing silly, but it’s the opposite. He tells a great story, and it’s a welcome diversion from mine.

  “I found out that the kid who started the rumor was on the ballot committee. I got ahold of the ballots, went through every single card, and, well, I didn’t win. Not even close. On one of the ballots, someone had even scribbled Who’s Mac Brooks? Sounds like a suit.”

  I chuckle because it’s true, and enjoy the image of a twelve-year-old Mac poring over those cards, searching for the truth.

  “I don’t get it. Why did that kid make sure you won, then?”

  “Because people like winners who have stuff, like planes. I think he really believed my dad did have one, and if the school rallied around me, I’d take them all over the world. Crazy, right?”

  “Totally,” I say.

  “Anyway,” he says, “I’ve spent a lot of time with my uncle, picking his brain about cases. Of course, he’s the strictest of professionals, so I never knew names—or even places, most times—but John was always dispensing nuggets of wisdom. And one of them was, if someone is hiding something important, it’s never kept in the home.”