Rosie Girl

by Julie Shepard

  I grab the will from his hands and toss it on the floor with as much care as Mary told me Todd used when he threw the condom into the corner. It lands with a soft thud near the far right leg of Mac’s desk. He doesn’t attempt to pick it up.

  “So basically my dad paid Lucy to raise me.”

  He places a tentative hand on my shoulder, like he’s trying to steady me. When I look up, his usually clear green eyes look murky. I feel it coming on—a loss of control moving in fast. Something’s buzzing in my backpack. It must be Mary, texting or calling, but I can’t get it now. I’m about to blow.

  “All these years!” I scream. That’s what comes out first. “It finally makes sense,” I continue. “It’s not that she’s bipolar. She just can’t stand me, but she’s got to keep me around.” More dots become connected. “If I take off, she doesn’t hit the mother lode. What a conniving bitch!”

  The buzzing continues, insistent, in my backpack. I know it’s Mary, but I can’t talk to her right now.

  “Rosie—” he says, but that’s it. Nothing else.

  “I should’ve known,” I say, trying to calm myself by focusing on one of his framed photographs.

  “How? Unless one of those attorneys has tried to contact you, giving you a heads-up. But no one has, right?”

  “No,” I reply quickly, but do a mental scan, wondering if I’ve missed any calls recently or accidentally deleted any voice mails. No. I definitely haven’t been contacted.

  “They could’ve sent certified letters, but with you a minor, Lucy would’ve been able to sign for them,” Mac says. “You would’ve needed some serious detective skills to have figured this one out. At least you were smart enough to hire us to use ours.” Mac brushes an imaginary lapel and grins. I appreciate his attempt to lighten the mood, but I’m too angry and can’t seem to unclench my fists.

  “It’s weird. I almost feel relieved to finally know the truth. But it’s an ugly truth, and it kind of makes me feel ugly to be a part of it.”

  “Not possible.” Mac puts a hand against my face. His touch calms me, actually makes the spinning in my head slow down. I also notice Mary has stopped calling.

  I put my hand to his. “Thanks.”

  For a moment, I think he’s going to lean in and kiss me, but instead he pulls away. The energy has shifted, leaving me feeling awkward and alone again. I glance around at each of the four large photos, framed in wide black wood.

  “You never told me what these are.”

  “Do you like them?”

  “Well, that depends,” I say coyly. “Did you take them?”

  “I did,” he says.

  “So what are they?”

  “Two things actually. Simple impressions, but also puzzles.”

  “Puzzles? I don’t get it.”

  He joins me in front of the one I’m staring at and strokes the glass, behind which is a photo of hundreds of tiny bumps. I can’t tell if he’s admiring his work or the subject matter, but his eyes appear glazed. “It’s the problem solver in me. I like things I have to figure out.”

  “Or have other people figure out.”

  “Perhaps,” he says with a smirk. Our little banter is just the diversion I need from wills, and inheritances, and evil stepmothers.

  “Okay, I’ll bite.” I study the photo for a minute, then offer up an idea. “It’s an orange.”

  “No,” he says, and leans in. His forearm brushes against mine when he reaches out again to touch the glass. “See the dips, the shadows they make?”

  I follow the lines he traces with a finger, and squint with fierce concentration at the image. I’m getting an idea, and when I take another look at the other three photos, I’m certain my hunch is correct. “It’s a basketball.”

  “I’d give you a prize if I had one.”

  “And that’s a football, a tennis ball, and a golf ball,” I say, identifying each one as I point to it. “You think you’re tricking everyone with the black and white.”

  “Everyone but you.” He raises a single eyebrow and smiles, sending a bunch of electrical currents surging through me. I feel hot, suffocating in my sweater.

  “I need to sit,” I say, reaching out for the chair.

  Mac spins around to grab it for me. We end up facing each other for that awkward extra second that gives me the courage, in my dizzying state, to kiss him. He jerks backward, like I’ve shot him with a stun gun or something.

  “What are you doing?” He uses the back of his hand to wipe off the gloss I barely had a chance to leave on his lips.

  “Uh . . .” My mind freezes. Had I misread his signs? I take the honest approach, slap my heart on my fluffy sweater sleeve. “I thought you liked me . . .” Lame, ridiculous. I want to crawl into a hole, embarrassed.

  “It’s got nothing to do with liking you, Rosie.”

  “Then what does it have to do with? You said I was sweet,” I tease.

  “You are.”

  “And that you like the little patch of fuzz on my cheek.”

  “I do.” When Mac strokes the side of my face, I take it as a sign to try again. At first, resistance, but then his lips remain on mine. This time, he kisses me back. He tastes like oranges and mint gum. We instantly fall into a rhythm, our tongues darting in and out, our lips getting sucked in and released . . . until I raise my hands to clasp them around his neck and he breaks away.

  “We can’t,” he says.

  “Why not?” I’m more confused than ever.

  “First of all, you’re seventeen—”

  “Only for ten more days. It’s not like you’re cradle-robbing or anything. You’re only twenty yourself, big shot.” I flirtatiously poke him in the chest.

  “Second,” Mac continues with even more firmness, “we’re in a professional relationship.”

  “Oh. I see,” I say, because what else is there to say? He’s shut me down. Tears spring to my eyes. That happens sometimes when I’m not necessarily sad, just frustrated. I wipe away a tear before it has a chance to fall and take my mascara with it down my cheek.

  “Don’t,” Mac says. “Please don’t cry.”

  “I’m not,” I say, trying to stay strong. I nuzzle into his chest, breathe in the detergent smell of his shirt. I’m waiting for something—a hug, anything—to give me some sort of hope, but instead he leaves me standing there, pathetic. I don’t know what else to do but try again, lifting up my face and planting an urgent kiss he can’t resist. And yet he does.

  Mac backs up, holds me at a distance. “Rosie, stop.” His voice is cold and hard, his eyes narrowed in confusion. I get it. I’m confused, too. I’ve never behaved like this, and yet a part of me is pushing against another part—deep inside—and it’s desperate to take control. Plus, a dull pain has crawled up the back of my neck, promising a headache.

  “Then why did you kiss me?”

  “You kissed me. I only kissed you back.” When he grins, I know it was meant as a joke, but I don’t feel like laughing.

  “You have a girlfriend, don’t you,” I say, more like a claim than a question. There’s an anger bubbling just below the surface, and it’s ready to burst. It won’t be controlled.

  “No, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Then what’s the fucking problem?”

  “What?” he asks, shock distorting his usually handsome face. “It’s called ‘professional ethics,’ Rosie. It’s called ‘not taking advantage of someone when they’re vulnerable.’” His anger is piercing.

  I think I start to wobble because I feel his hands gripping my shoulders, steadying me. Calling my name over and over, asking me if I’m all right. I’ve closed my eyes, willing away the pain that’s traveled to my head.

  When I open my eyes—is it minutes later, or only seconds?— Mac is studying me like I’m a wounded animal. “Rosie, are you okay?”

 
Not really. But we’re done here. I need to go. “Yeah,” I say, “just getting a migraine.”

  “Don’t forget this.” He bends over and picks up the will from the floor. “If I were you, I’d put it back where I found it.”

  I hesitate to take the crumpled document. Between shoving it in my backpack and throwing it on the floor, Lucy will definitely know it’s been taken. There’s no use returning the will, but I take it from Mac’s hand, anyway. Then I grab my backpack and head for the door, which he’s already opened for me.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he says, though somehow I doubt it.

  23

  “I BLEW IT.”

  “Blew it?” Irritated, Mary yanks the bedcovers from me, hogging them. It leaves my legs cold and bare. “You’ve got five hundred grand coming your way in two weeks, and you’re worried about having blown it with some guy who probably has his boxers pressed?”

  I playfully smack her arm and drop my head on the pillow, exhausted. “Maybe that’s why I’m worried. Thanks to my dad, my future is taken care of. Getting into the Fashion House next fall—done. I don’t need a scholarship anymore.”

  “You still have to get accepted,” she points out.

  “I know. But now I can afford to look at other schools, too, even ones that don’t offer scholarships. And if things with Lucy really go south, I can afford to get my own place. So you see? I have the luxury of worrying about that sort of thing.”

  “Whatever,” she says. I can tell she doesn’t share my logic. “Don’t take your eye off the prize. Because now we know there is one. Kind of worth it, if you ask me. All these years suffering through Lucy’s moods. Mystery solved!”

  “Mac could be the prize, you know. Have you ever seen The Butcher’s Wife?” I yank the blanket, and Mary comes with it. She snuggles in close, strands of her chestnut-brown hair tickling my face. It’s only nine o’clock, but I’m already in bed, taking advantage of the peace and quiet while Lucy’s out shopping for a wedding dress and Judd’s at work. I think she knew better than to ask if I wanted to join her. Since the other night, the three of us haven’t spoken so much as grunted at each other. Fine by me. Besides, now I know the score. She’s only kept me around these past few years so she can cash in.

  “Are you sleeping?” I nudge Mary when she doesn’t answer me.

  “Well, I’m trying.” She opens her eyes and, in a flat voice, asks, “What butcher’s life?”

  “The Butcher’s Wife,” I correct her. “It’s a movie about a woman who meets the man of her dreams and moves to his home city, only to find there the real man she was meant to marry.”

  Mary lifts her drowsy head. “What’s this got to do with your situation?”

  “Maybe this whole mess with Lucy, my dad, the will—it was all meant to lead me to Mac.”

  “You’re fucking kidding.” Mary’s suddenly wide awake, her brown eyes glowing from the light cast by my nightstand lamp.

  “I mean, even if things didn’t end so well this afternoon, our relationship can be salvaged. I can fix it.”

  “Relationship? You’ve only known this guy a week! Come on, Rosie girl, I think you’re getting ahead of yourself here.”

  “He didn’t kiss you, Mary. You don’t understand. It felt . . . right. Not like Ray.”

  “You thought it was right with Ray, too. A week after meeting him at the beach, you were on this same road. Slow down.” Mary rubs my arm.

  We did move fast. Since we’d met during winter break, we had another ten days before school resumed. He’d pick me up every morning in his Jeep and we’d do stuff—movies, long walks through Coconut Grove along the bay, lunches at every fast-food restaurant we’d come across. (He always chose burgers; I always got chicken sandwiches.) We’d also go to the mall and try on fancy outfits we could never afford. That’s when I told him about my dream to become a designer, and one Sunday, he spent an entire afternoon at my house, looking through my sketchbooks. He said I was crazy talented, and then we kissed until he tried putting his fingers between my legs and I said no for the first time.

  Anyway, I don’t want to slow down. Ever since I found the box, my life feels like it’s picked up speed, even if it’s not always going in the right direction. “So you don’t think it’s possible?” I ask. “That some people are meant to lead you to other people?”

  She gets this look, the one she makes before unloading a theory I won’t like. “Your entire life has been a lie, but you think it’s okay because some college stud is at the end of this warped rainbow.” Mary props herself up on an arm. She’s wearing the nightshirt she keeps at my house for emergency sleepovers. “If I didn’t know you so well, I’d think you’re having delusions. But since I do, I’m going to chalk it up to your desperate attempt to make sense of all this shit.”

  Kissing Mac wasn’t a delusion. I remember oranges and mint gum and his lower lip against my tongue. I’m right back there, in his office, when I hear this:

  “Rosie, you awake?” It’s Lucy, knocking on my door.

  “Hide!” I whisper, pulling the comforter over Mary’s head. It’s a good thing she’s skinny. All I have to do is pile a couple of pillows on top of her and she’s all but hidden.

  “Yes,” I say through the door, holding the knob still.

  “Can I come in? I want to show you something.” I’m scared. Those were the exact same words Judd used when he paid me a visit with the engagement ring.

  “I’m sleeping,” I say, not ready to face her.

  “You just said you were up. It’s only nine fifteen.”

  “I don’t feel well.”

  “It’ll only take a minute.”

  Fake cough. “I don’t want to reinfect you,” I say, referring to her phony illness that got her out of work yesterday. We both know I know she wasn’t sick. It’s meant to be a jab.

  She jiggles the knob, but the door’s locked. “Open up.”

  I glance back at my bed, looking for signs of Mary, the faint rise and fall of the covers. There’s nothing. She’s gotten really good at hiding from Lucy. I open the door since it’s no longer a request but a command.

  She’s all happy and shiny, her white-blond hair tucked into mini-barrettes on either side of her head. With pale blue eye shadow and bright red lips, she looks like a little girl who broke into her mother’s makeup drawer.

  “Here,” she says, extending one of two shopping bags from the mall. “It’s for you.”

  I don’t want it. I don’t even want to touch the handle of the bag she’s gripping. “What is it?”

  “Well, that isn’t very nice.” She muscles her way into my bedroom and plops down on the bed. Inside, I shriek. She will freak out if she finds Mary here. The truth is, she hasn’t approved of our friendship since that first day we met, after my father’s funeral, when I took off with her and didn’t return home for hours. Then the whole spray-painting episode last summer sealed her disapproval.

  Somehow, she misses crushing her. I hope she also misses the involuntary lurch my body made when she sat down. There’s a gigantic mound of comforter at the far end of the bed. She must be under there. I sort of grab the bag and scoot Lucy off the bed at the same time, tell her to sit at my desk chair, which is more comfortable. Like I give a crap. I just need her off my bed.

  “What is it?” I ask again, flipping on another light so I can get a better look.

  “Open it,” Lucy says, surveying the things on my desk. Of course, she finds my sketchbook lodged under a stack of textbooks and proceeds to open it.

  “Don’t.” I lunge at her, grabbing the notebook before she has a chance to peer inside. She has no right to my dreams, especially now.

  “Fine.” She seems offended but doesn’t challenge me. “Then open your gift, will you?”

  From the bag, I pull out a dress the color of mint toothpaste from beneath a wad of white tissue pap
er. It’s actually very pretty when I hold it up and inspect the silky fabric, impeccable stitching, and crystal-like buttons running down the back.

  “It’s my sorry gift,” she says, almost knocking me off my feet. It’s what my dad would say when offering a present after he’d gotten angry with me. He always felt guilty, even though I probably had it coming—not doing my chores around the house or breaking curfew. That kind of thing. I still have each one he ever gave me. They were usually small things, hair accessories or fake jewelry. A sorry gift was never anything extravagant like this dress.

  While examining it against my body in the mirror, I nonchalantly ask, “What are you sorry for?” Is it possible she’s going to come clean about my dad’s will? Even though she called in sick today, she could’ve stopped by the office this afternoon and found it missing.

  “The other night.” She pulls a tissue from her shirt pocket and coughs into it.

  Oh. I spin around to find her inspecting the tissue, which she swiftly tucks into her bra.

  “Really?” I ask. Can she interpret the look in my eyes? It’s saying, Please have believed me. Please have believed me about Judd. This could be a turning point. Even after everything I learned today, there’s still a part of me that wants Lucy to take my side. It’s the same part that wanted her to rub my back lovingly or add the perfect amount of raisins in my oatmeal to make it sweet. The part that wanted Lucy to care about me—not just because she had to because she married my dad. I rub the minty silk between my fingers as this hope resurfaces.

  “He told me what happened. It was late, you were both—” She coughs again, mid-thought, and breaks into a full-out fit. Something mucousy and pink sprays from her mouth.

  “What?” I toss the dress at the mound under which Mary is probably dying right now.

  “Groggy,” she says, patting her chest, trying to clear it.