“I wasn’t groggy. I was making a smoothie in a blender.”
Lucy closes the door and whispers, even though Judd’s not home yet, “Men. They get nervous before getting hitched.” Her face turns sad, contemplative. She believes her own warped theory. With her hands on my shoulders, she says, “I don’t blame either one of you—”
“Uh, you kind of should. You should blame him—your fiancé—for attacking me.”
“Really, Rosie? He attacked you?” She may as well have said, Really, Rosie? You want to be a brain surgeon? because my claim was that unbelievable.
Knowing this conversation is going to end up exactly how it did the other night, with me on one side and Lucy cozy next to Judd on the other, I say, “Forget it.”
“Well, I had until you brought it up again.”
“No. You brought it up again. I thought you said you were sorry.”
“I am. I’m sorry Judd . . . did whatever he did. We had been fighting earlier, and, well . . . He promised nothing like that will ever happen again, and I believe him.”
What a fool. I can’t even respond. My teeth are clenched so hard, I’m afraid the two fillings I got when I was thirteen will crack.
“Let’s move on, Rosie. Really, it’s the only way.”
She’s right about that. I definitely want to move on and, like Mary, possibly away. With my inheritance, I can get my own place, a car, anything I need. The thought calms me and so does the silky fabric I’ve been mindlessly slipping through my fingers.
“Thank you for the dress. I hope it fits.”
“It better. You need to wear it next weekend.”
My head scrambles, thinking of the calendar. My birthday’s a week from Monday. Did Judd get his way and talk my mom into throwing some big party for me? “For what?”
“Our wedding, of course!” Lucy’s mood has risen and thankfully, so has she. Standing at the door, she says, “Next Saturday at La Rosa’s. That little Italian place downtown.”
Why do people always call Italian places little? La Rosa’s is actually kind of big and fancy with a wraparound bar and local singing talent if you’re there late enough. Not that I’ve ever been.
“How did you put things together so fast?” I ask.
“It’ll be small, just a few friends, some of Judd’s family. We’re excited. And we want you to be excited, too. Let’s put what happened the other night behind us, okay?”
“I said I would,” I snap. At this point, I have no choice. But in another couple weeks, all bets are off. I’ve already done the research, and I can rent an apartment once I turn eighteen.
“I hope you like the dress.” She shakes the other bag in her hand while opening the door. “Wait till you see mine!”
I can’t usher her out fast enough. I even close the door too quickly behind her, nipping her ankle. But I need to check on Mary, and when I lift the covers, I find her sound asleep.
24
I DID NOTHING all weekend but sulk in my bedroom. Well, that’s not true. Two bags of salt-and-vinegar potato chips occasionally brightened my mood, as did a Hem for Your Life marathon that had me cringing along with the judges as they tore apart wannabe designers’ failed attempts at pagoda sleeves and made them cry. When I get my shot, I won’t be weak like that. When it comes to the critiquing of my designs, my skin will be as tough as an alligator handbag with solid gold hardware. I can take it. I want to learn so I can get better.
By Sunday evening, the hum of Lucy’s constant phone chatter about her upcoming nuptials had me seeking some peace and quiet. But not before I moved the Fund. Someone had been nosing through my nightstand because stuff had been moved around—and believe me, I know when my stuff has been moved around. Pleased with its new hiding place in my dresser, I walked to the corner market that sells my favorite root beer, bought two bottles, and finished them both on the way back.
Judd, on the other hand, had been rather quiet (could just have been due to his sore tongue, but whatever). Saturday afternoon, I overheard Lucy telling him to make his own damn tea—a chamomile-and-honey concoction with crushed ice— because he’d brought it on himself. I wouldn’t exactly consider that taking my side, but still appreciated the nod in my direction.
I was glad to come to school today, forced to think about something other than what went down in Mac’s office on Friday. The will, the kiss, the rejection. Not to mention the money, which could help me beyond design school and getting an apartment. Maybe I won’t even stay in South Florida. There are great schools in New York, some of the best. Maybe, like Mary, the heat is getting to me. And if we do find my mother, I could always go to a school near her. Who knows? I could end up spending the rest of my life with her.
Third period, my phone buzzes during World History class. Paula, who sits next to me, shoots me a worried glance, knowing I’ll get in trouble if Ms. Tuft hears it. Todd’s ears have perked up, too, and he raises his eyebrows suspiciously. I give him a what-are-you-looking-at look because everyone’s phones are always buzzing during class, even though teachers threaten to take them away if they hear them. Teachers do a lot of threatening, but very little follow-through. Unlike Mrs. Shoal in the office. When I failed to give her a note from the dentist, she swiftly handed down my sentence—an after-school detention. As pissed as I am, I have to give Mrs. Shoal credit. At least she’s a woman of her word.
The phone vibrates again before I have a chance to pull it from my bag. I peer at the screen between my legs.
how bout tonite
It’s a different number, but I know it’s him. Joe. My fingers work stealthily in my lap.
stop texting me
but im horny
call someone else, biz closed
since when
STOP
u sure? cuz im not gonna give u another chance at bat
What does that mean? I don’t even care, so I reply:
YES stop texting me
ok. 3 strks ur out
“Let me have that, Ms. Velvitt.” The teacher is standing at the front of my row with her hand out. Ms. Tuft looks like an alien, with wide eyes that angle up high onto her forehead and a small, skinny body. Everyone refers to her room as Area 51.
I slide the phone shut and shove it in my bag. “Look. It’s gone.”
Todd’s snickering behind his book. He’s loving this.
“No, it’s not. Now take it out of your book bag and hand it over.”
“Please, Ms. Tuft, it’ll never see the fluorescent lights of your classroom again. I swear.”
“Swear all you want. Hand it over.” She scans the room with her alien eyes. “You all need to learn that the rules are the rules.”
I can’t give her my phone. Might I suggest a different limb?
“I’ll take detention,” I offer. Mumbles around the room. Everyone enjoys a bit of drama at school—anything to break up the daily routine. Except for Paula. She seems kind of bummed for me and drops her eyes when I look her way.
Ms. Tuft smiles like she’s won. “Deal.”
Little does she know I’ll be there anyway, at Mrs. Shoal’s request.
Ms. Tuft strides victoriously down the aisle, back to the board. My brain has left the building, and I only catch a word here and there when she picks up her lecture about the Battle of Britain. I’m more concerned with the string of words Joe put together. Three strikes you’re out. What’s that supposed to mean?
Todd snickers again, then turns away. Could it be him? But he’d probably use some football reference instead, the stupid jock. Besides, now that I think about it, his hands have been holding his textbook the whole time. It’s definitely not him. And I received the last text when I was with him in his car and his hands were definitely glued to the wheel. Or were they?
A strange sensation wriggles up my spine, settles in my neck. Fear.
I h
ad refused to reach out to Mac over the weekend. Pride plus embarrassment equals silence. But I may need him for more than a missing-persons case. What if this guy Joe is nuts and wants to hurt me? Can you locate a person just by having their phone number? I’m getting scared. Mac could protect me. My private-investigator-slash-bodyguard. It has a ring.
Ms. Tuft taps the board with the end of her long, pointy stick. We’re supposed to be paying attention, damn it, creating connections, forming opinions, making decisions.
Well, I’ve made one. I’ve decided to head over to Mac’s office after school. Make that right after detention.
• • •
When I arrive at the library where after-school detentions are held, I realize I wasn’t as clever as I thought. Both Mrs. Shoal and Ms. Tuft are waiting for me at the main desk. It’s like a party.
“Thought you could pull a fast one, huh, Rosie?” Ms. Tuft has dropped the formalities. Four hours ago, I was Ms. Velvitt.
Mrs. Shoal looks up at the wall clock, a sad white plastic disc that’s missing the seven. “It’s three fifteen. Each detention lasts one hour. You’ll be out of here at five fifteen,” she says, as if I needed help with the calculation.
No, no, no. That will not do. I planned on heading straight to Mac’s before his office closes. He’ll be gone if I get there at five thirty, which I won’t even make if I miss the bus.
“Can I do one detention today and one tomorrow?” I plead.
The two authoritarians peer at each other, communicating silently. You never know with Ms. Tuft. She really could be an alien and have telepathic powers. But they’d probably be lost on Mrs. Shoal, who’s too average and boring to be anything but straight-up human.
In unison, they say, “No.” Mrs. Shoal takes the lead. “You’re to sit here.” She pulls out a broken chair from underneath one of the tables. It makes a scraping sound against the floor that grabs everyone’s attention. A cluster of guys at a nearby table looks up and snickers at my fate.
“Fine,” I huff, then take out my phone. I hadn’t wanted to give Mac a chance to turn me away, so I was going to show up unannounced. But now I’m going to have to text him, say that I really, really need to see . . .
“And I’ll be taking that while you’re here,” Ms. Tuft says, plucking the cell from my hands. I lunge at her, trying to snatch it back. She knocks into Mrs. Shoal, whose wide body breaks her fall, but they both have that stunned, furious glare Lucy gets when I’ve irritated her.
The group of guys snickers louder and one of them says, “That’s not good.”
I am not victorious. Ms. Tuft still clutches my phone in her bony alien fingers.
I slink back into my chair while they bite their tongues nice and hard. What is said next must be measured. I will not get the best of them, no I won’t.
So they take a moment to compose themselves. Mrs. Shoal checks her glasses, makes sure they weren’t damaged, then stuffs them back in her bird’s nest. Patting down her shapeless beige dress, Ms. Tuft bristles and wrings her hands.
“Two weeks until graduation, young lady. I suggest you keep it together.” My History teacher wags the phone, then drops it into a front pocket of her tent dress. “This will be waiting for you in the main office. With the principal.”
I’m supposed to be scared about visiting the Oz of Del Vista, but all I am is pissed. How am I going to reach Mac now?
• • •
My phone was waiting for me (with Principal Aguilar, who actually handed it back without a lecture), but it was dead. Do you know how hard it is to find a pay phone these days? Close to impossible, which is why I’m extremely lucky to find Elaine on my bus again. I wonder where she’s always going, since she’s never gotten on or off the bus while I’m on it. Her face brightens when she sees me, but it’s crowded and a man already sits in the seat beside her.
When I approach, she says to him, “Would you mind? This is my granddaughter.” Elaine points up at me, and I smile dutifully.
“Thanks, Grandma,” I say, and slide in when he relinquishes his seat.
We giggle as I settle in. “Would you by any chance have a cell phone?”
“Doesn’t everyone these days?” She reaches into her crochet bag and pulls out a flip phone wrapped in a neon-pink case. “My daughter. Says the color makes it easier for me to find this way.” Elaine studies the bright, shiny case. “I guess she’s right,” she says while handing it over. “Misplace yours?”
I hold up mine to show her a black screen. “Dead.”
Elaine raises her thin gray eyebrows like she can’t believe a seventeen-year-old could let that happen. I’m glad she’s not like a lot of old ladies who pencil in bright orange arches.
“It got taken away in school today,” I confess, “so I wasn’t allowed to charge it anywhere, like during lunch.”
“Don’t tell me why.”
“I’ll be quick,” I promise, then realize I don’t know Mac’s number by heart. “Um, can I call information first? I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
She nods and I’m able to get the office number from the operator.
“John Brooks Investigations.” I’m so glad Mac’s answered, and just hearing his voice gets that match lit and burning in my chest.
“Hi, Mac, it’s Rosie.” I don’t wait for him to say anything. “I need to see you.” I sense Elaine’s listening, but she’s respectful and remains focused on turning lilac yarn into a flower.
He tells me he’s about to leave the office, already late for a study group on campus. I allow for an awkward pause. He doesn’t budge. “Please, Mac. I’m sorry for the way I acted. I’ve waited all weekend—”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you wait to call me?” he asks.
I cup the phone with my mouth and whisper, “Because you gave me the bum’s rush out of your office.”
“Sorry.” His clipped tone extinguishes the burning match.
“Honestly, I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me.” His silence isn’t that encouraging, so I press on. “Can we meet? I really need to see you.” My request sounds pathetic, but sometimes necessity trumps self-respect.
“Tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I reply, waiting for more.
“Goodbye, Rosie.” And then he hangs up.
I flip Elaine’s phone shut and hand it back to her.
“Men,” she says, shaking her head, like we’re two girls commiserating about boys.
“It’s more than that,” I say. “It’s a business thing. Kind of complicated.” Frustrated, I reach up to yank on the cable so the driver knows I want to get off at the next stop. But Elaine stops me by tugging on my shoulder.
“Are you hungry? It’s almost five thirty. If we get to Lou’s by six, I can buy us an Early Bird dinner.”
I pause before answering. “Were you headed there, anyway?”
“No.”
I love her honesty, so I sit. “Do you mind if I ask where you’re always going . . . when you’re on this bus, I mean.”
That familiar twinkle resurfaces. “Oh, I don’t go anywhere. I just ride. Something about the rhythm of the bus makes me crochet my best. Plus, it gets me out of the house. Not much does these days.”
When she dips her head, I study the deep wrinkles in her cheek, the white fuzz around her forehead. This old lady is tough, but sad. I get that.
“I am sorta hungry,” I say, then pull out my sketchbook and work beside Elaine for another twenty minutes until we reach our stop in front of the deli.
25
“SOMETHING TELLS ME you got a story,” Elaine says, wagging an onion ring at me. A hot corned beef on rye sits smack in the center of her plate, two pickles on the side. She polishes off one and says, “Love these. You know they’re cucumbers first, right? Before they’re soaked in salty goodnes
s and stuck in a jar.”
“Uh-huh,” I say weakly, since I didn’t actually know that.
She eats her other pickle, then says, “I’m listening.”
“You first.”
“I’m old and boring. Haven’t you noticed?”
“No. Tell me why you ride the bus all the time in a loop de loop.”
“Already told you. Gets me out of the house. That’s it.”
“But why?” I ask, because if you want to get out of the house, it’s usually to get away from the other people in it. Like for me, it’s Lucy and the Dud. So I wonder if she lives with someone who makes her nuts, too.
“Eat your sandwich.” She nods at my turkey-bacon club nestled on a mound of thick-cut potato chips.
“This looks great,” I say, then take my first bite. Mayonnaise spills out the side, which I promptly wipe away with a napkin.
“It’s always good here,” Elaine says. “Have you ever had their pie?”
I nod vigorously, because my mouth is full.
“Then save room for dessert. Dinner comes with it,” she says, and winks. The deli is packed with older people getting the Early Bird special like us. I glance at the counter, where I first spotted Mac, then at the booth where John first introduced himself. It’s only been a couple weeks since we met, but I somehow feel close to them, or at least tied to them.
I try again. “Please tell me.”
She grabs a napkin from a stack inside a metal container, then uses it to wipe her hands and mouth before speaking. “We had forty-seven terrific years,” she says, and I know she means with her husband, the way her eyes fall to the gold band on her ring finger. “Number forty-eight? Not so terrific. Started forgetting things . . .”
“Like where he put the car keys?” I joke, because even Judd forgets and he’s only twenty-nine.
“Like me,” she says.
I’m such an idiot. My hand instinctively reaches across the table, but she makes no move to accept it.
“I ride to escape, Rosie. To see the world, as dismal as it may seem through a thick, smudgy bus window. To see something other than Alan, sunk into the sofa, staring at the television someone else turned on for him.”
Rosie Girl Page 17
