Rosie Girl

by Julie Shepard

  There’s no turning back. I’ve dropped a hint about something straight into a detective’s lap. Of course he wants to see where it leads.

  “Because she’s the one who earned it.”

  I can tell Mac is more confused than ever, and I make the commitment right then and there to come clean. I really like him and want to be honest. Hopefully, he’ll understand.

  “Have you ever had to make an extremely hard decision?”

  When he nods sympathetically, I say, “No, not like which college to attend. I mean, a life-or-death decision.”

  “No.”

  “Well, when I found the box my father had left me—that was the kind of choice I faced. At least that’s how it felt. The choice to find my real mother. The truth is, those first few days after reading the letter, I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to. When I first met your uncle at Lou’s, I almost didn’t go inside.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  “Because there’s a reason my father lied to me. And when we find her, I’m going to know why.”

  Mac opens his mouth to say something, but then stops himself. I know what he’s thinking. If we find her. She may not even be alive. The possibility has haunted me. While it’s been easy to imagine some stuff—what she looks like, or another family she chose to become a part of—I haven’t been able to deny the worst scenario. She may have passed away, too, like my father.

  “So I made the choice,” I continue, “and finding her was going to cost money, which I didn’t have. I needed to figure out how to make some.”

  “Okaaay . . . ,” he says, dragging out the word, wondering what the problem was.

  “Look, Mac. I have a teensy-weensy record, okay?”

  “How teensy?”

  “Last summer, Mary and I were caught spray-painting a park wall. We got a misdemeanor for something called criminal mischief.”

  Mac nods like he would’ve already known the charge without me telling him.

  “Plus community service hours,” I add.

  “But as a minor, your record would be sealed,” he says, launching into criminology major mode. “A future employer wouldn’t have been able to see it, or know about it, unless you disclosed it on your application.”

  “Once upon a time, that may have been true, Mac. But thanks to social media, we were tagged in an online news story about the incident. Someone looking to hire either one of us could’ve easily found the story if they googled our names.”

  “Fine. But even with a record, there are still ways to make money.” Mac’s face tightens with that weird look someone has before asking a question they’re afraid to hear the answer to. “So how did you get that three hundred dollars?”

  “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Not thinking that,” he says.

  I hang my head. If I were a dog, I’d tuck my tail between my legs, too. “It wasn’t even my idea.” And then I blurt it out. “It was Mary’s.” A pressure valve releases in my chest.

  “What idea, Rosie?”

  I take in a deep breath before dropping the bomb. “To charge guys for sex. There. I said it.”

  I should’ve expected his stunned expression, but still—the hanging jaw, the wide, disbelieving eyes. They make me cringe, knowing the images that must have just raced through his mind. “You didn’t,” he says.

  “I didn’t. Mary did,” I clarify, as if the distinction makes it any better.

  He yanks his hand away to pace in circles, round and round, shaking his head.

  “But how could she—” He stops and stares out the window.

  I understand Mac’s struggle to find a way to question this whole thing, so I jump in with the only answer I have. “You’d have to know Mary. She’s . . . tough. She’s always been there for me, Mac, especially when I’ve needed her most. It’s complicated, but she’s—”

  “Some best friend,” he says, finishing my thought. I read a million things into the way he’s looking at me, as if Mary’s the best kind of friend, and I’m the worst. For letting her prostitute herself while I sat on the sidelines with my bug spray.

  “I wish we could’ve found another way.” I stare right into his eyes so he knows I mean it.

  “I think you could have, Rosie. I think you both could’ve come up with a better plan than that.” His eyes flicker with a thought that causes him to back away from me. “Mary’s not still . . . she knows the agency is working pro bono—”

  “Of course not!” I snap. “The minute you offered to work for free, she fired her pimp.” I dip my head. “Me.” I hate lying to him, but does he really need to know we met Ralph that same night? Absolutely not. Besides, he doesn’t seem amused, so I resume a serious tone. “But there is this one guy who keeps texting me. Kind of harassing me.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “That wasn’t exactly a joke about the whole pimp thing. We used my number as a contact. I screened the calls for Mary, made sure the guy was okay. And I’d always go with her as backup. I’ve got the bug spray to prove it.” I reach in my bag, but he stops me.

  “I believe you,” he says sharply. “Tell me about the texts.”

  “I don’t know who he is. His name is Joe, or at least that’s what he calls himself. Every time he’s texted me, it’s a different number, one I don’t recognize.”

  “Every time? How many times has he contacted you?”

  “Three. As a matter of fact, his last text yesterday said, ‘Three strikes, you’re out.’ And the one before was threatening, too.”

  “Rosie, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “And explain it to you how?”

  He pauses, understanding my dilemma.

  “Okay, we’ll deal with this Joe thing, I promise. But we’ve got bigger fish to fry first.”

  “What kind of fish?”

  “Your birth certificate. It was forged.”

  • • •

  Again, Mac lays out the items from the box on the desk in front of us. A slice of afternoon sun lights up half of it, making the dark wood glossy and warm when I rest my forearms on it.

  “The name listed as ‘Mother’ on your birth certificate is Justine R. Velvitt.”

  I tilt my head and give him a look like, Obviously.

  “So we ran her name through TLO.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A super high-tech database. It uses something called data fusion that can help you find just about anyone.”

  “Wow. That’s amazing.”

  “It can be,” Mac says, “if you’ve got the right name.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t think that was her name. I mean, the Justine part, yes, because it’s scribbled on the back of the snow picture.” With a heart over the i but don’t think I need to add that. “The rest I’m not so sure. Why else couldn’t we locate her? The name has to be wrong.”

  “But it’s on my birth certificate, right here.” I pick up the worn piece of paper and point to the box in which her name is neatly typed.

  “I know. That’s why I believe it was forged.”

  “By who?”

  “Your dad.”

  “Why?”

  “Remember last Friday, when my uncle wanted me to tell you something? Before everything went haywire in here.”

  I remember. We were in the hallway, and John had given Mac a look, like they had a secret he wanted me in on.

  “John took one look at this and was able to get the ball rolling.” Mac picks up the party picture and points at the baseball cap my dad is wearing. It’s white with a funky red logo, which he zeros in on with a fingertip. “See that? It’s the letter F, the logo of Frontier Airlines, out of Denver.”

  “How would he have known that?”

  “Before he accepted a footba
ll scholarship to UM, there had been scouts at his high school. One of them was from the University of Colorado. They give recruits all sorts of promotional stuff, even from airlines. He said he was given a cap just like this. Dumped it, of course, when he decided to go to the U.”

  “Mac, you’re killing me with these stories going nowhere. Tell me how this helps us.”

  “Once John gave me some direction, I ran with it. Made a ton of phone calls until I hit pay dirt. I spoke to a human resources officer with Frontier who’s been there for twenty-two years. I asked if a Clint or Justine Velvitt had ever worked there, because, let’s face it—I’m sure your dad isn’t wearing that cap because he was a college football recruit.” He gives me another one of those goofy grins, but he’s right. In this picture, my dad’s thin and lanky—far from the heavier man he became as he got older. “The woman said no, but that the name Justine rang a bell and she’d look into some old records for me. Turns out, she was the one who worked for Frontier, but her full name was Justine Lenore Rickland. According to her employee records and pay stubs, she was always listed as single, even until she left in April of 2002.”

  “Why did she leave?”

  “Woman said she had no idea, but it was abrupt. One day, Justine didn’t show up for work, and no one ever saw her again.”

  “So what does all this mean?”

  “I don’t think they ever married, which isn’t a big deal, but it is a big deal that your dad lied about it. Look, now that we know her real name, my uncle can run it through the database again for her social security number.”

  “Great,” I say. “So that’s what John wanted you to tell me?”

  “Partly. There’s more.”

  “About the birth certificate? Just because my dad altered her name doesn’t really crack this whole thing open.”

  “It does when you combine it with the snow picture of your mother.” He holds it between us, and I try to study it with new eyes. The partially covered sign she’s standing in front of, the ski clothes that make her look like a pink marshmallow. Snow is at her feet, but I can still make out the tops of her furry boots.

  “Did you happen to notice this?” He points to something stuck in the right post of the wooden sign. I had, and imagined the piece of paper flapping beside her in the winter breeze.

  “It looks like a flyer or something.”

  “It’s a Sports Illustrated cover.”

  “Oh.” Squinting, I can make out the famous magazine logo.

  “John may have been the professional athlete, but I’m still a sports nut. Kind of have one of those statistical memories that impress people at barbecues.”

  Everything about him impresses me, even the boat shoes with socks. Even his speech that constantly flips from casual to formal and keeps me on my toes.

  “It’s the February 8, 1999, issue. John Elway had brought the Broncos to a Super Bowl win. Some fan must have tacked it up there.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Copper Mountain, a ski resort in Colorado. She’s standing in front of the sign.”

  “She and my dad were skiing. So what?”

  “It was February 1999. I don’t think your mother was racing down any hills then.”

  It takes me a minute to unroll the calendar in my brain, to understand the message in Mac’s eyes. “Because she was pregnant with me at the time.”

  “Right. I don’t know about you, but who would trek all the way out west and not ski at a ski resort? Couple that with the job at Frontier Airlines.” He waits for me to catch on, but when I don’t, he says, “I think they lived there, Rosie.”

  “And . . . ?” I ask, reading in his expression that there’s more.

  “I think you were born there, too.”

  28

  “DO THESE THINGS make me look trashy?” Mary asks, studying herself in the mirror, a pair of dark brown hiking boots on her feet.

  “Only when you wear them with those,” I say, eyeing the supershort navy running shorts that she doesn’t use for running but make her long legs look slim and athletic. I sigh, then drop my head to the side.

  Mary turns, abandoning her reflection. “Cheer up, will you?”

  I force a grin, then let it fade. She’s dragged me to Outdoor Emporium, stoked at the idea of finally heading to the mountains and insisting she needs the right “gear.” All I did was mention that my mother used to live in Colorado, but there’s nothing to suggest she’s still there. John’s out of town for a few days, but when he returns, he’ll run her accurate name through the database and get a social security number. Then we can pick up the trail after she left Frontier Airlines in 2002. But until that happens, I’m feeling agitated and in limbo.

  “Don’t you love all the shit in here?” Mary asks, meaning everything from bows and arrows to kayaks. I nod, but I’m interested in other things—like the fabric on shirts with built-in sunscreen and shoes that can be worn from land to sea. “I could see myself working in a park, you know? Like a big, important park. Yellowstone, maybe.”

  What’s she rattling on about? The whole park ranger fantasy again? I guess everyone’s entitled to their own dream. I keep nodding, even though I’m losing interest and drifting back to my meeting with Mac. And Mac’s forearm hair that I want to stroke like a pet.

  “I like them,” she says, focusing on the boots, ignoring my bad mood. “Could you spot me the fifty bucks?” She sits on the plastic bench and starts untying the laces.

  “Seriously? I gave it all to you—”

  “I’m just messing with you, Rosie girl. Besides, we’re going to need that money for our trip.” She shoves the boots into the box. “These babies are going on my dad’s credit card.”

  “Isn’t that only for emergencies?” I follow her through a maze of fishing poles, surfboards, and archery equipment. When we reach the clothing section, I let my fingers touch all the different fabrics—soft cotton shirts, scratchy polyester Windbreakers, silky bathing suits.

  “This is an emergency. We’re going to brave the wilderness. I need the right shoes.”

  I grab Mary’s shoulder, yanking her back before she reaches the cash register. “Hold up,” I say. A woman with two kids shoots me a look. “Go ahead,” I tell her, then pull Mary to the side. “Get them if you want, but don’t get them for a trip that’s probably not going to happen.”

  Mary frowns, whips her ponytail behind her. “And why wouldn’t we be going?”

  “Because I don’t know if she’s even there, that’s why. And even if she is, Colorado’s a big place. She could be anywhere. Let’s just see what else Mac and John can find out.”

  “What’s going on with you?” Her brown eyes grow dark and challenging, all the playfulness that was there moments ago gone.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re acting weird.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Is it about the flight?” she asks, knowing I’ve got a fear of flying. It’s not so much about plummeting to my death as it is about being stuck in that metal tube. I don’t like being forced to stay in enclosed spaces. Remember the plastic cabin and Felicia with the fish-tail braid? Something about the way Mary is looking at me now—like she sees right through me—reminds me of her again and how she saved me.

  The woman with the two kids is staring at me while she pays the cashier. “What’s your problem?” I ask. This is what you get for shopping after school—irritated mothers with their offspring. She turns away, shuffles the boys to the other side of her, as if she’s worried I’m going to snatch one of them.

  “Jeez, Rosie girl. You’re awfully snappy this afternoon.”

  “No, I’m not,” I say, even though I am feeling on edge today.

  “You’ve gotten cold feet. I can feel it.”

  Is she picking up on something I haven’t had the courage to face? As exciting as it’s
been working with Mac, I can’t deny the familiar fear is creeping back—the fear I had when I first read Dad’s letter. Do I really want to know the truth?

  I playfully kick out a foot and say, “Warm and toasty. Now come on, pay for those beauties and let’s get out of here.”

  “Not until you tell me you’re going to see this through.”

  I can’t believe how she’s pushing me, right here in the checkout line of Outdoor Emporium with a shelf of water guns poking into my calves. I must hesitate too long because Mary’s face falls. “So we did all that for nothing.”

  “No, we made over six hundred dollars. That’s not nothing. Besides, what about rule number three?” I challenge. “Whatever we decide to do with our own share of the money is no one else’s business.”

  Mary firmly grips my arms. “Well, guess what? Rules are meant to be broken, and I’m officially breaking the shit out of number three with a goddamned hammer from Perkins Paints. I did a pretty fucked-up thing for you.”

  “Stop!” I snap, and everyone near me shrinks away in shock. You’d think I’d called her a dirty whore by the way they’re staring.

  “Next in line.” The cashier leans over the conveyor belt, trying to get my attention. I don’t respond fast enough, so she asks, “Can I help you?” more irritated this time.

  “No,” I say, not giving Mary a chance to swoop in and answer. “I’m sorry. Can you put these back?” I hand over the box of boots. “She doesn’t want them, after all.”

  “She?” the cashier says, looking around me. I turn to find an empty space and Mary gone.

  29

  I’M WAITING FOR ELAINE on Thursday’s four o’clock bus, the yellow folder clutched in my hand. She wasn’t here when I got on at the stop in front of school. Was she having second thoughts about showing my work to her daughter? The portfolio is key to getting into design school—a good one should be able to stand on its own—but knowing it’s been seen by the right people would definitely be an advantage.

  The rainy afternoon fits my mood. I pick a spot on the window and analyze a snake of water as it travels down the glass. Why did Mary and I have to argue yesterday? She got all bent out of shape over nothing. Two arguments in two weeks. It’s not like us. There’s a shift happening, and I’m not sure why. With so much going on—the search for my mother, Lucy and Judd’s upcoming wedding, my birthday—now is not the time to be on the outs with my best friend.