Rosie Girl

by Julie Shepard

  I nod vigorously, but when he snorts I understand it was a joke. “Just kidding. I’ll be presentable.”

  “Like I’d ever worry about someone who considers khaki pants and polos casual wear.”

  “You don’t approve of that style?”

  “Well, I’m not the fashion police, only a fashion snob.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” he says. “I could tell you weren’t impressed the night we met at Lou’s. You were checking me out, especially my shoes.”

  “It wasn’t so much the shoes as the socks you wore with them.”

  “What was wrong with the socks?”

  “Nothing. You’re just not supposed to wear them with boat shoes.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says the girl who’s going to be a world-famous designer one day.”

  “Root beer for the lady,” Jacques says, returning with our drinks. He hands Mac his tea and tells him it’s already sweetened when he reaches for a sugar packet. “Ready to order?”

  Mac asks me what I want, then orders the same thing for both of us: burgers, hold the cheese, with football fries (whatever those are).

  “The team thanks you for your order.” Jacques snaps the menus out of our hands.

  Once the waiter’s gone, Mac asks, “What are you thinking?”

  “It’s that obvious there’s a hundred things running through my head?”

  “At least,” he says. “And I assume most of them have to do with Lucy.”

  “I don’t see how I can keep her from getting the money. My father left it to her. End of story.”

  Mac takes a gulp of his drink. “Contingent on raising you with adequate care and provisions,” he says, repeating the will almost verbatim.

  “Which she hasn’t done. But how do I prove that? It’s not like she beat me or anything.”

  “It doesn’t have to be egregious behavior to prevent her from receiving the inheritance.”

  “I still find it hard to believe that I could keep her from getting the money because she was nasty to me whenever the wind blew the wrong way.” I give it some more thought while taking my first sip of the root beer, which is almost as good as the stuff in that pretty etched bottle sold at the gas station near my house. “What about the whole ‘of sound mind and body’ thing? Or is that only in the movies?”

  “You mean when your father had the will drawn up?”

  I nod, still sipping.

  “John already thought of that. He actually wanted me to discuss it with you.”

  “Glad I brought it up,” I say coyly.

  He smirks, says, “There are two possible problems with that angle. Let’s start with the first one.” Mac plays with the straw in his tea. “The will was dated November of 2010, which means—”

  “I was eleven.”

  “Right. Was he sick then?”

  “I don’t think so.” I think hard, trying to remember if there was a time when he wasn’t feeling good, if I ever had suspicions about some mysterious illness that he and Lucy were trying to keep under wraps. But nothing comes to mind. “No,” I say with confidence. “He was never sick. At least not that I saw. Now I know he had all sorts of trouble with his heart.”

  I can see his wheels spinning, processing it all. “That kind of illness wouldn’t have affected his decision-making. ‘Of sound mind and body’ often pertains to the mental state of a person on their deathbed anyway—if the will was drafted at that time, near the end.” This conjures up the image of my dad at the end—weak, pale, breathing through a tube.

  “The second problem is this: Let’s just say, for whatever reason, he was not of sound mind and body when he had the will drafted. That means everything else in the document can be brought into question. Disputed, even.”

  “Like the money he left me.”

  “Correct.”

  “So what can I do to keep Lucy from getting her share?”

  “I’m not sure there’s anything you can do, short of running away.”

  “We could run away together,” I tease.

  “Could you wait a few years? I’ve got another year at UM, and then grad school for my master’s in criminology.”

  “Hmm . . . that might be a problem.”

  Mac always manages to make me smile in the middle of the most serious conversations.

  “Where would you go?” He asks this like he wants a real answer, not a playful one.

  “I’ve always wanted to go to New York.”

  “Really?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” I ask.

  “Not me,” he says. “I’m a Florida boy.”

  “Well, if I want any sort of career in fashion, it’s where I have to be.”

  “But first Paris, and then maybe Italy, right?” I love how he remembers the comment I made when we first met.

  “Right,” I say, not really joking. Because of my inheritance, anything is possible. Even a trip to Europe. “But first, a proper education.”

  “Any word from that school you applied to?” His question makes my heart sink, like it does with each passing day I don’t hear from the Fashion House. The website says they have a rolling admissions process, so I could technically be notified anytime, but still. Paula was right when she said I should’ve put in multiple applications. Not great planning on my part.

  “Not yet, but I may have another opportunity,” I confess. “I met the nicest lady on the bus. Her name is Elaine. We’ve gotten kind of friendly. Her daughter works at a design school in Fort Lauderdale, so she offered to pass on my portfolio to her.”

  Mac’s face lights up. “Wow, that’s great, Rosie. Somehow the right people find a way into our lives.”

  Isn’t that the truth.

  Our burgers arrive and Mac dives right in. It reminds me of the first time I saw him at Lou’s, with his head buried in his plate. I play with mine, decide on one of those football fries first. They’re thick-cut and loaded with coarse pepper.

  “Part of me says, let her have the money. Whatever. Maybe she was good to my dad in ways I never saw. Who am I to stand in the way of his wishes?” I devour three fries at once, they’re so crispy and delicious. So far, this place is great, but the guys playing basketball at the other end of the restaurant are distracting, especially to my date, who I notice keeps checking out the game over my shoulder.

  Mac almost chokes on his burger. “Now there’s a switch. Where did this come from?”

  “You know why I was so upset when you picked me up?”

  “You started to tell me before I went into interrogation mode at Dunkin’ Donuts. About the money you’d saved, that it was gone.”

  “It’s not gone, like missing. It was stolen. By Lucy.” I shudder, recounting the tragic turn of events. “She spent it on a cheap satin dress with shoddy stitching and a couple loaves of bread.”

  Mac crinkles his nose in confusion, but keeps eating.

  “Plus a bottle of wine,” I add, which makes Mac nod, as if it now makes sense. I let out a deep breath, then take a bite of my burger. It’s good, but I’ve let it get cold. I swallow before continuing. “Here’s a forty-three-year-old woman who is so hard up for money, she steals from her own . . . you know, daughter, or whatever. It’s kind of pathetic.”

  “I’m sorry, Rosie.” Deflated, Mac sinks into the booth. “She’s done a lot of things, but this—this is low, even for her.”

  I straighten up in my seat. “Would you look at us? We’re supposed to be having fun, but instead we’re moping in our football fries.”

  “You want to have fun?” Mac pushes his plate away. “Follow me.”

  • • •

  Mac deposits me on a stool before sealing himself behind the Plexiglas wall. By the time he’s got the basketball in his hands, I’ve settled in with a great view of the court. Maybe this is considered one of tho
se pickup games he was telling me about last night. At first, I’m totally turned on by Mac trying to impress me, and ready for the show. Until the other starring players appear onstage.

  I push my face into the glass. It can’t be him. Them. But it is. Mac is playing basketball with Todd, Ivan, and even—God help me—Ralph. That day Todd drove me to the Coastal Square mall, he said he and Ralph don’t really hang together. What a liar.

  With both fists, I pound against the Plexiglas, trying to get Mac’s attention, but the glass is thick and his back is to me. His loafers are planted on the court while he shifts the ball between hands. No traveling for him. The other guys are circling like vultures. I should leave. That’s what I should do. Bow out now before they see me, before it gets . . . ugly.

  Smack! Two palms brace against the glass and puckered lips blow a kiss between them, but they’re not Mac’s lips. They’re Todd’s.

  “Go away,” I say, even though I know he can’t hear me. It’s basically soundproof in there. Todd makes an obscene gesture with his right hand, but common decency gets the better of him when he spies a little girl crawling up onto the stool next to me.

  Behind him, under the fluorescent lights, the other guys—Mac included—are calling him back to the game. The cross still hanging around Ralph’s neck shines like a menacing gold spear. The sight of it makes me recoil.

  “Go,” I plead, but he doesn’t budge, his eyes boring into me with a mix of lust and hate. The longer he stands there, the more suspicious Mac is bound to be. Todd shakes his head with a devious grin, mocking me. He’s going to make trouble for me. What’s he planning on telling Mac? Lies, that’s all. But maybe more. I feel like there’s more. Tiny pricks between my eyes signal the return of a headache.

  Todd winks, then shuffles backward.

  It’s like waiting for a tornado to hit. You see it coming, its cone of angry clouds whipping in an unpredictable pattern but still headed straight for you.

  I can barely keep myself sitting upright, feeling wobbly and unsure, fearing the ground that was growing steady with Mac is about to crumble. All those guys with their stories, their lies. Gossiping about me and Mary. I can hear it now.

  I can’t wait. “Let’s go!” I yell into the glass, banging against it with my hands. I’ve scared the little girl next to me. She crawls down off the stool and back into the arms of her mother who’s at a table nearby.

  Mac throws his hands up in the air, playfully refusing to leave the game.

  My forehead is plastered to the Plexiglas, my hands now slipping against it, wet with sweat. And then it happens. Mid-bounce, Todd says something and Mac’s face drops. It morphs into an expression I’ve never seen. He looks . . . what’s that funny-sounding word? Bamboozled, that’s it. Like he was clubbed over the head.

  I hop off the stool and make my way for the large set of doors that lead into the court. I’m blocked by a heavyset waiter.

  “Can’t go in there.”

  “But I need to get my boyfriend. It’s an emergency.”

  He peers down at my feet. “You’re not wearing proper shoes.”

  “Neither is he,” I say, even though there’s no way this guy is going to check out Mac’s footwear to make sure.

  “Sorry. No one interrupts a game in progress. Court policy.”

  “It’s a restaurant,” I snap. “Not Madison Square Garden.”

  The waiter surrenders. “Which one is he? I’ll get him.”

  But it’s too late. Over the waiter’s shoulder, I watch Mac shove Todd in the chest and within seconds it’s an all-out brawl.

  The waiter and I almost run each other over trying to get through the door.

  “Stop!” I scream when I see Mac pinned beneath Todd’s knees. The waiter was right about the shoes. I slip, then slide along the glossy court and end up a few feet from the fight. I crawl toward them, intercepting Todd’s fist before it lands on Mac’s face. In a circle, Ivan and two other guys are egging things on. But not Ralph. He’s leaned down beside me, flicking his tongue in and out, in and out. I am this close to his pockmarked cheeks.

  All the fear, the fury makes me grab the dangling cross and jam it into his chest.

  He falls back, lets out a yelp. “That bitch just stabbed me!”

  Everyone laughs, except for Todd who’s still trying to get in another shot at Mac. I’m not about to let that happen. The three of us are a tangle of bodies squirming around on the court, but I make sure to snag the correct arm—his throwing arm—and sink my teeth into his flesh.

  Todd scrambles away, shouting, “She bit me! Goddamned animal!” He wipes the sweaty hair out of his eyes to inspect the wound. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like I drew any blood, though by the red blossom on Ralph’s shirt, I was successful there.

  I return my attention to Mac, whose lip is bloody, but so is Todd’s.

  The waiter, in a referee uniform like Jacques, finally decides to step in and tell everyone to go cool off.

  Mac and I remain on the court in a protective huddle. His hair is a mess. It’s in his eyes, his mouth. Dark red splotches cover his neck and jaw. I use the bottom of my shirt to wipe the blood off his mouth, but he pulls away. From pain or aggravation, I’m not sure.

  “Your new boyfriend can’t take a joke,” Todd says, rearranging his clothes.

  I don’t even want to know what he’s talking about. It can’t be good, and it can’t be funny. I grab Mac’s forearm, trying to lift him up, but he shrugs me off. Mortified, all I can think about is reaching Mary, hoping she’ll be there for me when I need her later. And I will be needing her big-time.

  “Let’s go,” the waiter says, rounding everyone up and off the court.

  Mac is ahead of all of us, stomping away in his honey-colored loafers. I lag behind, but ultimately push my way through the Plexiglas door and around gawkers eating burgers and football fries.

  • • •

  I spot Mac’s convertible idling at the side of the restaurant.

  I thought for sure he would’ve bolted, driven away at warp speed. But there he is, clutching the steering wheel, waiting for me. My heart pumps wildly as I yank open the car door and slip inside.

  I catch my breath while fastening my seat belt before asking, “What did he say to you?”

  “I can’t repeat it.” He shifts into reverse and peels out.

  “Tell me.”

  “No.”

  At a light, I put my hand on his knee, which is nervously bobbing up and down. “You said you could put the past behind us.” Even as I say it, part of me wonders what I’m actually asking him to forgive and forget.

  “That was before some punk put his fist in my face.”

  “Of all the guys to be playing on that stupid court . . .” I couldn’t believe my crappy luck. And looking at Mac’s swollen lip, his luck wasn’t so great tonight, either. “Tell me what he said.”

  He hesitates, but then says, “Ring around the Rosie, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall into Rosie’s . . .”

  My body recoils, even without hearing the crude ending. Mac steps on the gas, racing through the green light, headed for the highway that will lead him back to my house. Where he can dump me off.

  “Why would he say that?”

  “I have no idea, Mac!” I shake my head, but this whole conversation feels like déjà vu. Didn’t Ray accuse me of the same thing? My brain swims with muddling waves, which isn’t helping the headache. Why has Todd spread this lie? I could kill him.

  Mac asks who those guys were, especially the one who hit him.

  “His name is Todd. We were kind of flirting for a while before—”

  “Before what?”

  “He was one of the guys who was with Mary.” I dip my head. “Who paid her.”

  There’s a shift in his expression, from anger to confusion. “So then why wo
uld he have said that about you?”

  “Because I blew him off. Things got weird after that—you know, because Mary and I are best friends—and I basically let him know I wasn’t interested anymore. But maybe he still is. Which is why I think he’s the one sending me harassing texts.” I pause, gathering my theory. Even though it couldn’t have been him in class or in his car, he could’ve had one of those other guys do it. Like in that movie Scream, where more than one guy was the killer. “I got another one earlier, Mac. I’m getting scared that he’s going to do something.”

  “Really?” he asks disbelievingly. A trail of sweat trickles down his neck and gets lost beneath his collar. “That seems kind of crazy.”

  The question itself isn’t strange, just the way he asks it, like he thinks I’m lying.

  “Here’s a news flash: All guys aren’t like you. As a matter of fact, most of them aren’t. They do mean, hateful things when they don’t get their way.”

  His eyes are back on the road, his hand gripping the stick shift with angry white knuckles. I want the ride home to last an eternity, or at least long enough for us to get past this. Move on. Get back to the place where we were in the booth an hour ago. But Mac’s not budging, and every traffic light, every turn, takes me closer to my house and farther away from him.

  “You don’t believe me. You think I slept with those guys. That it was me, not Mary.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  We drive the rest of the way in silence until the black door of the green house welcomes me home.

  33

  IT MAY NOT have been an epic tragedy like the Titanic, but I still could’ve used a lifeboat last night. Apparently, Mary is still peeved by our argument at Outdoor Emporium, but at least she responded to my barrage of texts with a happy or sad face, based on the message.

  Todd punched Mac!

  I bit him!

  This was a good sign that she was warming back up to me, and I definitely needed it on this Saturday morning, the day of Lucy and Judd’s wedding. I would’ve preferred a face-to-face, or at least a phone call. She was more like a dinghy after my spectacular sinking, but it was better than nothing.