Rosie Girl

by Julie Shepard

  And then, something. While forcing down a piece of cold chicken for lunch from Judd’s fast-food filth house, there is a knock on our black front door. Lucy pops up from the kitchen table, taking a wing with her. Judd smacks her butt when she passes him, and it makes her giggle and me vomit a little in my mouth.

  I crane my neck to see who the rare visitor might be. Lucy’s blocking him, but it’s a delivery of some sort because the guy asks, “Rosie Velvitt?”

  “Uh, no,” she says. I imagine the complete and utter deflation of her white powdery face. “But I’ll see that she gets them,” and she all but closes the door in this guy’s face. Even I know you’re supposed to give delivery guys a tip. I’ve already raced to her side to see what’s come my way. Honestly, I have no idea who would send me anything.

  Lucy pushes a clear cellophane cone of flowers into my chest. “They’re for you.”

  I study the explosion of pink and purple flowers sprinkled with baby’s breath. No one’s ever bought me flowers before. Unless you count the time Ray accepted a dozen wilting roses from a street vendor and then turned to me after he dug into an empty wallet and asked if I had ten bucks to pay the guy. A card tucked inside says, I believe you. Mac.

  I want to head straight to my room but know they need water and a vase, so I’m forced to return to the kitchen.

  “Well, well, well,” Judd says, all creepy. “What did you do to earn those?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Rosie!” Lucy blurts. “Watch your mouth.”

  “I don’t like what he’s insinuating,” I say.

  “Maybe I’d like to know, too,” she says, getting back to her bowl of wings. She uses her small Chiclets teeth to pull scraps of chicken from the bone.

  “He likes me, okay? This guy Mac really likes me. That’s it.”

  “Ray really liked you, too,” Lucy says, “but you blew that. Maybe you can manage to hang on to this one.”

  If she only knew why he ultimately ended things—because I wouldn’t have sex with him—a real, caring mother would applaud me, not condemn me. I had tried talking to her once about it, to tell her that Ray wasn’t exactly the nice guy who calls her ma’am and compliments her tight sweaters. But Lucy didn’t seem all that interested and wandered off into her bedroom with a glass of wine.

  I ignore her and help myself to the only vase I can find in the cupboard—a tall glass one she tells me to be careful with, like I’m twelve. I fill it with water, cut the stem bottoms, and arrange the flowers so the purple ones ring the outside with the pink ones in the center, then intersperse the white baby’s breath. So pretty. I won’t let Lucy and Judd ruin this moment.

  Back in my room, I set them on the nightstand. They do an excellent job of brightening things up, but the rush of receiving them is already wearing off. My mind and body are zapped from last night’s Sports Club debacle. So I hop into bed and call Mac, but it goes straight to voice mail. Before I can tap out a text, he beats me to it.

  Studying in the library.

  They’re beautiful.

  Then another text because that wasn’t enough. Thank you. (Followed by something I forced myself to do, knowing it was a risk.)

  You’re welcome.

  I would let it end there, on a good note, but the wedding is looming and I just want to know now if I’m on my own.

  R we still on for tonite?

  I’m getting sleepy lying here, waiting for him to respond. And then:

  The top hat makes me chuckle, and I write back: Great. Can’t wait.

  C u tonite

  Did Mac actually use text language? I smile at the thought of somehow rubbing off on him. I curl up under the covers and slip into a nap.

  When I wake, my bedroom is filled with the glow of a late-afternoon sun. I stretch and grin like a lovesick puppy when I turn and see the explosion of flowers beside me.

  I’m feeling rested and kind of loved, a good emotional place to do some drawing. I grab my sketchbook from under the bed and start on a vest. Seeing Mac wear one the other day got my wheels spinning. Vests have been out for a while, which means it’s only a matter of time before they make a comeback. I’m thinking oversized, no buttons, large pockets. I pull out the pencil lodged in the spiral wire and get busy.

  Twenty minutes into a full-on suit, two knocks on my bedroom door. I don’t want to stop sketching, so I ignore it. Drawing is my escape, especially when I allow myself the fantasy of a design that’ll hop off the page and onto the runway. I’m there, in the first row, watching models of all sizes sport this suit—with a vest, without it, in tweed, in suede . . .

  Knock, knock, knock. Three raps this time, followed by a jiggle of the knob. Someone’s impatient.

  “Rosie, you in there?” It’s Judd.

  “Nope, it’s Rosie’s ghost again who always locks the door.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “No, you cannot come in.”

  “Please.” Normal voice, and then, “I want to clear things up before the ceremony,” in a whisper.

  “I’m busy.”

  “With what?”

  Forget it. He’s totally broken my concentration. So I crawl out of bed, pull on a sweatshirt over my shirt, and socks on my feet. I clutch the doorknob without opening it. “There’s a church about a mile away if you want to make confession.”

  “Don’t be like that.”

  “Well, I’m not a priest and not about to absolve you of your sins.”

  “Look,” he says, his breathing heavy against the door. “I’m sorry about what happened.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re only sorry you got caught.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Is so. Now go away.”

  “Please open the door so we can talk like adults.”

  “I am an adult. Well, not technically. But in two days I will be. You’ll always be a cheating degenerate, no matter how old you are.”

  He doesn’t respond. I believe Judd’s gone, when he starts up again, all whiny. “I had too much to drink after your mom and I fought, and when you woke me up I was out of it—”

  “Apologize without excuses.”

  “Fine. I’m sorry, okay? That’s it. You need to forgive me before the wedding. I don’t want to marry Lucy without having your forgiveness.”

  Is this guy for real? I just want him to go away so I can put on my new dress and make myself beautiful for Mac. “Well, if you promise to never, ever—”

  “I promise, Rosie. Never, ever again.” Pause. “Can I come in now?”

  “No. I’m getting dressed.” That was probably the wrong thing to say. I may have kicked on his pervert radar. “I’m mean, I’m dressed, but I’m putting on my makeup.”

  “I only need a minute.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Not like this. Open the door.”

  So I do, because I need to see his face, show him I’m not scared or intimidated. At first, a crack, which he doesn’t push through. This earns a wider gap, and I’m so shocked by what I see, I fling the whole door open to get a better look. No mustache. Hair slicked back and tucked behind the ears. Habitually pale skin slightly tan, as if he spent the day at the beach. An ice-blue tie is knotted perfectly at the neck of a crisp white shirt, and over that, a well-fitted black suit. Judd the Dud actually looks respectable on his wedding day. I wish Mary were here to witness the miracle.

  “Your mother’s getting ready,” he whispers, sizing me up in my three layers of knock-around clothes. “You’re not dressed.”

  “I know. I lied. Now what do you want?”

  “I’m planning a surprise for her and I need your help.”

  “Go ahead,” I say, tapping my watch. “You’ve got thirty seconds.”

  “I don’t know if she told you, but Lucy’s leaving her job.”

  So that�
�s what Roland’s parting comment was about. Lucy’s quitting. Of course she is. Why would she keep pushing papers at a scrap metal yard with half a million dollars coming her way? I back away from the sliver of space I had given him when I opened the door, and try to act surprised when I say, “No, she didn’t.”

  “She’s had enough, says working around all the scrap metal is bad for her lungs.”

  “But smoking a pack a day isn’t.”

  Judd tilts his head, knowing I’ve got a point. He stuffs his hands in his pants pockets and rocks back and forth on his newly polished leather shoes. “Irregardless,” he says, which makes me cringe right along with supposably, his other favorite “word.” “I’m taking her away from all that.”

  “You’re a real knight in shining armor.”

  He bristles in his rented suit. “All I need is the shield and dagger.”

  “So where are you taking her? A table for two at Itchin’ for Chicken?”

  His lips curl into a forced smile. I’m pushing him, and he’s trying his best not to push back. Got to give the guy credit for keeping his cool. “No,” he says simply. “First, I’m taking her on a surprise honeymoon. Then we’ll focus on finding her another job. Something less . . . harmful.”

  “So what do you need from me?”

  “I want to take her on a cruise.”

  “Have a great time.”

  “On Monday.”

  “That’s my birthday,” I snap, because for some reason the thought of them taking off on it bugs me. Not that I want to celebrate with these two jokers—it’s just the point. Toss me a gift, light a candle or two, pretend to give a shit.

  “I know, which is why I want you to cut out of class early so we can have a birthday-slash-bon-voyage lunch. The ship doesn’t leave until five o’clock.”

  I smell something rotten, but it could just be him. You can’t work for years around garlic and grease without it seeping into your bloodstream. He makes a big, fake smile, and says “pretty please” like a little boy.

  So I shrug, figuring, hey, it’s a free meal. “I’ll go, but it doesn’t mean I forgive you for what you did. And it doesn’t mean I’ll forget, either.”

  He drops his eyes, the first gesture that appears to have a shred of authenticity. “Okay.”

  “I’ll need a note excusing me.” I can’t be in Shoal’s crosshairs again.

  “Nice. My first parental duty.” He wiggles his eyebrows up and down, having slipped right back into creep mode. “I’ll send you with one, signed by your new stepfather.”

  “Forget it,” I say, about to slam the door on him.

  “I was only kidding.” He reaches out to poke me in the waist, but thinks better of it and swiftly pulls back his lecherous hand. “Promise you’ll come.”

  The wet desperation in his eyes triggers an internal alert system. Something’s up. But he’s worn out his welcome, and unless I want to shower again, Judd’s got to go.

  “Fine. I promise. And now I’m getting dressed,” I say, pushing him back in the chest with a stiff plastic hanger. I turn the dead bolt extra-hard so he hears it click.

  34

  THE HAPPY COUPLE took off twenty minutes ago, looking like they escaped from the top of a wedding cake. I watched from my room as Judd helped Lucy into the Slaabmobile, the hem of her wedding dress getting stuck in the passenger door without her noticing. It was poetic justice, seeing the white fabric trail like a wayward flag against the driveway and onto the street. She’ll be furious when she gets to the restaurant. Though she’ll think, Perfect excuse to have a drink.

  The ceremony is scheduled for eight o’clock in the “chic basement” of La Rosa’s, with a cocktail hour first to get their guests nice and liquored up. It’s six thirty, and I’m waiting for Mac, who should be here soon. The dining room table gives me a clear view of the street, so I can see the moment he pulls up.

  But I’m getting anxious and can’t sit here any longer. I head to the full-length mirror hanging behind the hallway door for one final assessment to make sure I still look fresh. It took serious effort, but I blow-dried and tugged mercilessly at my hair until it lay flat. Then I used a straightener to seal in my work. I chose sparkly copper eye shadow and matching lip gloss, capturing a bit of that ’70s feel. A silver pendant hangs from a delicate silver chain and settles right above my chest. Fake diamond studs are small enough to look real, and I envision Mac nibbling at them, playfully threatening to pull one out with his teeth.

  When there’s a noise outside, my head snaps in that direction. It’s him. I shuffle into the living room, careful not to trip in my strappy satin heels. I pull aside the curtain, but no one’s out front. A cat scurries across the street, two birds abandon the tree near our driveway and settle on the sputtering globe of a lamppost. Then that noise again, a scraping sound, but I can’t tell where it’s coming from. The front yard is still empty.

  I let the curtain fall, then pull out the cell from my bag and dial Mac’s number. He doesn’t answer, so I send a text that I’m ready and can’t wait to see him, in case he got sidetracked—which I find hard to believe. He’s never been late for one of our meetings, and when he said he’d pick me up last night at eight, he was actually five minutes early. He’ll be here.

  Hanging around a quiet house is weird. No voices, no shuffling of feet. You take those everyday sounds for granted when there are none. Just you and the walls. And when you hear another noise that sounds like it’s coming from inside the house—not outside—your mind goes in a dozen directions, none of them any good. Was it in the kitchen? The den? I wait for another sound to guide me, but there’s only silence.

  I decide to watch TV to keep my mind occupied. I don’t want to wrinkle or dirty my dress by sitting on the couch, which has its share of stains, so I stand in front of the television, pointing the remote control at the screen. Lucy’s favorite show, The Real Housewives of Some Boring County, is on, and two women are fighting—surprise, surprise—and screaming at each other. One even throws a vase that shatters against a wall. It’s so loud, I don’t hear him come up behind me.

  35

  “THREE STRIKES you’re out,” he says.

  His voice sets off an explosion in my ears. I can’t respond, because he’s holding my mouth with his hand. But the smell of his fingers gripped under my nose—before he even spoke, I knew it was him. How had I not remembered Ray’s love of baseball and the endless games he’d forced me to watch on the weekends?

  “Told you we were gonna meet. In fact, we already know each other pretty well.”

  He drags me from the living room, twisting my ankle in the process.

  “I can’t believe you’re Joe,” I whimper, and he tells me to shut up. He puts one hand against my mouth while the other arm wraps around my neck, ripping off my pendant necklace.

  “Let’s have a little fun,” he says, shoving me through my bedroom door and into the nightstand. The vase holding Mac’s flowers tumbles and shatters on the floor. The water spills near my feet. He pushes me onto the bed. I hear a seam rip in my new dress, somewhere near the shoulder. He pats the back of his pants. “Seems I forgot my wallet. But you wouldn’t charge me now, would you?”

  I scramble to sit up, but he forces me back down. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him, and he looks different. I’ve been blocked from his social media accounts, though I got lucky a few times when he was tagged in someone else’s photo. He’s shaved his black hair into a crew cut, which makes his bushy eyebrows seem unnaturally thick. Dark stubble sweeps across the bottom of his face, and a tiny gold hoop dangles from one of his ears. He wears a cutoff fraternity shirt and gray sweats—not exactly the preppy high schooler who left me for Tallahassee nine months ago.

  “Ray, please.”

  “Don’t beg, Rosie. It’s a turnoff.”

  “I mean, please don’t.”

  Ignoring me, he pul
ls the shirt over his head, then climbs on top of me.

  Lips quivering, voice shaking, I ask him why he kept texting me, pretending to be someone else.

  “To see if the rumors were true. It was a test.”

  “I told you. It wasn’t me! It was Todd—”

  “Todd was fucking for cash.” He chuckles at his joke, and when he does, I get a whiff of marijuana on his breath. That night he called me—he was smoking pot. But he’s all riled up, too, which means he’s probably on something else, something more.

  “No. I mean, Todd spread those rumors. I didn’t do that, Ray. You have to believe me. Besides, I never agreed to meet Joe, or you, or whoever, so I passed your test.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says, his fingers starting to explore my body. “You’ve turned into a little slut since I left.”

  “No, I haven’t.” I’m trying to get him to look into my eyes, to see me, remember me. I manage to put my hand along the side of his face. Maybe my touch will bring him back. But he’s wild with anger and not thinking straight. “Listen to me, Ray. A lot has happened since you left.”

  I had wanted to tell him the truth about Lucy. But by March, when I’d found the box, it had been months since we’d spoken.

  “Yeah, you started turning tricks.”

  One of his hands disappears into his sweatpants. He pulls out a condom and smacks the small silver square against my cheek. “Who knows what you’ve picked up. Don’t want to catch anything now, do I?”

  For months, I had dreamed of lying beneath Ray again, feeling his thumping chest, smelling the sharp odor of his favorite body wash. Feeling the slope of his lower back with my hands. But not like this. He’s crushing me, and his breath—reeking of pot and alcohol—has me squirming to turn away.

  He grabs my face. “I can’t breathe, Ray. Please get off of me.”

  “Shut up already, will you?” He’s got both my arms pinned to my sides. When I feel him hard between my legs, it unleashes a flood of panic. I can’t lose my virginity like this. I can’t lose it to him.