Rosie Girl

by Julie Shepard

  “Me, too. I’m sorry I’ve been such a wicked brat.”

  The bed creaks when we plop onto it at the same time, so I put a finger to my lips. “Mr. and Mrs. Lister are still sleeping it off.” I divide the cupcake with my hands so we can share.

  “Speaking of them, how did it go?” she asks. “Wait. Hold off on that. I want to know what happened with Ray. Your one-line text wasn’t enough. I mean, I can see you’re okay, but what the hell happened in here?” She surveys my bedroom looking for clues, but there are none. The flowers have been swept away, the sheets washed in extra-hot water.

  “He broke in, tried to . . . you know.”

  “That prick. Like after all this time of saving yourself, you were going to lose it like that? To him? No fucking way, which is why I was ready to step in.”

  “What?” I ask, the chocolate on my tongue suddenly tasting like plastic. I peer at her, noticing she looks like a ghost, backlit by the sun struggling to rise in the east.

  “Didn’t you hear me? Through the glass.” She nods to the window. “I said that I was here. I knew you needed me,” she says, sucking the last of the chocolate off her thumb.

  She’s said that before. Like the time I was at my old house, searching for the box, and when I woke up after crying myself to sleep, there she was.

  “So why did you leave?” I ask.

  “Had to take off. My mom was calling from the hospital. He broke her nose, Rosie.”

  “No!” I grab her hand. Poor Mary. Now that I’m getting a better look, her eyes do look puffy. She’s probably been crying all weekend.

  “Want to know the worst part? She accepted his apology and a pitiful bunch of street-corner flowers. So I don’t want to talk about my parents’ dysfunctional relationship anymore. I’m done. I want to know what happened when Mac got in here.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Cool-looking dude in a suit? Yeah, I saw him.”

  “I don’t understand why you couldn’t have stayed and made sure I was okay.”

  “Because you only need one savior, Rosie girl.” A moment ago, Mary’s face was shiny with excitement. Now it’s dull and flat.

  “Why can’t I have two?”

  “It doesn’t work that way.” She leaves my bed and settles into the desk chair, wearing the same plaid miniskirt she wore that day with Todd. But this morning, Mary’s replaced my cream-colored tank with a large black shirt. She pulls it over her knees and tucks them into her chest. Her face, tipped to the side, still shows signs of an extra-early-morning rise. “You said you were okay. I sent you a dozen texts but never heard back. Figured you were busy at that sham of a wedding.”

  “We were,” I say, then smack my lips with the last bite of cupcake. “Now that’s what I call a birthday breakfast. Thank you.”

  Her face brightens from the compliment, but she’s still sulking. “We, huh?”

  “Listen to me. No one will ever replace you.”

  “I know,” she says. “He just better treat you right. Otherwise, I may have to step in.” She grabs a brush from my desk and pulls it effortlessly through her hair. It falls in caramel sheets around her shoulders, making me jealous. I’m certain my hair is a dark puffy mess that needs to be tamed by a headband, rubber band, or both.

  “He will. He is.”

  “But if he ever stops, I’ll be here.” She scrunches up her face. “Or maybe not. I still plan on getting the hell out of here after graduation. One broken nose is about my limit. I can’t watch it anymore.”

  “I’m just glad you’re here now. I have to tell you something.”

  “Go.”

  “They found her.”

  Mary drops the brush, hops back on my bed, and playfully shoves me in the chest. “Get out!”

  I topple backward into a mound of pillows. “She’s still in Colorado.”

  “Oh my God, Rosie. I can’t believe it.” Her flat brown eyes turn electric. “When do we leave?”

  “Well, she’s not exactly living in a gated community doing carpool.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s put it this way—it’s a good thing you’re sitting down.”

  “Don’t tell me.” Mary puts up a hand. “She’s on death row for killing her cheating husband.”

  “No.”

  “More glamorous?” She casts her eyes up at the ceiling, imagining another scenario. “Please don’t tell me she’s homeless . . . Oh no.” Mary’s face drops. “She’s not . . .”

  “No, she’s not dead. She’s alive but not well.”

  “Okay. I give up. Tell me.” Mary takes in a deep breath and holds it.

  “She’s in a mental hospital.”

  Enormous exhale fueled by shock. “Your mother’s a nut?”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “It must be true. Why else would she be there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’ll find out.” She rubs my arm, but stops mid-stroke, raising an eyebrow. “We are going, right?”

  “Don’t start that again,” I say, reminded of our spat in the sporting-goods store.

  “I will start that again.” She laces her fingers with mine. “It’s about getting on a plane, right? ’Cause I can give you some potent shit to knock you out.”

  “Well, that’s part of it.”

  “Forget about flying. We can even drive there.” Her face lights up with the idea, and she says, “Road trip!”

  “Stop,” I say seriously.

  “Think about everything we did, Rosie girl. All for the sole purpose of finding her. Well, she’s been found, and now you’re having second thoughts.”

  She’s right. Even after Mac and I talked until two o’clock in the morning, I settled into bed (he took the sleeping bag on the floor) and launched into a panic. Now that I know she hasn’t been gallivanting around Europe as a famous designer—or at bare minimum, become an average housewife with a minivan she’s filled with other kids—I’m terrified of seeing my mother drastically different from those pictures in the box. Young, happy, beautiful. She could remain like that forever if I don’t go.

  Mary doesn’t wait for me to respond, only grips my hands tighter and says, “Let’s go right now. Forget about school.”

  “Can’t. I promised Judd I’d let them take me out for a birthday lunch before they leave on their honeymoon.” I wave the paper in front of her face. “He wrote me a note so I can get out early.”

  Mary leans over and parts my hair, like my third-grade teacher did when our school was on lice lockdown. I wrench away from her prying fingers. “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for the incision.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Where they did the lobotomy.”

  I smack her arm. “It’s just a farewell lunch, Mary.”

  “Oh, really? Are you sure it doesn’t take place in some lawyer’s office?”

  “No, I’m not sure,” I say, having already thought that when Judd made the offer.

  “It would take some big, hairy balls to do something like that.”

  We both giggle at her crudeness. “Let ’em try,” I say. “They know they’d have to drag me kicking and screaming. I’m sure it’ll all come out after the cruise. In the meantime, I’ve got the house to myself for a week. It’ll be a honeymoon for all of us.”

  “Party time!”

  House parties are such a joke. A bunch of people come over, raid your kitchen for alcohol, and then take off to go somewhere else.

  “We’ll see,” I say, even though I have no intention of throwing any kind of party. I need to get through today first—lunch with the newlyweds and my meeting with John.

  “That’s better than no,” she says brightly. “By the way, make sure to wish them bon fucking voyage for me.”

  40

  WHAT IS I
T about vindication that tastes as sweet as cherry pie? After fourth period, I go to the main office and triumphantly hand the slip of paper to Mrs. Shoal. Through tortoiseshell magnifiers, she inspects Judd’s note. I assume she’s searching for some clue that would indicate a man didn’t write the letter, maybe studying the handwriting, looking for dotted i’s and crossed t’s uncharacteristic of a masculine hand. I don’t know. But she keeps me standing there for at least five minutes while she reads the simple paragraph over and over again.

  “Can I go?” I ask, noting the time is pushing twelve o’clock. Judd said he’d be outside the front entrance at noon, waiting for me in the Slaabmobile because his truck is in the shop.

  “There’s no phone number on here,” she said. “Need a number to authenticate it.”

  Really? I want to say. Authenticate? It’s not a piece of art. It’s a frickin pass. I rattle off his cell number and watch with pleasure as her face sinks in surrender.

  She rips off a yellow sheet of paper from a cube on her desk and scribbles a message with a black Sharpie. It’s the official one she has to write, in case I get stopped by one of the security guards who are on an equally pathetic power trip.

  “Happy birthday,” she says, still eyeing me skeptically over the tops of her glasses. I spin on my wedges, out the office door, and into the hallway warmed by the sun.

  • • •

  “So where are we going?” I ask, settling into the backseat. This bucket of bolts doesn’t even have seat belts for rear passengers, so I fold my hands over my lap and say a silent prayer.

  Lucy’s wearing a bright yellow sundress I’ve never seen before and a straw hat with a ridiculously wide brim. She edges forward because it keeps hitting the headrest. Behind the wheel, Judd’s sporting a Hawaiian shirt and silly black sunglasses too big for his face. It’s clear his honeymoon surprise is a surprise no longer. A couple of crazy cruisers, that’s what they are.

  “Itchin’ for Chicken, of course!” Judd says, then checks the rearview mirror for my response.

  Lucy jabs him from her seat. “He’s joking, Rosie. It’s your birthday. We can’t celebrate over fried chicken!”

  Do I detect a slur in her voice? Maybe not. I’m just conditioned to search for the uneven rhythm of her speech. If she has been drinking, though, I hope she was knocking it back alone. Judd better be sober if he’s carting me around.

  “We thought we’d go to Hullabaloo’s,” she says, then reaches over and lets her hand linger on Judd’s shoulder.

  Hullabaloo’s is one of my favorite restaurants. My dad used to take us on special occasions. Hearing the name conjures up a mix of longing and dread that churns in my empty stomach. Splitting the bacon-wrapped crab cakes won’t be the same without him, even after all these years. “But that’s like an hour away,” I say.

  “Who cares?” she snaps. “We’re celebrating. You’re eighteen!” She pauses, stares out the window for an extra beat. “Where did the time go?”

  “Behind us,” I say, maybe a little sharp because Lucy turns around and shoots me a look.

  “Don’t be depressing.” She adjusts her hat, plays with the metal hoops hanging from her ears. “Happy talk only.”

  “Fine. Hullabaloo’s it is,” I say, making a valiant effort to be a player on this dysfunctional team, but also remembering those awesome crab cakes with fried potatoes.

  While the newlyweds bet on the number of onboard bars, I entertain myself like everyone does when they’re not a part of the conversation—with my head down, fingers sliding across my phone at a feverish pace to multitask the time away. I text Mac and Mary, play a game, listen to a song, and text some more. Mac cuts our texts short, though, says he’s about to leave campus, will call me later. Is it too much to hope for a birthday dinner? Better not get ahead of myself. I don’t want to feel disappointed today. Sort of like Lucy just said, but different. Happy thoughts only.

  She’s right. Today is my eighteenth birthday. Maybe there’s some news waiting that would make me extra-happy. I’ve been checking my application status online with the Fashion House, and every time it says Pending. I decide to try again, my heart beating fast like it always does, and it feels like it takes twice the time to load the page. Is this a good sign? I bob my legs, crack my knuckles, take a deep breath. Then there it is, the dreaded word at the beginning of a long letter I don’t need to read: Unfortunately. I didn’t get in. I can’t believe it.

  I keep the news to myself, not that Lucy even knows I had applied. I roll down the dirty window and let all of the Fashion House dreams get caught in the breeze and blow away. Judd says something about letting the cold air out, so I roll it back up. All I can hope now is that Elaine comes through for me. Now is the time to have faith, when things don’t look so good. I may have a lot of money coming my way, but it won’t buy admission into design school. I have to earn it.

  Lucy starts humming along to a song on the radio, something old I’ve never heard. She’s not half-bad, manages to hit all the high notes. It lulls me in the backseat, reminds me of a time I was carsick as a kid and her buzzing lips took my mind off the nausea. She knew it, too, and even reached into the backseat of my father’s car to reassuringly pat my knee. She’d done some things like that. Not many, but some. I peer at her. She looks tired. Even all the makeup can’t hide the dark bags under her eyes and a deepening set of frown lines around her mouth.

  Lucy’s humming relaxes me, even manages to dull the shock of the crappy news I just learned, until she breaks into a coughing fit.

  “You okay, babe?” Judd asks, removing a hand from the steering wheel to place on her shoulder.

  She reaches into the straw tote that matches her straw hat, and pulls out something. A stack of white napkins, like a gigantic wad you’d steal from a fast-food restaurant. She peels one away and covers her mouth until the coughing stops. I crane my neck to get a look and this time I’m sure. There’s blood on it.

  She stuffs the soiled napkin back in the tote, tells Judd she’s “fine and dandy,” then turns to look out her window. For the next ten minutes, no one speaks. My mind races with thoughts of what it could mean. Nothing good, that’s for sure.

  But Lucy doesn’t seem so worried, and another song gets her humming again. So I let myself relax a little, forget about the Fashion House, and sink into the cracked vinyl seat. Even through the Slaabmobile’s dingy windows, a bright afternoon sky still promises a pretty great birthday. I’m out of school and off to a special place for lunch. I’m on the verge of having a real boyfriend. Best of all—I’m going to have the house to myself for a week, so I can come and go as I please. Maybe check out some apartments. Maybe look for a car! I know, I know. I have to get the money first, and Mac said it could take a while, but still. Good times are coming.

  I almost feel myself smiling when Judd pulls off at an exit I don’t recognize.

  “Isn’t Hullabaloo’s on Sunrise Boulevard? Why are you getting off here?” I sit up to get my bearings. We’re exiting onto Stirling Road in Hollywood, at least five exits before Sunrise, which is in Fort Lauderdale.

  “Just need to make a quick stop,” Judd says after Lucy shoots him a warning look.

  “Can’t we go after? I’m starving.”

  “It won’t take long,” Lucy says.

  Judd follows the ramp, then merges the Slaabmobile into a long line of cars stopped at a red light. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten off here. Dunkin’ Donuts, a Toyota dealership, a chiropractor, a Jamaican restaurant—seems harmless enough.

  “Where are we going?” I ask again, clutching my backpack. Something gurgles inside me, and it’s not hunger pangs.

  They both ignore me this time, and Judd takes the next left into a strip mall with a Dollar Store, an auto repair shop, and a Mattress Giant. He parks, says, “Let’s go.” I guess he means all of us. My eyes scan the storefronts, while my brain tries to connect t
he names to a reason for this errand.

  And then, two steps out of the car, I see it. Neurons fire. In the corner, where the strip mall makes an L, a white plastic sign stretches across to reach both sides of the building. In red capital letters it reads, STEPHENS & STEPHENS, ATTORNEYS AT LAW. On the door, a neon-green sign says, OPEN 7 DAYS A WEEK, like a Laundromat.

  The blazing sun beats down on my head. I’m reaching into the backpack to grab a pair of sunglasses when Lucy takes my arm. “You don’t need those,” she says. “We’re going in right over there.” She points to Stephens & Stephens.

  “Why?”

  “Come on, Rosie.” Lucy presses a hand against my back to push me forward. Judd pulls up his cargo shorts and huffs like he’s tired of waiting.

  “No,” I say, planting my feet on the ground. Cars swerve around us since we’re standing in the middle of the parking lot. “What’s going on?” I ask, even though I know damn well what’s going on. But I want her to admit it.

  “We can discuss it inside. Where it’s nice and cool. I’m sure they’ve got some cold water in there for you.” Now Judd’s hand is also on my back.

  “Don’t touch me,” I say, pulling away from them both.

  “Rosie, it’s boiling out here. Let’s go inside.” She cups both hands over her mouth to stifle another cough, but it’s no use, and a spray of blood escapes through her fingers.

  “Holy shit,” Judd says, scrambling through his pockets, looking for something to give her. But she’s got the napkins and is already riffling through her tote. There’s a spot on her dress. And one on the top strap of her right sandal.

  For a minute, we’re all just standing there while Lucy pulls herself together. But it’s hot and she’s sick and I suspect things are going to get even worse really fast once I say, “You tricked me.”

  I’m embarrassed to admit that a microscopic part of me—think the head of a pin—was hoping I was wrong, but it’s clear by the desperation spreading across Lucy’s face that picking me up early from school had nothing to do with crab cakes and everything to do with a certain pot of gold left by Dad.