Dean-Na and the Hairless Rose

by Robyn Fraser

  Dean/na and the Hairless Rose

  Robyn Fraser

  Copyright © 2020 Robyn Fraser

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by: Natalie Intven

  To my late grandmother, Betty Manuel, who always believed in me.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter Zero

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  About The Author

  Chapter Zero

  Where We Discuss Our Protagonist and Her Parents

  Deanna Doomore was certain she’d been adopted at birth. She was nothing like her mother, Dr. Julia Doomore, M.D., Ph.D., Chief Neurosurgeon, Clinical Hospital. Or like her father, Mr. Bob Martin, owner of Martin’s Maids Housecleaning Services. At least she didn’t think she was like them, but really, they were hardly ever home enough to be sure. And the fact that Deanna shared the same curly brown hair and short nose as her mother, the same crystal blue eyes and full lips as her father was just a coincidence, she was certain. Lots of people looked like that. Her real parents could be anyone.

  For the short intervals when Deanna and her parents were together, the conversations were usually infrequent, brief and the same:

  “Deanna, please put away that doodling and do your homework. You’ll never become a neurosurgeon without knowing your sciences.” Her mother would say this from her seat at the breakfast table while she sipped coffee with cream and scanned the latest issue of the Neurosurgery for Neurosurgeons Journal (neurosurgeons are not an imaginative bunch). That Deanna had no interest in sciences, or in neurosurgery in particular, was not something that Dr. Julia Doomore cared to hear from her daughter, thank you very much.

  A few minutes later, her mother would finish the coffee and step purposefully out the front door to her Lexus sedan, heading to her scalps and scalpels and leaving Deanna and the house for the next fourteen or so hours.

  Deanna’s father would arrive in the kitchen shortly after her mother left, pour himself some coffee, add a tablespoon of sugar, sit across from his daughter (who was back to her drawing) and say, “I’ve got a full day of housecleaning today, D. If you could put the dishes in the washer and get the recycling to the curb, that would be great. Also, take a chicken out of the freezer to thaw, then bake it when you get home from school so there’s some dinner for us tonight. It’s another late one for me.”

  Mr. Martin always tried to sound cheery when he asked Deanna to do yet another chore—it was probably similar to how he asked his employees to clean a client’s house—but his nose was usually in the morning paper when he spoke. And then he, too, was soon gone, pulling out of the brick driveway in his white SUV, ‘Martin’s Maids’ emblazoned on each front door in black cursive.

  Deanna had much the same start to her day on the day when our story begins. Which is this one…

  Chapter One

  Where Things Start to Happen

  Mother had left to cut open brains and Father to clean up other people’s messes, or at least manage his staff to do it. Deanna had packed up her pencil and sketchpad, on which she’d been drawing a horned vampire-squirrel type of creature, and was ready to set off for school when the middle finger of her right hand grew ice cold and tingly. She held up the finger and stared at the ring on it.

  For as long as Deanna could remember, her mother had insisted that she wear the ring. It was a thick black band of stone with lines of ruby-like crimson scattered within. On the inside of the band a horizontal figure eight was inscribed—Deanna knew it meant infinity.

  The ring was handsome and, thankfully, not ‘girly’ (she hated girly). But even though she wore it every day, Deanna found it a little intimidating. Like it might suddenly squeeze her finger and not let go. Like it had life in it.

  Of course, Deanna had asked her mother about the ring. A few times.

  “It belonged to my mother—your grandmother,” was always the reply, along with an annoyed sigh and a turn of the head toward whatever more important thing Dr. Doomore was doing.

  “What happened to her? Where did she live?” Deanna had never met any grandparents. She’d been told only that they’d died before she was born. But every now and then she’d ask again, just in case a different answer might slip out. One that might prove she was adopted.

  “She died.” Another sigh. “She lived overseas. Just don’t take the ring off—it had sentimental value to your grandmother and you must never lose it. Understand?”

  Deanna would nod, always noticing the slight shift in her mother’s expression when she did discuss the ring: a furrow of the brow, slight wincing of the eyes. Almost like the doctor couldn’t understand quite why she was saying these things. But each time it happened, Deanna decided it must be her imagination. The ring was an heirloom, nothing more.

  On this morning, an instant after Deanna felt the chill rush through her finger, she remembered the chicken her father had asked her to put out.

  “Darn,” she said, removing her sneakers; trekking dirt through the house was strictly forbidden. Forgetting about the ring, she moped back to the kitchen, opened the floor-level stainless steel freezer, and pulled out a frozen, whole (except for the wings and feathers) chicken. She then put a plate on the black quartz counter and plopped the packaged chicken onto it, trying not to look at the beady orange eye staring up at her through the plastic wrap. Deanna really wished they’d chop the heads off like they did in normal stores, but her parents bought only ‘organic free-range chicken’, which seemed to be another way to say they kept the heads and necks attached.

  Now several minutes behind, Deanna squeezed her feet back into her runners, shut the door and locked it behind her with the key she kept on a string around her neck.

  The walk to Copeland Elementary took about ten minutes if Deanna didn’t get distracted. Which was difficult since she always cut through an old, well-treed graveyard. She did this partly because it was a short cut, but if she were to be honest with herself—which she usually was—she was mostly trying to avoid other people. Particularly other students. And most particularly the ones in her class.

  The graveyard also inspired Deanna’s imagination and it was all she could do not to plop herself down in front of a crumbling gravestone, stare up at the wizened branch of an ancient tree, inhale the thick scent of the cedar hedge bordering the imposing Gregory mausoleum, pull out her pad and pencil and begin to draw.

  In fact, one time while drawing in t
he cemetery, Deanna had spied a rabbit (who she was almost certain was the one from Alice in Wonderland) and followed it through the hedges into a narrow underground tunnel. But she’d shoved herself too hard, and her shoulders had become stuck several feet in. It was over an hour before the groundskeeper had heard Deanna’s shouts for help and managed to pull her out.

  Though scary, the experience was one of the highlights of Deanna’s life so far. She felt like something real had happened to her. Something that wasn’t textbooks or memorization or dreary chores. She’d even created a comic book about it later. One where the hero, who happened to be a boy version of Deanna, named Dean, made it through the tunnel and into an entirely new and fantastical land.

  On this particular morning, early October sunlight dappled the crimson maple leaves of the graveyard in such a way that Deanna was certain she could see golden fairies hovering between the branches.

  Wow, that’s pretty, she thought. Then she swung her backpack from over her shoulders, pulled out her pad and pencil, sat on the dew-wet grass in front of ‘Mildred S. Guthrie, Loving Wife, Mother of Henry and Jane,’ and began to draw.

  ***

  “Deanna Doomore,” said her teacher, Mrs. Little, as Deanna opened her grade-six classroom door and stepped in. Twenty-four sets of eyes, in five rows, turned to stare at her. At least twenty sets of lips smirked. “It’s almost 10 a.m. Do you have a note this time to explain your tardiness?”

  Deanna shook her head. “No. I’m sorry I’m late.”

  Mrs. Little pursed her lips. “We’re only four weeks into school, and you’ve been late five times. You’ll have to stay after class to make up for it. Now get to your seat and pull out your math book.”

  Deanna nodded, dropped her head and scurried to her desk, avoiding the eyes of her classmates. There was chuckling and at least one “She’s such a loser” comment.

  Ever since she’d dressed up for Halloween last year as a male-wrestler-zombie, replete with facial hair, white, black and blood-red face paint, and blue satin underwear over tights, Deanna had been labeled a loser and a wanna-be boy. Any guys in her class who had dressed up had been superheroes or male characters and the girls had gone as princesses, fairies or cats. Deanna hated that the gender stuff mattered, even if, truthfully, she did sort of feel more boy than girl much of the time. But it seemed it did matter. So now she kept to her neutral jeans, tees, sweatshirts and runners and tried to stay as inconspicuous as possible. Which was admittedly hard to do when she was an hour late for school.

  When recess finally arrived, after a dreary class of fractions and equations, Deanna waited for the other kids to disappear out to the school field to play, or to the hopscotch area to gossip—probably about her and what a loser she was. Backpack on shoulders, Deanna made her way through the long, straight hallway of the kindergarten to grade six school, and at the end of it, where the wall was made of glass and overlooked the jungle gym, she took a left down a short corridor to the kindergarteners’ classroom.

  “Hello, Deanna,” called Ms. Lewis from her cross-legged position on the ground, the sole adult in a circle of more than a dozen four- and five-year-olds. She had a book open on her lap. It was The Perfectly Imperfect Princess. Deanna had read it many times. She loved it.

  “Hi,” Deanna replied, then stood shuffling her feet in the doorway, as though this wasn’t the umpteenth-hundredth time she’d come here on recesses to help Ms. Lewis with her class.

  “I haven’t started to read yet,” said the teacher, smiling at Deanna. “Would you like to do it?”

  “Yes! Deanna!” exclaimed one girl with wiry pigtails. Several other children chimed in with yeses of their own or vigorous nods.

  The knot in Deanna’s heart—the one that began every morning soon after waking and worsened once she got to school—began to relax. This was her realm, where she felt at home, among kids who still believed in things that others didn’t think real, who had trouble sitting still and who didn’t worry about saying something that others might think silly. Not yet, anyway.

  Ms. Lewis stood up and held the book out to Deanna. “You’re a popular girl,” she said, giving Deanna a pat on the shoulder then stepping over to her paper-laden desk.

  Deanna took her spot at the head of the circle (if one can say that a circle has a head, that is) looked down at the first page, breathed in the smell of worn paper and sticky-finger smudge, and began to read. “Once upon a time, there was a princess named Bree.”

  Ten minutes later—after Bree kissed her love, Veronique, at the potluck wedding ceremony and the children clapped for the princess who refused to wear dresses and shunned convention—the end-of-recess bell rang.

  “I’ve got to go,” said Deanna to her smiling audience. She stood and returned the book to Ms. Lewis.

  “Thank you, Deanna.” The teacher added the book to the mess on her desk. “See you tomorrow?”

  Deanna nodded.

  As she began the dreaded trek back to her classroom, she peeked out the full-length windows to the playground. It was empty now, though kids had been playing on it just moments ago. Deanna liked the jungle gym because it was large and mostly wooden and had a huge round steering wheel. She could pretend she was on a pirate ship, sailing the seas, or riding in a futuristic spaceship, exploring new worlds. She sometimes did that with the kindergarten kids during outdoor recesses. But more often, she traveled alone.

  Deanna sighed, the knot re-forming its old pattern in her chest, and was about to turn away when she thought she saw movement near the top of the slide. She paused and stared. Yes! There was something there, just on the landing. It was too small to be a kid, so what was it? She stepped over to the window to get a closer look, but whatever it was had disappeared from view.

  Deanna slipped out the nearest exit door and onto the playground, hoping that whatever she’d seen would still be there.

  Chapter Two

  Where the Late Bird Gets the Wormhole

  Deanna trod across the green lawn that separated school from sand-packed play area. The creature had been waddling across the jungle gym’s upper platform, between the steering wheel on one side and the covered twisty slide on the other. Now that Deanna was outdoors, however, the angle was greater and she could no longer see much of the landing. The thing might have run away in the time it took her to get there, but she would have to climb up to be sure.

  After positioning her pack tightly on her back, Deanna began to scale the almost vertical net of cargo rope that would take her up, careful to make as little noise as possible, glad she had on her comfy runners instead of the Mary Janes that her mother preferred she wear. As the top of her head reached platform level, she caught a whiff of something slightly rotten just before hearing movement. A flicker of fear flashed through her. What was she doing? What if it was a vicious creature, about to bite her head off if she peered over?

  “Hello?” She barely managed to get the word past the lump in her throat.

  “Hey there, Deanna!” The squeaky voice came from directly above, the suddenness of it causing her to slip and lose her footing.

  “Aaaghh!” she cried, fumbling for the ropes as her face planted into one of the knots, the rough material scraping her skin. One leg was dangling through a hole, while the other was splayed across the net. Only her hands kept her steady.

  “Ah, bumblepoop,” said the voice from above. “You okay, D?”

  Deanna looked up, which wasn’t the easiest thing to do given her position. What she saw made her heart freeze and caused her lungs to cease taking in air.

  Just two feet above, staring down, was a chicken. At least, she thought it was. The size and overall shape was right, but it had no feathers, just pale bluish-white skin. No wings either. Only stubs near the neck where she supposed they should have been. As Deanna’s heart chanced a beat and her lungs thought inhaling some oxygen might be good for brain function, she gasped in recognition.

  “You’re…” No, it couldn’t be. But it was. It jus
t was. “You’re the chicken! From this morning!”

  “Name’s Rosie,” said the chicken with a nod. “But most of my friends call me Rose.”

  “But…but…” Deanna grappled with a whirl of impossible thoughts while her feet tried to find rope. “But you’re dead. You’re not a real chicken.”

  Rose cocked her head to one side, coppery-orange eyes widening. “Of course I’m a real chicken, D. Just because I was dead for a while doesn’t make me any less alive. What did you think you were eating for your dinners? Playdough?”

  Deanna’s feet had found footing and, keeping her fists clenched around the rope, she knelt back, getting a better look at the featherless creature. Her heart and breathing had settled into a somewhat normal rhythm. Whatever was going on, Rose seemed friendly. “Can I come up?”

  “Of course you can, D. I’ve been waiting for you.” Rose stepped out of the way, her clawed feet scratching across the wooden platform.

  Deanna pulled herself up and knelt on it. Only a few feet separated her from the chicken. The rotting smell grew. “What do you mean, you were waiting for me?”

  “I mean, here. Waiting. For you.” Rose shrugged her wing stumps. “I mean, I haven’t actually been here for that long, really. Amazing how slow it is to thaw when you’re completely frozen. Thankfully, once my heart got going again, the circulating blood warmed the old organs up pretty quickly. Glad I found you. I really never want to have to go through that again.” She cocked her head toward her stumps. “It definitely didn’t tickle when they chopped off these babies.”

  Deanna was doing the best she could to understand. She rubbed her forehead. “Okaaay. So, why have you been waiting for me? And why were you in the freezer?” She paused, then added, “And how did you know where my school was?”

  Rose cackled; Deanna guessed it was a laugh. “The freezer was a way to get into your house. You know your parents. Do you think that if I’d knocked at the door they’d have willingly let me in?”