My Sister Rosa

by Justine Larbalestier

  —Too late.

  ‘You’ll make sure she’s good, Geoff? Don’t let her talk you into doing anything that isn’t maths-related.’

  He blinks rapidly. ‘I’m her maths tutor.’

  I kiss Rosa on the forehead, grab my bag and bolt.

  Behind me I hear her say, ‘Tell Sid hi from me.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sojourner is in my three o’clock class in the bag room. So is the meathead.

  ‘Hey, Outback Steakhouse,’ he says, punching my arm a little too hard. ‘How you doing?’

  I mutter something that could be mistaken for fine and sit next to the nearest bag to Sojourner, putting on my wraps while leaning forward to stretch my hamstrings.

  I look up and see Sojourner. I smile. She returns it but stays focused on her warm-up. Her friend is on her other side, saying something about a protest. Sojourner nods and her forehead creases. I want to move over and smooth those lines away.

  Our instructor walks in. She’s short and lean with clipped blonde hair.

  ‘I’m Dido,’ she says. ‘For those of you who don’t know me, I’m tough, but fair.’

  I deduct points because every trainer says some variation of that. I’m waiting for the first one to say, I’m pissweak and totally unfair.

  ‘I want to see solid form and hard work. If you’re feeling half-assed, try another class. If you don’t leave dripping sweat from every part of your body, then I failed. Okay, are we warmed up?’

  We agree that we are.

  ‘Gloves on. Show me what you got. Two two-minute rounds. Ten-second break in between. Go all out!’

  I do. I give the bag everything: jabs, crosses, hooks, upper cuts, combinations. I bob and weave and duck and feint and parry and dance around the bag, which I’m imagining is a two-metre tall monster built like a brick shithouse. But he’s slower than me and is used to getting in the knockout blow early; he doesn’t have a lot of stamina. I go at him like a gnat, hitting him dozens of times in the kidneys.

  The bell rings for the end of the first round. I’m dripping.

  ‘Ten-second rest.’

  I grin.

  Bell for the second round.

  Everything flows. I’m dancing. The two-metre monster goes down.

  Next up, defence. Dido goes round the class, correcting everyone. She’s a stickler for precise, tidy movements. I like her.

  At the end I’m exhausted but exhilarated. The whole class is bent over gasping, but most are grinning.

  ‘Sparring’s at seven every night. No beginners, but everyone in this class is more than ready to join us. We welcome new faces. Interested?’ Dido asks, turning to me.

  My heart sinks. ‘I don’t spar,’ I mutter. Stupid promise. I wonder if this is how Rosa feels keeping her promises to me.

  ‘Well, if you change your mind you’re more than welcome.’

  I nod, wipe the sweat from my face and hands with my towel and peel my wraps off.

  ‘Australia, huh?’ Sojourner asks me.

  I look up at her and nod. She must have overheard the meathead.

  ‘You don’t look Australian,’ she says.

  I stare.

  No one’s ever said that to me. I have blond hair and blue eyes. Mostly when people ask where I’m from and I say Australia their next question is do you surf? Because of the blond hair, blue eyes. They assume every Australian looks like me, which no, and that we all surf, which also no. I’ve never surfed.

  ‘All the Australians I know have broken noses and messed-up ears.’

  ‘We’re a pretty people.’

  She laughs. I shove the wraps in my pocket, grab my towel, water bottle and gloves, and stand. We’re the same height, surrounded by a forest of punching bags. I feel myself lean towards her as if I’m trying to absorb some of that laughter. Her eyelashes are crazy long, curving up so high they almost touch her eyebrows. I take a sip of water to distract myself.

  ‘Your little sister’s awfully cute,’ she says.

  ‘Too cute,’ I say. I don’t want to think about Rosa. ‘It was nice running into you yesterday. I don’t know many people here.’

  She smiles. ‘How come you don’t spar?’

  ‘I promised my parents I wouldn’t until I stopped growing,’ I blurt. My cheeks burn. Why did I say that? My parents won’t let me. What am I? Five?

  I’m sure she’s trying not to laugh at pathetic little me doing exactly what my parents tell me. Should I tell her I don’t do everything they tell me? That will make me seem even more pathetic. Why am I so honest?

  ‘What if you’ve already stopped growing?’

  I laugh. Way too loud. ‘That’s what I said. They said if for three years in a row I haven’t grown they’ll consider me stopped. I argued them down from five but I think one year would’ve been fairer.’

  ‘Huh.’

  Too much information. Too much blurting. Jason would piss himself if he overheard this. Georgie too. Even Nazeem. Just as well they’re never going to know.

  ‘I’m already a centimetre taller than last year.’ Shut up, Che.

  ‘I like sparring,’ Sojourner says. She’s smiling. I’m hoping she’s smiling with me and not at me. Does that even make sense, or is the with/at thing only about laughing? ‘I love it. It’s a million times better than any of these classes, and I love these classes. Dido’s great.’

  ‘She’s alright, isn’t she?’ I’ve decided the initial point deduction for tough but fair was a bit rough. Natalie has been known to say the same thing. It is what you want from a good trainer: toughness and fairness.

  ‘I’m Che Taylor, by the way,’ I say, sticking out my hand. ‘We never said our names. I mean, I already heard yours.’

  She offers me her fist. We bump, me feeling like an idiot. Fighters always fist bump.

  ‘Che was a twentieth-century revolutionary,’ I say automatically. ‘My parents want to save the world. They approve of revolutionaries.’

  She laughs again. ‘You get asked who Che was a lot, huh?’

  ‘Sometimes. Mostly I get people assuming I don’t know who I’m named after. I say that before they get a chance to ask me if,’ – I put on a posh accent – ‘I even know who he was.’ I return to my normal voice. ‘I mean, it’s my name. Of course I know who Ernesto “Che” Guevara was. Class traitor, sexy revolutionary pin-up of the world, executed in Bolivia where they put his head on a stake, blah blah blah.’

  Sojourner is still laughing. ‘Me too! I get that all the time. From now on I’m going to tell them first.’

  For a second I almost say but your name’s not Che, then I realise. Shit. I have no idea who Sojourner is named after. I’d just thought it was a cool name. It didn’t occur to me to look it up.

  ‘Funny us both being named after revolutionaries,’ she says. ‘I was named for American ones. I’m Sojourner Ida Davis. But my friends call me Sid. For my initials. We’ll see what you get to call me.’

  I want to tell her how beautiful her name is. Sojourner. I want to call her that, not Sid. Sid is a creepy old guy name. But I want to be her friend; if calling her Sid means we’re friends, then I’ll call her whatever she wants. I think about asking if she’s doing anything right now. Will she go for a walk with me? Tell me more about herself? Kiss me?

  ‘Are you…’ I begin.

  ‘Wassup, Sid.’ Her friend walks up to us, her hair wet and her bag slung over her shoulder.

  ‘Hey, Jaime,’ Sojourner says.

  ‘Who’s this?’ Jaime asks. ‘You were in Dido’s class, weren’t you?’

  I nod.

  ‘This,’ Sojourner says, ‘is Che.’

  ‘Che?’ Jaime laughs. ‘Seriously?’

  I nod again, feeling foolish.

  ‘Don’t worry, Jaime. He knows who Che was,’ Sojourner says. ‘We gotta go. Nice meeting you, Ernesto.’

  She shrugs fully into her backpack and walks towards the exit, saying something to Jaime that makes them both laugh. My ears are hot. I hope they aren’t la
ughing at me.

  I think about trying to tag along. Maybe they’ll take pity on the foreigner? But her gotta go was emphatic. I don’t want to make a fool of myself. More than I have already. Instead I watch her walking away.

  I pull out my phone ready to search on American revolutionary, Ida and Sojourner.

  There are many messages: Sally with several different variations on —Meeting still going. Will probably have dinner as well. Please can you get home so Geoff can leave? Four missed calls from her.

  I’m about to phone her when another text comes through. This time from David.

  —It’s okay. We’re on our way to pick up Rosa. She’ll have dinner with us. Work out for as long as you want.

  I punch the air.

  The search terms lead me to Sojourner Truth and Ida B. Wells. Turns out the original Sojourner was a former slave who fought for abolition and women’s rights. Wells was a journalist and editor as well as a campaigner against lynching and also for women’s rights.

  Reading about them makes me want to tell Sojourner about my sister being named for Rosa Luxemburg and Rosa Parks. She’ll be impressed.

  I want to float on having talked to Sojourner again, having been close enough to smell her sweat. It might be the jetlag, but right at that moment it makes me feel invincible. I want to be alone with that feeling, not answering questions from the parentals or worrying about Rosa. She’s in her maths heaven. For once I don’t have to worry about her.

  I fuel up on sandwiches, put my headphones on and slip my phone into my pocket, shutting out the rest of the world. I hit the treadmill running as hard as I can for half an hour before switching to intervals on the rower, then to weights.

  Lifting weights is one of the most boring things in the world. Repetitive motions for no reason except to make your muscles grow. Weights can’t make you more agile; there’s no artistry to it like there is to every martial art; it doesn’t do much for your cardio fitness. There’s not even much you can do to get better at it. Once you’ve learned correct technique, all you can do is get stronger and lift heavier weights.

  I lift hard and long and think about Sojourner.

  I keep lifting until I’m exhausted. It’s only at around eight, when I’m ready to collapse, that I pull out my phone.

  I see a million increasingly frantic texts from Sally, as well as many missed calls.

  Rosa is missing.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I don’t shower. I shove my gear into my locker, head down to the street, and hail one of the millions of yellow taxis.

  —Where’s David? Why did he say it was okay for me to stay at the gym?

  —David lost his phone.

  Holy fuck. The text was from Rosa, not David.

  The text from David, or rather Rosa, was at 5:15 p.m. Three hours ago. Has she been gone that whole time?

  —Do you have any idea where she is? Sally texts.

  If this was Sydney there’d be dozens of places she might have gone, dozens of people to call.

  —Did you try the McBrunights’ place?

  —Yes.

  That’s all I can think of. We don’t know anyone else here.

  The taxi is barely moving. I throw the rest of my cash – five dollars – at the driver and haul out. I run the rest of the way home, grateful for the numbered and lettered orderliness that makes New York City so easy to navigate. In the lobby of our building I ask the doorman if he’s seen Rosa.

  ‘Told your parents. Haven’t seen her. Sorry, kid. I’ll call if I do.’

  The lift is on our floor. I can’t wait. I run up the stairs. David flings the door open as I put my key in. I stumble, struggling to pull the key out.

  He stares at me and says, ‘Oh.’ He was hoping for Rosa.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left her with Geoff. I thought the maths would—’ Sally hands me David’s phone. ‘It was in the fruit bowl.’ I’m looking at the texts Rosa sent Geoff.

  —We’re on our way. Thanks so much. We’ll transfer the extra money first thing tomorrow.

  —Almost there. You can go now. We appreciate you doing these extra hours.

  —Are you sure it’s okay to leave her alone? Geoff texted back.

  —Yes. We’ll probably see you in the lobby.

  ‘Devious,’ I say.

  ‘If you’d been here, Che,’ David says, ‘it wouldn’t have been a problem.’

  ‘It’s my fault? If you’d been here it wouldn’t have been a problem either. You knew I had a class. You know what training means to me.’

  I can feel my anger building. I want to scream at them that I’m their seventeen-year-old son, not Rosa’s co-parent. But I am, even if they’ll never admit it.

  This isn’t the first time they’ve left me looking after her so I’ve missed out on a class or hanging with my friends. This is the first time I’ve ignored them. I should have said, No way. I don’t care how important your meeting is, I’m leaving right now and you better get back here to look after Rosa.

  ‘This is not the time to argue,’ Sally says as if they didn’t start it. ‘How long since we called the cops?’ She looks at her phone. ‘Thirty minutes. Should I call again?’

  ‘Is anything of Rosa’s missing?’ I ask.

  ‘Her backpack, raincoat, gumboots. But not her phone.’

  Without her phone we can’t track her. It’s eight-thirty. Dark outside.

  ‘I don’t think she has any money. But I could be twenty dollars light.’

  It’s the first time I’ve ever heard Sally admit that Rosa steals.

  ‘What time does the zoo close?’ The last time Rosa disappeared she went to Dusit Zoo in Bangkok. She wanted to see the white Bengal tiger, and the parentals had said no. She’d made the mistake of taking her phone.

  ‘Hours ago.’

  ‘I’ll go look for her,’ I say. I head for the door before Sally or David can respond, grabbing a jacket hanging by the door to pull over my hoodie.

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ David says.

  ‘No,’ Sally says. ‘Keep your phone on,’ she shouts after me.

  My gym clothes are damp with sweat. It’s cold despite the jacket. I should’ve showered and changed, but I have to find her. My stomach gets colder thinking about what might happen. I can’t be sure if I’m worried for Rosa or for what she might have done.

  Both, of course, both.

  Rosa isn’t afraid of anything but being taken to doctors, of being locked away. She isn’t scared of vicious dogs, or heights, or strange men.

  What she is doesn’t matter if she runs into someone who’s worse. She’s ten years old and unafraid. Would she decide it’s funny to get into a stranger’s car? Would she say yes to an invite to have dinner in a stranger’s home?

  I walk up the avenue past people out with their dogs, their partners, their friends, or rushing to get home from work in their boring suits and work clothes, but with ties loosened, heels swapped for comfy shoes. I wonder if I should stop people, show them pictures of Rosa. Have you seen this girl?

  Parks are the natural place for Rosa to go. Especially ones with playgrounds. Rosa loves messing with other kids. The biggest one is Tompkins Square, but there are a couple of community parks on the way. The first one is more of a garden than a park. The second is full of concrete bowls and ramps. Neither has a kids’ playground.

  —Police are on their way.

  —I’m checking parks. Heaps of people out.

  Someone will have seen her.

  It starts to rain lightly, turning the air into mist, making me colder. I pull my hood over my head and zip up my jacket.

  There are a lot of people out on the streets, but not many kids. It’s probably too late. As I cross Avenue A into Tompkins Square the rain increases, and umbrellas go up. There’s a kids’ playground near the Ninth Street entrance, but it’s empty of everything but squirrels. Next I check the dog run, which is full. I walk the perimeter, but Rosa isn’t peering over the fence, plotting to steal a dog.
/>
  I cross to the smaller playground on the east side of the park. There’s a giggling small boy being pushed by a woman who looks too young to be his mother. They’re both in raincoats and gumboots.

  ‘Is it rainy enough now?’ she asks him.

  The boy laughs harder.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I call out. The woman turns. ‘Have you seen a little blonde girl? She’s ten.’

  ‘Keep pushing,’ the boy says.

  ‘Rude,’ the woman tells the boy, shaking her head at me. ‘Just us here for the last ten minutes. Sorry.’

  Rosa’s probably found an ice-cream shop, or a second-hand store, and is currently attempting to wheedle the staff into giving her a cone or a creepy old porcelain doll. She’ll turn up, I tell myself. Most missing people do. I read that somewhere. Or was it that they mostly turn up within the first day? But if they don’t…

  My phone rings. David.

  I let it ring a few more times. I’m afraid of bad news. The rain is easing, but it’s already soaked through my hood. I turn west along a path at the bottom of the park heading back to Avenue A.

  ‘Yes?’ I say, answering at last.

  ‘The cops want you to—’

  Then I see Rosa.

  Of course. The parentals told her no.

  ‘I see her!’ I tell David. ‘In the park playing chess!’

  I run to where she’s playing. Her fingers are on the black bishop. She’s too intent on the board to notice me. The man she’s playing groans. He looks homeless. His long beard is ungroomed. His clothes look dirty.

  Rosa, her opponent and all the men watching them are oblivious to the rain.

  ‘Thank God!’ David says. The phone muffles as he relays the news.

  ‘Checkmate,’ Rosa says.

  The man shakes his head. ‘You’re a ringer.’

  Rosa is holding out her hand. Before the man can put money on her palm I put my hand on her shoulder. She startles. The notes land on the table.

  ‘I’ll call you back. I’m bringing her home,’ I tell David, ending the call.

  ‘That’s my money, Che!’