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by John David Anderson

  “Can you get that?” Mom yelled from the kitchen. “I’m elbow-deep in bananas.”

  I put down the phone and shuffled down the hall, thinking it might be Wolf. Maybe he’d biked over to see what he’d missed at school. Or maybe he’d come just to talk. I opened the door halfway and peeked.

  “Surprise?”

  Rose stood in front of my house in her olive green army jacket, her hair in her face, hands tucked in her pockets. With her standing a step below, we were almost on even footing.

  “Who is it?” Mom yelled over the radio.

  I almost said, a girl, which would have been a huge mistake. So instead I said the same thing Wolf said to his mother. “Just a friend from school.”

  “Is it Bench?” Mom called back. Mom used our nicknames. She was the only parent who did. Except for mine; she never called me Frost. Probably because Dad was the one who introduced us in the first place.

  Rose stepped up and leaned her head in the door. “It’s Rose Holland, Mrs. Voss,” she shouted carelessly. “I came to get your son’s help with an assignment. We have English together.”

  I heard the radio snap off and felt my stomach shrivel into a hard little knot. No doubt the sound of a girl’s voice—even one as husky as Rose’s—would come as a surprise to my mother. I considered dragging Rose with me outside, shutting the door behind us, but it was too late. Mom appeared in the hallway holding a towel.

  “Oh. Rose. Hi,” she said. You could see her processors firing. She looked at Rose, at me, then back at Rose. She was ready to jump to all kinds of conclusions. I decided to stop her.

  “We’re writing an essay on Shakespeare,” I said. “Rose asked if I’d look over hers.” It seemed plausible enough.

  “Your son’s an excellent writer,” Rose said, playing along. “Probably the best in the class.”

  The only thing Rose had ever read of my mine was the aphorism I stuck above the water fountain that day. And the one email I’d sent with its nonwinking smiley face.

  My mother beamed, her forehead wrinkles smoothing. “Oh. Well. That’s not a surprise. Did he tell you about the time he won the fifth-grade poetry contest?”

  Rose rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding? It’s all he ever talks about.” I flashed her a what-Sharpie-have-you-been-sniffing look. She ignored it. “Your house is lovely, by the way.”

  “Well. Thank you, Rose. Maybe my son will be polite enough to show you around before you two get busy.”

  Everything stopped. Heartbeats. Pumping lungs. The earth’s orbit around the sun. I let out an involuntary squeak, but Rose kept up her polite smile. My mother closed her eyes, face turning strawberry. “Sorry. Not that you’re going to get busy. I meant before you have to get started on your work. . . .” She folded the dish towel in her hands over and over. “Right. Okay. Back to my banana bread.” She looked at me apologetically, then hurried back into the kitchen.

  I cleared my throat, scratched the back of my head. “Well okay, then . . .”

  “Forget it. She seems cool,” Rose said, no doubt seeing the crimson in my own cheeks. “How could you not like someone who knows how to make banana bread? Best food combo since chocolate met milk.”

  “Not necessarily when she makes it,” I warned.

  Rose tugged on her jacket, wrapping it tight around her. It was cold enough outside that the grass crunched underfoot in the mornings when I walked to the bus. I looked over her shoulder, down the street. Deserted. No one to see Rose Holland inexplicably standing at my door. “Can we talk?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Like inside the house?”

  Oh. Right.

  I nodded, then stepped out of her way. I pointed down the hall. “We can work in here,” I shouted loud enough for my mother to hear. I followed a few steps behind and shut my bedroom door, pressing my back up against it.

  Rose Holland stood in the center of the room, my room, taking it in. She was the first girl ever to do so. And I was sure she was regretting it almost as much as I was.

  The room was a landfill. My mother let me keep it that way because she had a hard enough time keeping up with the rest of the house. Now I regretted not at least stuffing the dirty laundry into the always-empty hamper. Only members of the tribe ever came in here, and I never cared what it looked like to them—but with Rose, I felt exposed. The World of Warcraft posters. The empty Coke cans. The bedspread with the Tardis on it. Hadn’t she said she liked Dr. Who? She sat and watched two episodes with us. Except people say things sometimes just to fit in.

  I spotted a pair of dirty underwear on the floor and tried to stealthily kick them underneath the bed, hoping she hadn’t seen them when she walked in. They ended up getting caught around my big toe and I had to do a little dance to shake them off. Luckily Rose’s back was turned. I took a deep breath and realized that the whole room exuded a mustiness, sort of mildew meets armpit. I wondered if I should open a window. Or go get some Febreze.

  Rose didn’t seem to notice though. “It’s almost exactly as I pictured it,” she said, nodding.

  I’m not sure what gave me more pause: that Rose Holland could accurately guess what my room looked like after only knowing me for a week, or that she spent time even trying. She explored for a second longer, then sat on my bed. I must have had an odd look on my face, though, because she smiled.

  “Let me guess. You’ve never had a girl sit on your bed before.”

  “My mom used to read me stories as I fell asleep,” I said. “Does that count?”

  “Not really. But it’s kind of awesome. My parents didn’t read to me much. Though they never said anything about me ducking under my sheets with a book and a flashlight and staying up for hours.”

  She stood back up and walked over to my desk, spotting the sticky note hanging from my computer monitor, the thank-you with the snowman sketch. I was afraid she might ask me why I kept it. I wasn’t sure what I would tell her. Or maybe she would notice the half-formed origami lizard sitting in my trash can. But she didn’t say anything about it either, just moved over to my window, which looked out over the algae-crusted pond that sat between two rows of nearly identical houses. “It’s pretty.”

  “I wouldn’t swim in it,” I said. “I know some boys who’ve peed in that pond.”

  “Some boys,” Rose repeated slyly, then shrugged. “It’s still pretty. Your house is nice, too.”

  I realized just then I had no idea where Rose lived. She always just seemed to materialize everywhere, apparating like Harry Potter. “How did you find it?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t take an FBI investigation, Frost.” She put her lips close to the window and exhaled, then drew a thick round smiley face in the breathy smudge filling the pane. “Actually, Wolf told me.”

  I didn’t move from my spot by the door. I figured if things got too awkward between us I could make a break for it. Run away from my own house, leaving my mom to deal with the girl I left in my room.

  Girl. In. My. Room. I glanced nervously at my bed, thinking of the spiral-bound notebook tucked underneath.

  “He said you wouldn’t really mind.”

  “I don’t,” I said quickly, scratching the back of my neck. It felt like I was breaking out in hives. I tucked my hands under my armpits to keep from fidgeting. “So you guys must talk a lot.” I meant to phrase it as a question, but it came out more like an accusation. She didn’t seem to notice, though. She pulled out my desk chair and plopped down in it backward, chin settling on the top.

  “We’ve known each other for a week,” she said. “I guess I’ve only known all of you for a week, but with Wolf it feels like longer.” A lot had happened since Rose Holland showed up, it seemed. The phones. The notes. The catch. It felt like longer to me too. “I guess we do talk a lot,” she continued. “He’s easy to talk to, don’t you think?”

  I nodded. He was. So long as you followed the rules.

  “We don’t talk about you, though, if that’s what you’re worried about.”<
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  “Who said I was worried?” I untucked my hands from underneath my armpits and ended up shoving them in my pockets. From down the hall my mother started belting out some old song to the radio.

  “And she sings?”

  “Better than she cooks,” I said. I moved toward the now empty bed, away from the door. “So what do you two talk about?”

  “Me and Wolf? You know. Stuff,” Rose said. “Life. Anything. Everything. We talk about his parents a lot. And my parents. And school. Books. Movies. You guys.”

  “Us guys?” I prodded.

  “Yeah. You. Deedee . . . Bench.” She left his name just sort of hanging there. Like some kind of bait. I didn’t take it, though. I was still stuck at the “you.”

  “You just said you didn’t talk about me.”

  Rose tugged on a strand of tawny hair hanging in front of her face, twisting it around and around. “Okay. We don’t talk about you that much. But we do sometimes. He worries about you.”

  Why was Wolf worried about me? The last I checked I wasn’t the one who got sent home for scribbling an inappropriate note. I wasn’t the one leaping out of my seat trying to start a fight. I wasn’t the one anyone should be worrying about.

  “He worries about what you think,” Rose continued. “He worries about your guys’ friendship.” She kicked off with her feet and took a spin in the swivel chair, as if gathering momentum for what came next. When she stopped she was looking at the floor, and in that moment I remembered the Rose from that first day, coming down the hall, afraid to look up. Ignoring the gawking of all the kids around her. Feeling nervous and awkward, no doubt. Like a boy with a girl in his room for the first time and a pair of underwear wrapped around his toe.

  “That’s why I came, actually. I know what’s going on. I know I’m the reason Bench doesn’t sit with you anymore.”

  I sat down on my bed and made some pathetic sound, like pfft. Rose saw right through it.

  “Pfft me all you want,” she said. “I’m not an idiot. I could tell he didn’t like me from the beginning. I probably should have just left you guys alone after that first day. I would have, except I ran into Wolf after school and we started talking. The next day he asked me if I wanted to keep sitting with you guys.”

  Of course he did. Wolf asked. I didn’t ask. Bench certainly didn’t ask. Rose Holland’s going to do what Rose Holland wants to do. I made a production out of straightening a corner of my bedspread, the closest I’d come to making it in several months, trying to think of something to say.

  “I almost said no,” Rose continued. “But that first day most of the kids at the other tables just gave me these dagger looks when I walked by, like don’t you dare. You guys were different. I honestly didn’t know Bench was going to eat somewhere else.”

  I thought about the note I found folded in the bottom of my locker. IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU. “That’s all because of the game.” I said. “He’s kind of a big deal now. Sitting with his football friends.”

  Rose shook her head. She knew right away I was lying. Bench had stopped sitting with us before the catch. He just hadn’t started sitting somewhere else yet. “It’s okay, Frost. I’m tough. I can take it. You can’t be friends with everybody. It was worse at my old school. Kids there didn’t even bother with notes, they just told you right to your face. I had a nickname there, too, you know.”

  I knew enough of Rose’s names already. I didn’t need another one, but she told me anyways.

  “Dozer.”

  “Dozer?”

  “As in bulldozer, minus the bull. Though maybe that was implied.” Rose laughed. I figured that gave me permission to at least smile, but I didn’t.

  Instead I said, “That sucks.”

  Rose shrugged. Then she reached into the wastebasket under the desk and rescued my misshapen komodo dragon, turning it over and over in her hands. She started to unfold it, carefully, wrinkle by wrinkle, crease by crease, flattening and smoothing. She didn’t even bother to read the riddle Bench had left me.

  “I had a really hard time at my old school. It wasn’t just the names. Girls would play pranks. Put stuff in my backpack. Drop things in my lunch. Boys would make these . . . jokes. I told my dad that moving schools wouldn’t help. I wasn’t going to suddenly look different. Kids weren’t suddenly going to change. But he said it didn’t matter. What mattered was my attitude. I could start over, be myself, and I’d make new friends.”

  “You find your people,” I whispered.

  Rose looked up from her folding. “What?”

  “Nothing. Just something my mom says all the time. You find your people and you protect each other from the wolves.” Except, I guess, Wolf was her people. Funny. I’d never put those two together before.

  From the kitchen Mom started to really croon. I covered my face with my hands. “Wow,” I said through an embarrassed half smile. “I really am sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s awesome. She has a great voice. And she sings like there’s nobody listening.”

  “Except we’re listening,” I protested.

  “And yet, I don’t think she cares,” Rose said, and I remembered her laugh, loud and unafraid and unapologetic. She took another spin in my chair. “A mom who sings old pop songs and makes banana bread and says completely inappropriate things to total strangers. You’re lucky.”

  She didn’t say anything about a dad. I wondered if Wolf had told her about my parents. Maybe she noticed the pictures in the hallway—all of them of just me or of just me and Mom. Mom didn’t cut out my father’s face or anything—she just got rid of anything with him in it. There were no pictures of her on the walls of his apartment down in Florida either. “Your mom doesn’t say completely inappropriate things to total strangers?” I asked.

  “My mother has difficulty coping with reality. I mean, she actually gets medicated for it. Except the pills she’s on make her tired all the time, so she has to rest a lot. And Dad . . .” Rose took a deep breath. “My dad’s great, but he works all the time. It gets lonely after a while. It helps to have someone to talk to.”

  The chorus came floating in again from the kitchen. “Wolf’s a good guy,” I said. “He really likes you.”

  Rose laughed. “I’m pretty sure I’m not his type,” she said.

  She looked at me knowingly, as if waiting for me to say something, to take it back, but I had no idea what to say. A poet at a loss for words. She shook her head and added, “You’re right. He is a good guy. And I know he’s a good friend.” She paused, her eyes cast up at the ceiling, hands pressed together in her lap. “Which is why if you want me to leave you alone, not sit with you anymore or crash your games, just let everything go back the way it was . . .”

  Her voice trailed off.

  Before she came along. Just me and Bench and Deedee and Wolf. The perfect square. I glanced at the window, where her smiley face had disappeared, out over the backyard and the porch where my father once handed me a book and told me to read out loud, and a line from that same poem struck me. Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.

  Rose looked at me uncertainly. The offer was on the table and she was waiting for my answer. The thing was, I knew no matter what I said, things would never go back to the way they were before. Not exactly. Even if I wanted them to.

  “No,” I said.

  Rose flinched. “No?”

  I shook my head, backpedaling. “Oh . . . no . . . Not no, like, no, don’t sit with us. No, like it’s all right. I don’t care.”

  “You don’t care?” she asked, confused.

  “No, not like, I don’t care care. Obviously I care. I just don’t care. I mean . . . you know . . . it’s cool. Whatever you want to do.” Then before my brain could step in and edit, I blurted out, “You’re cool.”

  I swallowed hard and stared at my carpet—one of the few spots not covered in dirty laundry. Five seconds passed, then Rose stood up and crossed the room so that she was standing next to me and I felt so
small all of a sudden. She opened up her right hand and handed me back my folded scrap of paper, the one she’d rescued from my wastebasket. Somehow, while I wasn’t looking, she had transformed it.

  “What is it?” I asked, staring at the fish in her hand.

  “It’s a phoenix, derr,” she said.

  “Phoenix?” I whispered.

  “You know? Mystical bird? Bursts into flames, then rises from its own ashes? What kind of nerd are you?”

  I took it from her and made a production out of turning it this way and that till I held it at an odd angle toward the light. “Oh. Yeah. I see it now. Totally.” I set it on the one straightened corner of my bed. “Thanks.”

  Mom’s jam was over. A commercial for air freshener came on. Rose walked to the door. “I really do like your room,” she said again. Then she left.

  Or at least she tried to. But my mother caught her trying to sneak out the front door. “Oh no you don’t. You’re taking a loaf of this home with you.” Mom held out a brick of banana bread, wrapped in foil.

  “Oh, no, really, Mrs. Voss. I shouldn’t,” Rose said, declining the offer, but I came up beside her and told her that it was nonnegotiable. Some things you can’t say no to.

  “Saves me from eating it,” I whispered. “And besides, I’m almost positive it will stick to the roof of your mouth.”

  She took the loaf of bread with a thank-you. “Maybe I’ll bring it to lunch tomorrow,” she threatened.

  Then Rose Holland winked at me. Right in front of my mother.

  That night I wrote my one hundred and fourteenth poem. I number them, like Rose’s favorite American poet, Emily Dickinson. Not because I particularly like Emily Dickinson. It’s just easier than coming up with titles all the time.

  Poem 114 was about a girl made of paper. She flies on the currents of the wind, going wherever they take her, aimless and free, not caring at all what the people down below even think of her, if they can see her or if they even believe she exists. Until, one day, she gets lonely and looks at the bright orange circle in the sky and imagines it’s the eye of a giant. And she imagines that the giant is just as lonely as she is, so she flies toward him.