Maybe I saw her. Maybe I didn't. Maybe I didn't want her to return just yet.
I turned on the cold water and washed the saline from my face.
“You really don't believe him, Roz?” Odie asked seriously.
I dried my face on a paper towel and turned to her.
“How can I?” I asked tiredly. “You, of all people, know exactly what that jerk is capable of.”
She nodded. “I do. But, you have to admit, he's changed. And Roz, he knew exactly how I was first introduced to Jimmy. Exactly!”
I shook my head. “That means nothing. Parker tormented me once with memories of my stepfather. He actually made him appear to me, in my bedroom, at my home here in Marion.” I leaned my back against the wall and stared down at the floor. “His magic is beyond what we can understand, Odie. He's dangerous. And he's evil.” I looked up, catching her eyes. “Do not let him get to you.”
Odie crossed her arms and sighed.
“I believe him.”
My mouth dropped open as I stared at her.
“Do not say that to me!” I exclaimed. “Do you remember nothing of what he's done?”
She shrugged. “I looked into his eyes, Roz. He’s telling the truth, how can you not see that?”
“Parker Evans doesn't know the truth!” I said hotly.
She nodded. “You're right, he doesn't. But Jimmy Matheson does. Besides, his actions all last week have been nothing at all like what the former Parker was like. Not even close. He's not making it up, my friend.” She stepped forward and put a hand on my shoulder. “That's Jimmy. I'd bet my entire CD collection on it.”
And with that, she turned and left the bathroom, leaving me to stare after her in disappointment and disbelief.
***
I spent the rest of the school day actively avoiding both Parker and Odie, which, for some reason, was fairly easy. Parker never showed up to any of the classes we had together, and Odie seemed eager to leave me alone.
That was for the best. I'd never felt a betrayal from her before, but the fact she believed Parker’s idiotic tale came like an unexpected sucker-punch to the gut, with me gasping for breath.
At home, I tried to ignore the family and hang out alone in my room while I did some homework, but that was impossible. Vincent kept bugging me to look at the new things he'd built on Minecraft, and Amelia kept making the dogs get hyper to the point of barking. It was the usual type of evening in our fun home, but I wasn't in the mood for it tonight.
I sat at my laptop, trying to concentrate on the assignment before me, when the doorbell rang (which caused the dogs to break out with more of their incessant barking). After a couple of minutes, Bonnie appeared at my bedroom door.
“Hey, Gorgeous?” She asked after giving a gentle knock. “Someone's here to see you.”
I shook my head. “I'm not really interested in seeing any of my friends right now.”
She shook her head. “It's not any of your friends, hun. I think…” her eyes suddenly looked fearful, or maybe worried, “I think you should come out here.”
I stood from my desk, feeling a sense of alarm prick my spine.
“Bonnie, what is it?” I asked.
“Well, he…” she trailed off. “He says he's your father.”
My what?
“Bonnie!” I whispered urgently, “You know I don't have a father!”
She smiled gently at me and nodded. “He has pictures, hun. Of you and him together, when you were a baby. He looks just like you.”
The room tilted for a brief moment as Bonnie reached out to grab my arms.
“You don't have to meet him. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do,” she said firmly.
I looked up at her, heart sinking. My eyes burned as I voiced the one thing I feared the most.
“Is he here to take me away?” I asked.
“No,” she smiled, “He's just here to meet you.”
She put her arm around my shoulder and gently guided me to the door.
“Besides, I pity anyone who would dare try to take you away from me!”
I chuckled and nestled my head into her shoulder, thankful for the comfort.
“I believe you, Mama Bear,” I said with a sad smile.
***
We went to the living room where Mitch sat in his large armchair, having an apparent staring contest with the man sitting opposite him.
Holy cow. He does look just like me.
“Marco Pastrano,” Bonnie said softly, “This is Roz.”
He stood from the couch as we entered the room, and his eyes immediately took me in.
“Rosalind,” he breathed. “I prayed I would find you again.”
I stared at him, feeling incredibly uncomfortable and awkward in his presence. The first thing I noticed about him was his height. He was tall. Like, crazy tall. He must’ve stood at around 6’5, and was very skinny. The term Slenderman came to mind, causing a shiver. He spoke with a slight Italian accent that was barely detectable, but I still heard it. His hair was dark and thick, like mine, and surprisingly it was long, almost to his shoulders, with one small streak of grey outlining his face. He was dressed in a black suit with a crisp, white dress shirt. Cuff links that appeared to be diamonds sparkled at his wrists. His shoes gleamed with a fresh, glossy shine.
His entire being oozed a combination of both wealth and creepiness.
His face was almost identical to mine except for his eyes. Where mine were a light, crystal blue color (inherited from my mother), his were dark, almost black. Those bottomless black pools, combined with his long, dark hair and perfectly tailored, black suit, immediately gave me the heebie jeebies.
“Come, Rosalind, sit with me, please?” He asked, his voice warm and pleading, but his eyes cold and black.
I shivered. “I prefer to stand,” I said softly. “Where have you been for… erm… the last fifteen years of my life?”
He sighed and smiled apologetically, and gestured to the coffee table. “Look, see?”
I looked at the coffee table and saw he had laid out four old photographs across the smooth wood. They were obviously of him as a younger man, holding a baby.
Remembering the old photo I had of myself and my older sister, I knew I was indeed that baby.
“I have these pictures of you. See? Your mother, she wouldn't let me have them. I had to steal them before leaving for Florence. They are all I've had of you for these many years.”
“So you were in Florence until now? Why didn't you call? Or write? Or hell, there's this thing called social media that makes it pretty easy to find anyone you're looking for in the entire world. Why did you wait all these years until now to show up? Did you know Angelina died when I was four? Where were you then? Hmm? Where are the pictures of her?”
He was taken aback by my harsh tirade and clearly at a loss for words. Mitch, I noticed, gave me a silent, mental fist bump and a big fat grin. Bonnie hid her smile behind her hand.
But I was having none of it. “Look,” I said tiredly, “I've had a terrible day and now you're here and I'm just supposed to suddenly accept you're my father? Did you even go through the foster agency? Does Juanita know you're here?” I glanced at Bonnie with that last question, to see if she knew if my social worker was involved with any of this. Bonnie simply shrugged. I looked backed to Marco and continued. “You're a stranger to me. I don't know you… and to be perfectly blunt, I don't care to know you. I have a family now. I'm good.”
And with that little outburst, much to his surprise and chagrin, I turned away and stormed back to my room.
Chapter 16
~Roz~
Seriously, was everyone in my life suddenly on drugs? First Parker with his whole ‘not being dead’ thing. Then Odie, falling for his cockamamie story and believing he was Jimmy. And now some tall, thin, creepy guy proclaiming to be my father? It was too much.
I closed my bedroom door quietly and leaned against it, only to find Amelia lying in the center of my bed, stari
ng up at the ceiling.
“Hey Squirt,” I said.
“Hey yourself,” she answered back. “That's your real dad out there?”
I shrugged. “I don't know,” I said truthfully. “He certainly looks like he could be my father.”
She shook her head. “No, Roz. He looks like Snape.”
I giggled. “He does, doesn't he?”
I moved onto the bed and curled my body to fit around hers. We snuggled together, big sister and little sister, and I felt my day of anger finally begin to eek away.
“So, how was your day?” I asked her. As far as I could gather, she was enjoying her new teacher and classmates, and making friends like crazy.
“Kind of bad,” she said quietly. “This girl at recess kept calling me Amelia Bedelia.”
I shrugged. “It's a nickname. It's cute, actually.”
“Not how she was saying it,” my little foster sister said. “And anyway, Amelia Bedelia is a stupid girl in some stupid books, and I'm nothing like her. It made me so mad.”
“You have a beautiful name, you know,” I said reassuringly. “And those books aren't stupid. I loved them when I was a kid.”
“They’re okay,” she begrudgingly agreed, “But anyway, it's not like my name can be shortened down to anything. You can't turn Amelia into a nickname without adding something to it.”
I considered her words, trying to understand exactly what she was saying.
“Amelia, do you wish you had a nickname?”
She glanced up at me. “Your name is Rosalind, but everyone shortens it to Roz. And that mean girl at school is Jennifer, but everyone shortens it to Jenny. I even heard Mitch call Bonnie ‘Bon’ sometimes.” She shrugged. “I just wish I had a name that could do that, too.”
I hugged her tightly. This didn't sound like the confident girl I'd come to know and love. She sounded like her feelings had been wounded, and was experiencing insecurity as a result. I had to remember how mean kids could be at her age.
At every age, my Inner Roz corrected.
“Well, how about we try to shorten your name to something?” I suggested. “You're Amelia. We could always go with the last part of your name, Lia. That sounds cute.”
She smirked. “That doesn't really suit me, does it?” She asked.
I tried it in my head a few times. She was right. She wasn't a Lia.
“How about Amel?” I asked. “The first part of your name?”
She grimaced.
“Okay, you're right. That's not good either.” I thought and thought for a moment and then was hit with inspiration. “Hey! How about Amy?”
She looked at me. “Amy?” She asked.
I nodded. “It's a short version of Amelia, but sounds really cute too.”
“How would we spell it?” She asked.
“A-M-Y,” I said. “Or, if you want to get really crazy, you could spell it A-M-I-E.”
Her eyes grew big and she said it out loud a few times. Then she hopped off the bed and stood before my mirror, repeating the nickname.
“I like it.” She declared. “I want to go crazy with it.”
I grinned at her reflection. “A-M-I-E it is! Congratulations Amie, you have a new nickname!”
We smiled at each other, and my heart nearly burst with love for this gem of a sister.
***
The next day at breakfast, Amelia made her declaration and told all of the family we were now welcomed to call her Amie, “with an I-E.”
Bonnie grinned. “I love it!” She exclaimed. “So sassy!”
Mitch gave a thumbs up. “I'll still probably call you kiddo, though,” he said.
She shrugged. “I’ll let you get away with that, Mitch.”
“How about me?” Vincent declared around a mouthful of pancake. “I want a nickname!”
Amelia (sorry, Amie), looked at him and said, “Your name is easy. You can go by Vince.”
“Or Vinnie!” Mitch exclaimed.
“Or Vin!” Bonnie added.
My foster brother sat and considered those suggestions before saying, “Nah, I'm good. I'll stick with Vincent.”
We all gave our approval and went back to our meals. I took my phone out and began scouring the Internet for ideas to implement into my fitness plan, which I was hoping to begin soon.
“Are those yoga pants?” Mitch asked, spying the image of a young woman working out with a medicine ball on my phone screen.
I shrugged. “Yeah, and workout clothes. Why? You into yoga pants?”
He grinned. “I'm a guy, Roz. We're interested in everything that shows off the female form.”
Bonnie guffawed in her seat. “Is that right, dear?”
He nodded unabashedly. “That's why I'm always so excited when you wear yours!”
“Gross!” Vincent cried out. “I'm eating here!”
“Wait a couple years,” Mitch told him. “Then, it'll all make sense!”
I laughed and said, “Actually, I'm looking at this stuff because I'm thinking about getting into shape. Not thinking about buying yoga pants.”
Mitch sat up straighter in his chair. “Well hey, I'm a PE coach! I'll help you get into shape! What is it you're hoping for, exactly?”
I thought about it. I didn't need to lose weight, I had dropped enough over the summer. And I didn't want to bulk up like some dude on steroids. But I did want to feel stronger.
“I want strength. And speed.”
“Speed?” He asked. “As in, running?”
I nodded. “Exactly. I want to run fast, and I want to defend myself if I need to.”
He snapped two fingers in the air. “Punching bag!”
“Punching bag?” I asked.
He nodded. “I have an old punching bag in the garage. I'll set it up for you and show you how to throw a vicious right hook!”
“And that will make me strong?” I asked, a little confused.
“Not just that,” he said. “I'll put together a regimen for you. Running, followed by weights and a go with the punching bag. This will be awesome!”
Excited, he jumped up from the table and headed out for the garage, mumbling to himself about weights, iron, and setting up an at-home gym.
Bonnie and I looked at each other.
“You have no idea what you've just begun,” she said, chuckling.
I shook my head.
“Guess I'll find out,” I said.
She took a sip of her coffee and said, “I know you can't really tell by looking at him, well mainly at his belly,” she chuckled, “but Mitch is passionate about fitness. Sort of the same way you and I are passionate about art.”
I nodded. “That makes sense, given his occupation.”
She nodded. “I know when you mentioned defending yourself, it sparked something in him. See, he was bullied a lot as a kid. He was scrawny, awkward, and an easy target for the jerks on campus.” She stood and moved from the breakfast table to the counter, and refilled her coffee. “It got so bad for him during high school that he attempted suicide.”
“Oh my god,” I breathed, stunned to my core. “You're serious?”
She nodded. “These guys already know that story,” she gestured to Vincent and Amie, “So I won't repeat it all again for them. It's difficult to talk about and difficult to hear. But, suffice it to say, he survived, and he used that experience to become an advocate for children’s fitness. He believes the way we feel within our bodies has a lot to do with the way we feel about ourselves mentally. If we feel physically strong, we then become mentally strong.”
I nodded in understanding, still coping with the idea that Mitch, big, bulky, jokester Mitch, had been a victim of bullying. “There's a lot more to Mitch than I realized.”
“We all have a story, Gorgeous,” Bonnie said softly.
She was right. We all have a story. I stared at her and wondered how mine would turn out.
Chapter 17
~Jimmy~
As we entered the little bookstore, I was assaulted by an odd
, sweet scent which I would later come to discover was called ‘patchouli.’ The aroma came from a small gold disc which sat upon the gleaming mahogany counter, and it held a smoking stick of incense. The entire space was filled with either books, bookshelves, beaded jewelry, windchimes, and various occult materials. I spied an assortment of hand-carved wands which were in a locked display behind the counter, and something about them reminded me of the pocket goddess.
“Ladies!” A voice came from behind the counter. I turned to look and saw a beautiful, older woman with big, fire engine red hair, wearing a long, flowing skirt that seemed to have been made of brightly colored scarves. Gold bangles covered both wrists and a long, gold chain with ornately designed charms hung from her neck. Black eyeliner done Cleopatra-style adorned her eyes, and her lips were covered in a deep burgundy color.
“I wondered when you five would come see me again!” She proclaimed. Then the woman noticed me, and her happy demeanor instantly vanished. “Parker Evans?” She whispered, turning raised eyebrows to The Pastels. “What is the meaning of this? You brought one of the Dark to my store?!”
Devon stepped forward. “We're here about a few things, actually.” She said. “But first, before we get to all that, do me a favor. Look at his aura.”
The red headed woman turned her amber colored eyes my way, peering at me intensely. In fact, they all did. And by all, I mean not only the woman running the bookstore and The Pastels, but also the two patrons who had been browsing through the bookshelves when we came in. This signaled to me that everyone inside the shop was some sort of magical entity, because they were the only ones who could see auras of power.
I stood for several long minutes in the silence, growing more and more uncomfortable by the second as each of them allowed their eyes to scan my body up and down. Finally, I shifted my weight and threw my hands out to the side, and gave them all a pointed stare.
Rage in Pain Roz: The R.I.P. Series Book 2 Page 9