It’s kind of cool, I guess. Mary and I have done similar things. When we were fifteen, we found a dead lizard, took off its back legs and used them as charms on plastic anklets; at sixteen, we dyed blue a chunk of hair at the base of our necks (so our mothers couldn’t see); and on my seventeenth birthday, we each used a match to make a tiny burn mark on the inside of a wrist. It didn’t hurt that much, because we took a swig of vodka from my mom’s stash first. The scars will bind us for life.
Like the letter, I put the bracelet to my nose and inhale, hoping to smell my mother, but it just smells old, too. It goes back in the box with the other things. I close the lid and snap the silver lock. I’m too tired to jam it back in the closet, so I shove it under my bed, making sure the dust ruffle is doing its job of hiding the mess under there.
It’s almost midnight. I snap off the light, curl up in my bed. It’s been a long day, but a good one because it’s the beginning of my quest for answers. Sure, I want to know why my father lied to me. But even more than that, I want to know why my mother let him.
7
BACK TO THE NIGHT I found the box.
I couldn’t grab it out of Mary’s hands fast enough. We left my house the same way we went in, and as we walked through my old neighborhood, I struggled to read my father’s letter in the fading light of day. Then I read it a second time, out loud, so Mary could hear. We held hands on the bus ride back but didn’t speak. When I arrived home, my brain felt like pea soup. And I hate pea soup.
It was close to seven o’clock before I walked through the door. Any normal parent would have been all over me, wondering where I disappeared to, but all Mom could slur over her glass of wine was “Perfect timing!” when I found her in the kitchen. Wine made her happy and excited. She took a drag from her cigarette and coughed. “Judd’s brought home a bucket of dark meat.” I also hate dark meat. It’s fatty and slips through my fingers.
I rubbed my eyes, still swollen from the crying episode in my old bedroom, and looked at her as my stepmother, my father’s accomplice. For the past two and a half years I had put up with her drinking, her smoking, her nasty comments about my hair or makeup. Now I had to put up with her being a liar, too.
“Where is that damn thing?” She was busy scrounging through the utensil drawer with one hand, clinging for dear life to her glass. God forbid she put it down to search for the tongs. We could never simply dig in with our hands.
I had no intention of sticking around. I held the box near my back, prepared to dart off, when Judd came up from behind me and snatched it from my hands.
“What’s this?” he asked, taunting me. He was still wearing his uniform that consisted of a chicken-cartoon tie and a badge pinned to a dingy white long-sleeved shirt. I could smell the oil and garlic on his clothes.
I thought fast. My mind had to be quicker than theirs, which were already dulled by alcohol. “It’s a jewelry box.”
“Kinda junky for a jewelry box,” he said, taking a swig of wine.
“Give it back.” I lunged at him.
He kept me at arm’s length, but his fingertips still managed to reach my waist, where they twitched and rubbed against my shirt.
“Where did you get it?” Judd peered at it curiously, as if he, Itchin’ for Chicken’s assistant shift manager, had an eye for spotting antiques.
“A friend.”
“Which one?”
“Mom, tell him to give it back.”
“Give it back, babe,” she mocked, without any real conviction, before launching into a coughing fit that had her gripping the countertop.
It was clear he was not going to give it up until I did. “Fine. It was Mary.”
“Ah, the famous Mary,” he said, handing it back to me. “Will I ever get to meet this best friend of yours?”
And subject her to your predatory eyes? Never.
“Don’t even try,” Mom said. “She keeps her under lock and key.”
“That’s totally not true,” I said, because it wasn’t like that. Mary wouldn’t allow herself to be kept under lock and key by anyone. And if someone did try, she’d claw her way out until her nails were bloody, which says a lot because Mary likes her nails nice. “You saw her that one time at—”
“We’re just bustin’ your chops, Rosie,” Judd interrupted.
I sniffled away the last of my runny nose, which made my mother spin around. “Have you been crying?” She clacked together the tongs she had finally found.
“Allergies,” I said, thinking fast on my sneakered feet.
“Since when?” She put down her wineglass and inched closer.
“They can develop with age, you know. One day, boom, you’re allergic to some crazy flower you passed on the way home.”
I started to shuffle away when Mom said, “Wait,” her flat eyes suddenly sparkling with interest. “Let me take a look at that.” She was surprisingly quick for being sloshed. The box was almost in her clutches when I yanked it away and tucked it under my arm.
“It’s private, Mom.” I offered up one of those if-someone-sees-this-I’ll-be-embarrassed looks. “Please.” Parents usually fall for that, especially around other people, like boyfriends. It makes them appear fair instead of heartless.
She waited a beat. “Go wash up, then. But you’d better hurry, because I’m hungry and I’ve just spotted two breasts hiding at the bottom of that bucket with my name on them.”
“And these two have my name on them,” Judd said, playfully grabbing at Mom’s chest, only partially hidden by a low V-neck sweater. She poked at him with the tongs, but then allowed him to maul her with his mustached mouth.
I left the room, wondering if she ever loved my father. If she ever loved me. Because no matter what she did, I had grown to love the lady with pretty gold hair who bought me my first set of colored pencils and a thick pad of seemingly endless white paper. Even now, knowing she’d kept a secret from me for years, I still do.
8
IT TOOK A LOT of willpower not to barge through that black door and confront her, but I knew it was best that I didn’t. A strange thought had occurred to me on the bus ride home from my old house. While Mary held my hand and seemed to stare absently out the window, my mind was moving at warp speed, struggling to fit this odd new piece into the puzzle of my life.
Imagine if this piece had three prongs. Two prongs fit fine into the other pieces. One, my dad was obviously trying to protect me from something. Two, my stepmother went along with the charade. But the third prong didn’t fit anywhere. Why, after my father died, hadn’t she told me the truth? This was the part of the secret that bothered me most.
I couldn’t come up with any logical answer by the time I got home, so I figured I’d keep the whole thing under wraps. I’m no actress, and have no dreams of becoming one, but the quality of my upcoming performance had to be Oscar-worthy. There was no other way. Until I understood why my stepmom had—for over three years—continued with this sham, I had to keep the secret to myself. And Mary, of course.
The only thing I did know was that I had to find my real mother. But after endless online searches yielded zilch, I realized I had to bite the bullet and hire a professional.
Did you know that private investigators prefer to get paid for their time? I thought if I told some nice guy my sob story, he’d do it out of the goodness of his detective heart. Thought maybe they work for free sometimes, like lawyers, if they can get behind a cause, and what better cause than a poor young girl searching for her long-lost mother?
When I started calling around, three men hung up on me, and one woman asked what kind of drugs I was on. So when I got to John William Brooks, PI, the only thing I told him was that I was really, really short on funds but really, really needed help finding someone. I faked a sniffle into the phone, then made some additional, unintelligible noises until he spoke.
John lowered his retainer fee bu
t said his hourly fee was nonnegotiable. I agreed, even though I had no idea at the time how I’d be able to pay any of it. When he told me he wasn’t able to see me for a while because he was involved in a “big case,” I agreed to that, too. I needed time to start the Fund.
There was also no place to go digging for cash, like a savings account, or anything. I only started receiving an allowance when I turned thirteen, about a year before my father died, and often spent it at the Goodwill store—adding a funky designer piece to my wardrobe whenever I could. Mom’s kept up with my allowance, but by half, since money’s tight. And if I don’t remind her, she’ll skip a week, too. Stealing from her wallet wasn’t an option because she, like me, knows how to blow through money once it falls into her hands. Besides, how much did she ever have in there—five, ten bucks? I was going to need a lot more than that.
I didn’t know what to do until the idea was—excuse the expression—thrust upon me. I’m not trying to be funny. I’m only trying to find a way to explain how it all started, how Mary came to be in the stairwell with Todd Ryser. Don’t judge her, admire her. Best friends say they’d do anything for you, but I dare you to test that theory. Most won’t. But Mary’s different. She’ll not only take a bullet for me, but she’ll also remove it with her bare hands and then stitch herself up with the needle I’ve threaded.
• • •
It was a Saturday afternoon, about a week after I found the box. A storm was coming. The clouds were thick and gray, heavy with rain. Judd and Mom were in the living room, lost in a Guns Galore marathon on TNT. I was slogging through Moby-Dick for English class, but every time a shot was fired on the television, I jumped out of my desk chair. My nerves were already on edge. I had to get out of the house.
I decided on a long white cotton tee, cinched at the waist with a belt, and a pair of dark red leggings. Gold ballet flats topped off the outfit and were comfortable enough to walk long distances. My hair wasn’t cooperating that day, so I bunched it up as best as I could and stuffed it into a knot on top of my head. I swiped a pair of Mom’s fake gold hoop earrings and put them on after I left.
The bus stopped right at the entrance to the food court of the mall. I had just wanted to be alone, which is of course when you run into friends who want you to join them. Paula, from my World History class, and her two best friends (Rachel and Iris, who always dye their hair the same color orange) linked arms with me and dragged me to a table. They gorged themselves on milk shakes and burgers while I drank lemonade and tore through a bag of chips. The three of them giggled about guys I didn’t know and almost snorted milk shakes through their noses when a song came blaring through someone’s phone at the next table.
“Come shopping with us,” Paula said. She wore frosty-blue eyeliner that matched her shirt. “Forever 21 has a humongous sale going on.”
Rachel and Iris nodded at the same time, as if with one giant tangerine head. Rachel’s prettier, with petite features and a great smile she always flashes. Iris has a flat, wide face and an overbite braces never fixed.
I thought fast because I still wanted to be alone, and even more now after spending fifteen minutes with them and not getting their inside jokes. “No, thanks. I’m meeting Mary.”
“Who?” Rachel asked, crinkling her pinched nose.
“Mary,” I said, then added, “Perkins,” as if mentioning her last name would help them know who I was referring to. But they still shook their heads and the three of them exchanged a weird look that made me regret sitting with them in the first place.
“Well, we’re on the hunt for graduation dresses, even though they’re hidden under those hideous blue satin gowns.” Paula shook her head, then tucked wisps of short blonde hair behind both ears. “Speaking of graduation, where are you headed after—Seminole land or Gator country?” she asked, because most people end up becoming one or the other. But then she made a sheepish grin and said, “Sorry. You probably don’t want to be in Tallahassee with what’s-his-name.”
I waved her off as if the reference to Ray hadn’t bothered me. “I didn’t apply to either one. I want to go to design school, so I applied to the Fashion House in Miami Beach. Still waiting to hear on acceptance.”
“Cool!” Iris said with such enthusiasm that when she followed with, “Where else?” I deflated a little.
“Um, that’s it. For now. I mean, if I don’t get in, I’m sure there are other places—”
“Risky,” Paula interjected. “I applied to all the state schools. You should really get in some other apps, Rosie.”
“Or I can just blow off college.” I grabbed one of Rachel’s napkins and cleaned my greasy fingers. “Maybe I’ll jet off to Europe and sketch on cobblestone streets.”
“Don’t forget the tin can for donations!” Iris snickered at her own joke, but then we all fell into an awkward silence.
“Well, you’re looking at two Gators,” Rachel said brightly, wrapping an arm around Iris. “And one Seminole.” She stuck out her tongue in Paula’s direction and then the three of them broke into a cackling fit.
I was ready to go, so I drained the last of my lemonade and emptied the remaining crushed chips into my mouth. Checked my phone, told them Mary was waiting for me.
“See you at school,” Paula said as I gathered my things.
I felt their eyes on me as I walked away, so I picked up the pace and got lost in the crowd.
I checked out the shoes in Skechers. I tried on a pair of high-wedge-heeled pink sneakers and a pair of those flip-flops that claim to work out your butt. Next I wandered into Victoria’s Secret and tried on at least a dozen bras I left in the dressing room, then stood in front of a full-length mirror wrapped in a fuzzy robe until a salesperson asked what size I needed. Shooting for the extra-small always gets me off the hook. There are never any extra-smalls. So when she said, I think I have one in the back, I ducked out and got lost in the crowd.
You’d think the mall was my heaven on earth. All those clothes, those fabrics, those mannequins sporting perfectly chosen outfits. And it is, to some extent, especially in the designer section of places like Bloomingdale’s or Saks Fifth Avenue. I keep a small notebook tucked in my purse for when inspiration strikes. But it’s also my nemesis, taunting me with dreams I may never be able to fulfill. What if I don’t get into Fashion House? Paula was right. I should’ve applied to more schools and increased my odds of getting in somewhere.
Anyway, I ended up at the makeup counter at Macy’s, which is kind of strange because I don’t like to wear it. I hate the way it feels on my skin, like it’s suffocating the pores. But through a large-pane window palm trees were getting battered by a driving rain and I knew hanging out at the mall was better than heading out into that mess. Especially with my hair waiting to be difficult.
So I let a woman with a jet-black bob—Anya, MAC sales associate—have a go at my face because she was rocking her lab coat–looking uniform with a hot-pink tank underneath and five-inch wedge heels. She did a surprisingly good job, applying a very light foundation, smoky eye shadow, and champagne-colored gloss. When she placed a mirror in front of me, I didn’t want to scrape it all off with one of those wipes. Mary probably would have loved it since she likes makeup way more than I do, always testing new shades of everything but her lip gloss. Rockin’ Raspberry will never be replaced by another color. She says it’s the perfect complement to her skin, even though I’m sure just about any color goes with pale.
I held the mirror a beat too long. Anya knew I liked what I saw, but all I could do was thank her and promise to send my friends who were also in the mall and would definitely, positively buy something. My own pockets were empty. I don’t think Anya was too pleased, but still she patted my shoulder and, in a thick Russian accent, told me to have a nice day. I can’t help that the lemonade and chips ate up what was left of my measly ten-dollar allowance.
And speaking of the lemonade, I needed
to pee. Since I didn’t feel like backtracking to Macy’s or walking all the way to one of the mall’s restrooms, I went into the nearby Dead End Bookstore. A girl named Margarita works there. She’s nice and lets me use theirs if I’m hanging around awhile when the store is slow. On opposite sides of the counter, we flip through the pages of the latest Vogue or Elle magazines, making fun of models and pretending to choke from the perfume insertions. But secretly I’m studying the fashions, making mental notes about color combinations and style trends. One day, my designs will be in those magazines.
After greeting Margarita with a quick wave, I made a beeline for the bathroom. When I came out, I almost bumped into a guy who appeared to be waiting his turn. Apparently, Margarita’s nice to a lot of people who are too lazy to find a public restroom.
“Whoa,” he said, bracing me with his hands. “Come here often?”
Our eyes locked. He wasn’t hot but he did have this amazing gold hair and long matching eyelashes.
“Only on days ending in y,” I said, trying to be cute, which worked because his face broke into a smile that instantly improved his looks.
“These places are a dying breed, you know.” With arms wide, he cast his eyes around the bookstore. “It’s a shame, too, don’t you think?”
“I guess. So long as there are books to read, I don’t care how I get them.”
He fell in step behind me as I snaked my way through the Memoir aisle, then Study Aids. “But there’s something about being surrounded by them,” he said, allowing his fingers to trail along the spines of SAT prep books. I had a bookworm on my heels and needed to lose him. Not because he was a bookworm—that was cool—but because he was a bookworm who was following me, so I said something I hoped would turn him off.
“I come for the magazines.”
“What kind? New age stuff? Travel and leisure?”
Rosie Girl Page 5