Rosie Girl

by Julie Shepard

  He talks about his family—his dad, the pilot who has their garage filled with model airplanes, and his mom, who finally got a promotion in the detectives’ bureau. He’s got two younger sisters, twins Maggie and Michelle, who pull pranks on him when he’s sleeping. He tells me about his favorite professor, an old guy who knew his uncle way back when he played ball for UM. And I tell him about Ms. Tuft and Mrs. Shoal, and how they ganged up on me with a double detention. He says there’s a place in the Keys called Islamorada Outpost that has cherry pie better than Lou’s.

  Then he asks me about life before my dad died. I launch into memories of my old house, struggling to keep the tears at bay. “I had the nicest bedroom with dark green carpet and lavender walls. Outside my window, a small lake lit up at sunset like an orange Popsicle.”

  “Sounds way better than my room,” he says. “I’ve got tile floor, white walls, and a view into my neighbor’s bathroom window.”

  “Is she at least hot?” I joke.

  “No. It’s a ‘he,’ and Mr. Hostetler is about eighty years old and sometimes forgets to close the blinds.”

  We both laugh, and then I say, “We had nice neighbors,” because I want to add to the conversation even if it does make my stomach knot up. “Lots of families with kids who rode bikes and played dodgeball in the street. Sometimes Dad would put extra burgers on the grill and we’d invite half the neighborhood into our backyard. Life was good. You don’t know how good when you’re young.”

  “Tell me more. I like hearing about a time when you were happy.”

  It takes everything for me not to cry. As painful as the memories are, they’re somehow even more painful to share. “Enough about me,” I say, fearing if I round up any more, I’ll definitely lose it. “I’d much rather hear about Mr. Hostetler.”

  “Uh, no you wouldn’t. Trust me.” Mac snorts, and I imagine him lying on his bed, holding the phone to his ear, imagining me, too. “Hey,” he says, as if a strange thought just popped into his head. “Do you want to go out tomorrow night?”

  “What?” I ask like an idiot, then ask like an even bigger idiot, “What about your professional ethics?”

  “Hmm,” he says, “I’m sure they’re around here somewhere.” I hear Mac making all sorts of noises, like moving books and papers around. “Nope. Can’t find them.”

  I snicker, feeling all giddy. I can’t believe Mac just asked me out on a date. Definitely beats me asking him, which I won’t bring up again right now. The wedding is still two days away, giving me plenty of time to reissue the invitation.

  “Text me your address and be ready at eight.”

  31

  STILL NO WORD from Mary. The only thing more daunting than preparing for a date is doing it without your best friend. I can’t believe she’s acting this way. If I’m having second thoughts about trekking across the country, that’s my business. She shouldn’t judge me. After all, I’m not judging her whole park-ranger-fantasy thing.

  Between outfit choices, I keep checking my phone, hoping to see the screen light up with a text from her. As I decide on a pair of faded jeans (torn in all the right places) and a heather-gray cap-sleeved top, the long-awaited glow catches my eye. I bounce on my bed to read the message.

  we r gonna meet

  Oh no. It’s Joe. And what’s with the future tense?

  I text no with two angry taps.

  yes

  stop or im calling cops

  c u soon

  That’s it. Officially freaked out, I waste no time going for the Fund. While Mary had agreed to accept the offer of my share, we also agreed that I’d keep it with me. Believe it or not, her mom’s snoopier than Lucy. I shouldn’t need much to buy a pocketknife. This way, at least I’ll be able to defend myself if this lunatic follows through on his threat.

  I pull open the bottom drawer of my dresser, clawing my way through old bras and panties. My heart races when my fingers keep missing their target. This is where I’d moved the Fund after I suspected someone had been snooping around in my nightstand. I didn’t only move it—I transferred it, too. I’d found a new pack of Lucy’s cigarettes and, just to be mean, pulled them all out, broke them in half, and sprinkled the tobacco around the house before dumping them in the trash. For days, Judd was checking the entire house for termites.

  Mistake number one: I used that empty pack to hide the Fund.

  Mistake number two: selecting this place, because it’s not here. The empty pack or the cash. It’s gone.

  When there’s a knock at my door, I almost jump out of my skinny jeans. “Go away!”

  “Rosie. Open up.” It’s Lucy. These visits have to stop. Reason enough to get my own place.

  “One minute!”

  She jiggles the doorknob. “Why is this thing always locked?”

  “So you can’t come barging in whenever you feel like hassling me,” I reply, kind of joking, kind of not.

  I slam the drawer shut and yank open my door with enough force to cause a breeze to blow through Lucy’s glossy white bangs. Immediately, her eyes fix on the dresser. I follow her gaze to the drawer, which had popped open a bit from my slam. It’s closed, but her eyes linger on the knob I have wrapped with a macramé chain I made at summer camp when I was eleven.

  “What are you doing?” Her suspicious tone tells me she already knows.

  “Just looking for something,” I say, playing along, but there’s no game here. She found the money. I’m not a hundred percent sure, though, so I need to keep cool.

  “Going out?” She looks like she’s going out herself, with crystal earrings dripping above her shoulders and a tight dress wrapped around her like black cellophane. The stitching is shoddy, and frayed threads pop around the plunging neckline.

  May as well get it over with. “I’m seeing Mac.”

  “Your college stud?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Is he picking you up, or are you meeting him somewhere? You should never do that, you know. Make him come get you. He’ll respect you more.”

  “He is,” I assure her.

  Lucy eyes me dubiously as Judd calls from the other side of the house, asking where the hell she is. “Hold on!” she screams, then turns to me. “Pre-wedding shindig at Roland’s house. I guess you could call it the rehearsal dinner, but I think it’s only appetizers and cocktails. As long as they have wine, right?”

  “I guess,” I say, just telling her what she wants to hear.

  She grips the door frame, then spins around. “Do you like the dress? It’s new.”

  “Yeah, it’s nice.” Please go.

  “The darnedest thing happened the other day. I was scrounging around for a smoke. You know how I get when I’m out of cigarettes!” It’s as if I can see it: a hammer being raised up, up, up. “And wouldn’t you know, I found a pack in that drawer.” Her nod at my dresser signals the hammer is ready to strike. “Such a sweetie, nagging me all these years to quit. Hiding my cigs, trying to keep me alive another day. Got a lot more than a fix, thank you kindly.”

  The hammer slams down on my head, blinding me.

  “Where’d all that money come from?” she asks, no longer being cute. Her heavily made-up face means business.

  “It was mine,” I say bitterly.

  “I figured as much. But how did you get it?”

  “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “I would never accuse you of such a thing,” she says, raising an eyebrow. Uh-oh. Did she find out I stole the will from her desk? All this cat-and-mouse stuff is making me nervous.

  Since I can’t come up with a plausible explanation, I pull out this from my bag of tricks. “Actually, it wasn’t mine. I was holding it for Mary.” Which is kind of true.

  “Were you now?” Lucy’s eyes brim with disbelief, but she says, “In that case, you can tell your litt
le friend that I’m sorry.” She’s as sincere as those televangelists who promise your donation is going straight to God and not their wallets. “I didn’t spend it all . . .”

  I perk up, hoping she’s got some left, which she should since there is no way her dress cost anywhere near the six-hundred-something dollars she stole from me.

  But then she clarifies, “. . . on the dress. I also needed a new pair of shoes for the wedding. Somehow my cigarette must have fallen yesterday and made this perfectly round hole in one of the toes.”

  Don’t blow it by flinching, Rosie. She can’t pin this on you without hard evidence. When my face doesn’t betray me, Lucy continues. “Then I splurged on an expensive cabernet and two loaves of olive bread.”

  Everything we suffered through—letting strange, probing fingers touch Mary, allowing sweaty flesh to rub against hers, while I watched when I didn’t want to, and listened when I couldn’t bear to. All for a cheap dress and a bottle of wine. I wish there was a sinkhole beneath my feet that could swallow me up.

  “Be home by midnight,” she says, and shuts the door behind her.

  32

  SINCE THERE IS NO SINKHOLE, I collapse on the floor and call Mary, but she still won’t answer. So I thrash around in a furious rage, kicking stuff and screaming at Lucy even though she’s gone. By the time Mac arrives in a shiny white convertible, I’ve got a wicked headache. Still, I intercept him outside my crappy house with a smile and the warmest hello I can muster.

  “I was going to knock,” he says, already heading up the broken stone path that leads to the black door.

  “That’s okay. I saw you pull up.”

  “You look nice.” He moves in for an awkward half hug. “Are they . . . here?” Mac asks, surveying the front set of windows, maybe thinking their noses would be pressed to the glass. The question makes sense, since both Judd’s truck and Lucy’s car are in the driveway.

  “No. They were picked up by one of Lucy’s co-workers about a half hour ago.”

  When Mac opens the car door for me, I slide into the soft leather seat and drop my purse near my feet. My whole body sags in comfort, and I let out a sigh that grabs his attention.

  “Rough night?” He hops into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. The car is immaculate and smells like clean laundry.

  “Let’s just say it’s a good thing you weren’t charging me to work on my case,” I say.

  “What happened?”

  “All the money is gone,” I say, turning away. “Everything I did—”

  “You did?”

  “What?” I ask, my head pounding so loud I couldn’t make out what he said.

  “You said everything you did.” I hear him this time, but I’m still distracted by the pain settling between my eyes. “Are you okay?” he asks, probably because I’ve taken to kneading my forehead with my knuckles.

  “Headache.”

  “Do you get them a lot?” His eyes carry that concerned look people get when you tell them something that sets off warning bells.

  I’m quick to say no, but the truth is, I have been getting more. I’ve just chalked it up to all the stress.

  “Well, I did play a role,” I say, returning to our conversation. I don’t want to discuss my headaches or my memory lapses or anything else Mary harps on me about. “It was wrong. I know. But we weren’t hurting anyone . . .” Aside from me and Mary. Because as much as we tried to play it cool, you can’t do stuff like that without it leaving scars.

  Out of nowhere, Mac downshifts, pulls off the road, and into a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot. Part of me wants to buy a dozen and call it a night. He presses a button overhead and a tiny light illuminates the armrest between us.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Let’s deal with this right now.” With his most serious expression, he asks, “Have you ever done drugs?”

  “What?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “No.”

  “Alcohol?”

  “No. Well, last year, when Mary and I were about to do something courageous—or stupid, if you consider friendship bonding rituals silly—we took a swig of vodka first.”

  He doesn’t notice me glance at my wrist because his gaze has shifted to the rearview mirror. Checking, always checking to make sure he’s doing the right thing, not blocking anyone, not doing anything illegal. Which is why I don’t tell him about the rum shots I did with Mary two weeks ago after the incident with Ralph. Why get into all that?

  His focus is back on me and now his eyes are narrowed in suspicion.

  “I swear,” I say.

  “Have you murdered, maimed, or kidnapped someone, committed tax fraud, violated your parole, or stolen even one dime from a hardworking individual?”

  “Are you joking?” I can’t help but giggle and it feels so good. It’s like my face is opening up.

  “No,” Mac says, trying to stay serious, but I see his beautiful mouth curling up at the ends. “Answer the question.”

  “No to all of the above.”

  “Then I have news for you, Rosie Velvitt. You haven’t committed the worst sin in the world—although it is illegal in forty-nine states. Even if you weren’t the one perpetrating the act, you were still promoting prostitution. It’s a third-degree felony, you know.”

  No, I didn’t know.

  “What you did was wrong, but it’s behind you now, and it has to be behind us, too.”

  He just said us. I haven’t been an us since Ray, when I was crushed into some pathetic, whiny dust. I can only hope it means something different this time.

  “Okay,” I say, grateful his impromptu interrogation has cleared the air we didn’t go near on the phone. “Last week, in your office, I left feeling superconfused, and I don’t want to feel that again. So I’m just going to come right out and ask first.” I lean in closer, search for a smell I can recall in the future as smelling like Mac. But he just smells clean. “If I kiss you, are you going to pull away?”

  “Why don’t you try and find out?”

  So I do. It’s a kiss that lasts at least five minutes, his hands cupping my face so I stay close. He playfully tugs on my lower lip with his teeth and lets me do the same to him. My hands wrap behind his neck, letting his soft hair slip through my fingers. When we finally separate, our noses inches apart, he smiles and says, “You taste like raspberries.”

  He takes my hand and uses it to shift gears, onto the moonlit highway.

  • • •

  Part of me wishes Mac had taken us to some dark, cozy restaurant where we could do some serious talking and hand-holding. Candlelight, soft music, a waiter who brings us an appetizer on the house because we look like a young, hip couple who will spread the word about the restaurant’s gracious ways.

  The other part thinks the Sports Club is probably a better spot for a first date—bustling and busy, with plenty of distractions if conversation runs dry. Not that Mac and I have ever had trouble communicating, but you never know. I’ve never been here, but I can understand why Mac wanted to come. Behind a Plexiglas wall, a group of guys battle it out on the basketball court, slamming against each other, offering diners an unusual form of entertainment. Televisions show various sporting events while an old Eagles song blares through the sound system.

  I grip Mac’s hand as he leads us through a labyrinth of crowded tables to end up at a booth in the back. It’s so stuffy in here, I’m regretting my decision to wear tight jeans and a shirt made of fabric that doesn’t breathe.

  He leans into me and softly says, “Did I already tell you how nice you look?”

  Scratch that regret. “Yes, but a girl likes hearing it twice. So do you.” He really does, looking spiffy as always in a button-down checkered Polo shirt and those dark jeans I love. I noted the shoes, too. The usual boat shoes have been replaced by honey-colored loafers with a bru
shed-satin buckle.

  We slide into opposite sides of the booth and pick up the menus already resting on a place mat filled with football team logos. A waiter wearing a referee uniform appears with a pen and pad, says, “Welcome to the Sports Club. Don’t get teed off because there’s no foul here.”

  “Excuse me?” Mac rubs his chin.

  “It’s what I have to say.” A whistle and plastic badge bearing the name Jacques hang from the waiter’s neck. He doesn’t sound or look like a Jacques—more like a Rob or a Dean. He’s got long, stringy hair and a set of probing brown eyes that flick back and forth between Mac and me. “Get it? We’ve got like ten slogans I can pick from. Want to hear another one?”

  “Uh . . .” Mac stumbles.

  “Do you have root beer?” I ask, hoping to cut this waiter’s weak comedy routine.

  “We do,” he says. “And for you?”

  “Iced tea for me.” Mac holds the menu in both hands while scanning it. “We’ll need a few minutes to decide.”

  “Okay,” Jacques says. “Soup of the day is clam chowder.” Then he leans down with a hand slightly cupped over one side of his mouth. “But I wouldn’t recommend it. Kinda fishy.” Pops back up and blows his whistle. “Drinks on the way, no time to play.”

  We share a dubious look and chuckle into our menus. Then Mac props his elbows up on the table and clasps his hands. Serious-conversation body language. “So how are things at home?”

  “Same.” I grab a paper napkin and proceed to tear it into tiny pieces. “Well, not exactly the same. The happy couple is extra-happy because of their impending nuptials.” A flurry of white paper floats onto the table in front of me. “Wish I didn’t have to go.”

  “If the invitation still stands, I could take you.”

  “Really?” I’m excited and relieved I didn’t have to ask him again.

  “You did say I didn’t have to wear a suit, though, right?”