Before she knew it, Mr. Stein had led Bushy-Haired Cop back into the house and right over to Rose. “Look here. I have to take you with me.” The cop cleared his throat. “Am I going to have to cuff you? And make a scene? I’m sure you don’t want to cause any more embarrassment to this nice family.”
Rose pulled her sleeves all the way down past her fingertips. “Whatever.” She tried to look tough. “Here—you gonna search me first?” She robotically turned her pockets inside out and stepped up for a pat-down. Then she headed for the front door. No one said anything.
Rose lay halfway down in the backseat of the black-and-white.
“We gonna book her?”
“I say we just take her back to the house. Let the parents deal with her.”
Bushy-Haired Cop twisted around in his seat. “Why don’t you give us the credit card? We can return it to your mother and—”
“She’s not my mother,” Rose snapped.
Hard-Jaw Cop studied her in the rearview mirror. He waited and let the car idle. “Miss Parsimmon, I’ve been around a long time. Either there’s something going on at home, or you’re nothing more than a delinquent with a pretty face.”
Rose turned her head toward the car seat, smelling the stink of the people who’d sat there before her. She didn’t want the cop to read her eyes.
“They’re not hurting you, are they?”
No comment.
“Because if they’re hurting you, tell us. We can help you.”
Rose slowly turned her head back toward the cops. She felt like she hadn’t slept in days. “They’re not molesting me, if that’s what you mean.” She laid her arm over her eyes. “They don’t beat me either.” But there’re a lot of ways to hurt someone. And no, you can’t help me. No one can.
Rose’s last memory of her own mother slammed her in the face. Mama had been sitting in a cop car then, just like Rose was now.
Rose could still see the cop stuffing Mama into the back of a police car.
Rose scrambling in after her, heart pounding. Holding on to her mom’s neck like she was an anchor and her mother a ship. “Mama!” Her mom’s long, silky hair spilling around Rose like a shield.
Mama wrapping her arms around Rose, whispering into her ear, “I love you, Rose. No matter what. I love you.”
Those were the last words Rose ever heard her say.
Because before she knew it, some cop was peeling Rose’s fingers and arms from her mother’s neck, pulling her away from her mother, and then holding her in his arms—a big girl like she was—already five, being held like a baby. But Rose didn’t fight it, just buried her head in the cop’s shoulder and cried.
After a brief stay in a foster care shelter, the social worker had driven her to the Parsimmons’ house. Long term foster placement, she explained. Nice people. It’ll give your mom some time to figure things out.
Except for a few visits to check in over store-bought cookies and milk, the social worker just left her there. Rose concentrated on biting the chocolate chips out while the social worker’s words floated past her ears. Probation. Have not been able to make contact since her release. Off our radar. Upcoming court date.
Rose decided that if she couldn’t talk to her mom, well, then she wouldn’t talk to anyone. And she didn’t. Not for a whole year. Actually, Mrs. Parsimmon seemed to like Rose’s silence at first.
“My little princess,” she’d whisper, as though Rose might break if she spoke too loudly. “Just like a porcelain doll. So perfect.”
Mrs. Parsimmon brushed Rose’s long hair over and over, until it felt like silk. Rose could still remember the soft pull of the brush against her hair, the rhythmic strokes, and how it felt good … but she couldn’t help but feel bad that it felt good. She couldn’t help but think about her real mother.
Rose remained silent until the moment in that big cement building the social worker called “Court”, when she first heard the man in the black robes refer to her as Rose Parsimmon. That wasn’t her last name! At first she thought it was a mistake. But suddenly she knew. She knew. And the heaviness of knowing made her feel like she’d sink right through the floor all the way to the molten center of the earth. She belonged to them now.
Even now, with it just a memory, Rose felt the nothingness flood her senses. Because that had been when she’d tried to stop caring. When she tried to adopt “the opposite of love” as her mantra. When she tried to stop giving a damn that no one ever tried to help her call her mom. But the thing that hurt the most was that no one ever asked her if she wanted to be adopted. Because apparently, her opinion didn’t count for shit.
4
ROSE
The cop car seat cold against her back, Rose tucked her chin into her knees. “What happens if I refuse to go back home?” she asked the cops.
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen and a half.”
“Oh, you got a ways yet.” Hard-Jaw Cop sighed. “You’re stuck with your parents until you’re eighteen. Unless you get emancipated. But that’s kind of a process, from what I hear. You have to have your parents’ approval, first of all. Then you have to be able to prove you can live independently, pay your own bills, and provide your own medical insurance … which basically means you have to have a full-time job.”
“Oh.” Rose chewed on the inside of her lip.
All too soon, the car pulled up to the curb in front of her house. Through the side window, Rose could see Mrs. Parsimmon sitting on the front steps, dabbing at her cheeks with a tissue. Rose figured if she’d saved all Mrs. Parsimmon’s tears over the years, she’d be able to fill a pool and do the backstroke.
Mrs. Parsimmon eyed them from her seat. Suddenly she burst up as if someone had dangled a winning lotto ticket in front of her. And barreled down the steps in her flowered bathrobe.
Rose pulled her knees closer to her chest, burying her head against them. She could sort of pretend she was somewhere else that way. That worked for a moment. Until Mrs. Parsimmon got close enough to the car that Rose could hear her through the glass window—muted, though, almost like she was underwater. Bushy-Haired Cop sighed and pushed open his door. Suddenly, the volume hit Rose full force.
“Rose! I was so worried about you! Thank the lord you’re alive!” Mrs. Parsimmon wailed. She should have been a school “yard duty.” The woman had lungs.
Rose pressed her bony knees into her forehead until it hurt. She didn’t move to get out of the car. She had learned years ago that silence was her friend. And her best weapon. When Rose first came to the Parsimmons’ household and didn’t speak for a whole year, the shrink called her a “selective mute”—meaning that she could talk but she didn’t talk.
Not talking was power, really. Because besides torture, what could anyone do to make her talk? After a while, people didn’t even expect her to talk. Like Ariel, whose voice was stolen in The Little Mermaid, Rose got by with gestures.
The car door opened. Hursula’s strong hands wrapped all the way around Rose’s skinny arm until her fingers touched. “Get. Out.”
Rose allowed herself to be pulled away from the safety of the musty car. She imagined herself as one of those skinny blow-up man-kites they use to sell secondhand cars. Light enough to be blown about, too weak to resist … ready to be torn apart and whipped to oblivion in a storm.
Good old Bushy-Haired Cop stepped up toward Hursula. “Ma’am.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “You’re very upset. Why don’t I walk you back up to the house, so my partner can have a few more words with your daughter?”
She nodded, and Bushy-Haired Cop led her by the arm, like he was escorting her on a date or something.
The police walkie-talkie blared something, and Hard-Jaw Cop turned to where Rose stood on the sidewalk. “Sorry, Miss Parsimmon, but we’ve got to jam.” He pressed his business card into her hand. “Here’s a word o
f advice. Give her back the credit card. Whatever’s going on between the two of you—trust me—it’s not worth it. You’re too pretty to go to Juvenile Hall. They’d eat you alive.”
Bushy-Haired Cop trotted back to the car. “Let’s roll. We got bigger fish to fry.”
Rose watched as the cop car pulled away from the curb. She couldn’t help but feel sort of cheated. She had run away, after all. And committed theft. Property destruction too, since she’d cut the credit card into eighteen pieces.
Rose walked slowly toward the house, wondering if she could just sleep on the porch for the night. How cold would Southern California get in early November? As if to answer, the wind brushed past her, making her skin ripple into goose bumps. She could feel the hair stand up on her legs. Little stubbly prickles. Too bad she was by herself. She needed someone who’d wrap his arms around her and share body warmth. That overgrown teddy bear of a boy from Becca’s would do.
Rose heard the slap of Mrs. P.’s house slippers as she stomped through the kitchen and across the living room. Crap. “I don’t understand, Rose.” Her voice started out flat, but when she spoke again, it sounded like she was pleading. “We try to give you the perfect life here with us.”
It took everything in Rose’s power to keep her face blank. Because she couldn’t believe Mrs. P. considered this the “perfect life.” No contact with her real mom? No visitation? No communication? Please.
“Surprise, surprise. The silent treatment.” Mrs. P. shrugged sadly, her eyes glistening and looking almost pretty for a moment, although Rose would have never told her that. “The old standby.” She waited, her eyes drying up. “Your father’s gone to lie down already. You’re gonna give that man a heart attack. This stress is killing him, you know.”
When Mrs. Parsimmon was upset, she reminded Rose of the love child of Peter Pan’s Captain Hook and The Little Mermaid’s Ursula, the Sea Witch, mostly because she was heavy and angry and got way too close to Rose’s face when she was talking.
Rose visualized Hursula’s words bouncing off her skin—like she wore full-body steel armor. As for Mr. P, she’d bet anything that he’d spent the evening watching infomercials, instead of lying down in complete stress-case mode.
Hursula went on, “From now on, you are not to step foot off this porch without permission. You are not to go anywhere unsupervised. I will personally walk you to the door of your first period class, and I will walk you home.”
Rose’s stomach lurched at the thought.
“Maybe we’ll finally get through to you. And that’s not all—you have a month to get a job. You will bring your check directly to me. You will pay me back what you stole.”
Rose would’ve liked to point out to Mrs. P. that she hadn’t charged anything on the card. She’d just cut it into eighteen pieces to make a statement. All Mrs. P. had to do was report it missing and order a new one. But she kept her lips shut tight on principle. Sometimes not talking took more energy than talking.
Hursula raised her voice and spoke slowly, the way people do when someone is hard of hearing. “Are you coming in to go to bed?”
No freaking comment.
“Well, freeze your butt off if you like. I can’t help it if you’re too stubborn to come in and sleep in your own bed.” Hursula disappeared for a moment. Then she came back, throwing a couple of thick quilts at Rose, which knocked her in the head.
“Take the quilts,” Hursula ordered. “I know you. You’ll be calling CPS to report me for child abuse—‘she made me sleep on the porch with no blanket.’” She pulled her robe tighter around her. “Or you’ll run to that Stein woman. Like it or not, my friend, she’s not your mother. I am.” Hursula turned on her heel and slammed the screen door behind her.
Rose blinked back tears. It was gonna be a helluva long night. Rose wrapped the quilts fully around her body, like she was a human enchilada, and ducked her head in too, burrito-style.
She thought, for a second time, how nice it would be to have that teddy-bear boy right next to her. For warmth. For company. And to royally piss her parents off.
Rose woke with a neck so stiff she actually couldn’t turn it. She’d given up on the porch swing midway through the night and had instead propped herself up underneath the living room window. Every muscle in her body ached.
The screen door squeaked open and closed. Rose remained motionless, pretending to still be asleep. Heavy footsteps thudded up to her. Boots—work boots. Mr. P. wore them every day, even though he’d retired from the construction business last year. The footsteps stopped in front of her enchilada-quilt huddle. She could almost feel the porch give under his weight. Mr. P. was built solid—like a big, old sack of sand.
The man woke up at 5:00 a.m. every day. That was not normal. Every single morning for as long as she could remember, he’d walked to the Daily Drip. The walk was supposed to be good for his heart, anyway.
Nearly a minute passed as Mr. P. stood over Rose. She pictured him standing there, his hands stroking his salt-and-pepper beard, his skin weathered like the ancient cloth tarp he used to cover his car, and the pores on his nose big enough to bury treasure.
Finally, the work boots thudded past her, down the creaky step and toward the sidewalk. She could hear his feet pad away down the street, until she no longer heard them at all. Only then did she dare to move. Holy crap. Her entire left side contracted and stiffened as she adjusted her position.
Rose gingerly climbed back onto the porch swing. She folded in her legs and wrapped the quilt around herself again. When she closed her eyes, she felt rather than saw the sun edge up into the sky. It cut the chill in half almost immediately. The quilts insulated her with her own body heat, and the sun gradually baked her face.
“Comfy?” A sudden voice jolted her.
“What?” She squinted, her eyes unaccustomed to the light. A dark shape loomed above.
“So did you pull it off? Were you disappointing enough?” That boy from the Steins’. Daniel’s friend. Chase. Standing on her porch, blocking her sun.
Rose fought off the cloudiness of sleep. “What the hell are you doing here?” She wrapped the quilt tighter around herself, even though she was fully clothed underneath.
“Just passing by.” He crouched next to her, looking rugged. “I couldn’t sleep, so I took a walk.”
“Past my porch at the crack of dawn?” How did he even know where she lived? Although on second thought, she wasn’t exactly discreet.
“Um.” Chase’s cheeks turned bright red. Oh my god, he’s shy. “I guess I was worried about you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can.” He cleared his throat. “You just looked sort of upset when you left.”
“Yeah. Getting arrested tends to do that.” Rose said, saucier than she’d intended.
Chase didn’t seem to have an answer for that one, just nodded. “Seriously, though,” he finally said. “You shouldn’t sleep outside. Didn’t you hear about those pit bulls escaping? It’s not safe.”
“Ah, shucks, I didn’t know you cared.” Rose felt herself softening. She couldn’t help but smile as she studied his face. The outside corners of his eyes turned down in a way that made him look gentle.
“Maybe I do.” Chase sat down on the swing next to her.
“So you think that by sitting with me, you’re gonna somehow protect me from killer pit bulls?”
“Either that, or we’ll both be dog meat.” Maybe it was the rising sun behind him, but Chase’s skin kind of glowed.
“Just don’t let Mrs. P. catch you here. I’m grounded.” Rose moved the blanket to make a bigger place for him. “Can’t be seen hanging with the opposite sex.”
“Don’t worry.” Chase grinned. “I can run fast.” He settled himself next to her. “You gonna share that blanket, or what?”
She shared.
She must’ve
fallen back asleep that way, sharing a blanket with a strange boy. Because the next thing she knew, Mrs. P. was shaking her awake, and Chase was nowhere to be seen.
She wondered for a moment whether she’d dreamed the whole thing. But as she folded up the blanket, she caught a whiff of Chase’s rugged smell, and she couldn’t help but smile.
5
CHASE
The lunchtime cafeteria line stretched all the way past the choir room. Chase stood in the line for less than a minute, being jostled by the movement of the students. He gave up and wandered instead past Rose and Becca’s tree trunk. He tried not to look over at her. No need to be so obvious.
“Hey you, Chance!” Rose startled him out of his thoughts, throwing an orange at his back, right between his shoulder blades.
It took every ounce of restraint to keep from running up like a panting dog. Instead, he slowly turned. “Chance? My name’s Chase.”
“Oh.” Rose bit her lip like she was trying to hide a smile. “My bad.”
You faker. You knew my name. Chase tried to think of something intelligent to say. They’d barely made eye contact since that morning on her porch a week ago. He hadn’t wanted to get Rose into any more trouble than she was already in, so he’d left her sleeping there as soon as he heard the sounds of someone waking up inside.
“I’ve got a favor to ask. One Disappointment to another.” Rose beckoned him closer. She patted the patch of grass next to her. Then she leaned over and whispered in his ear. The puffs of her breath sent chills through his body. “I am dying for a smoke. But the parent police are breathing down my neck. You’ve got to get me a pack.”
As much as Chase wanted her lips closer to his skin, he pulled away. Considered her for a moment. “What makes you think that I can hook you up? I don’t smoke. Besides, they card everywhere.”
“Oh, come on, Chase. I can’t ask Becca to get them from her cousin ’cause she’s trying to quit.” Rose said, looking over at Becca. Becca stuck a grape Blow Pop in her mouth and smiled around it.
The Opposite of Love Page 2