I no longer see the scene in front of me. Only myself, silent and staring into the spotted bathroom mirror. Mom is behind me, combing, fussing, yanking, curling, braiding. Adding ribbons or tiny bows with polka dots. Adding flowers. She did my hair every morning, right up until the day I left.
I’m fifteen, not five.
Rosemary?
I have to do this. I won’t ever go back to my old life.
Hashtag Mama’s girl is gone.
The handle of the salon door feels cool to my fingers. My heart speeds up. I enter and find myself smiling at the stylist. She has an eyebrow ring and pink streaks in her hair. She smiles back. Maybe I can’t manage my mangled words, but I know how to point to pictures in magazines.
“Rosie! Your hair!” Sylvie gasps when I walk through the front door.
It’s nearly gone. Yes, it is. I run my fingers through my gloriously short hair and grin, feeling weightless, like a cork floating in the ocean. Feeling free.
Sorry, Mom.
I don’t need you to do my hair anymore.
Sorry, Thomas.
Let’s see you try to grab me by my braid now.
Fifteen
Dear Rosemary,
I miss you so much. Please write back soon! It’s dull here without you. Zander takes me out almost every night and keeps me busy, but I think of you every second. Are you still practicing? Don’t forget, thirty minutes a day, at least! Have you made any friends? Remember that I love you to the moon and back.
Mom
I love you, too, Mom. But is it harsh if I say that it’s easier for me to love you now that we’re like, 5,468 miles apart? Maybe. It’s true, though.
Dear Rosemary,
How’s Paris? Sounds like you’re having a blast. I’m proud of you, kid. I knew this would be good for you, or I wouldn’t have helped you pull one over on Darla in such a big way. This is hard for her, so I planned a trip of my own. We’re going to pick you up in August. A vacation in Paris should help her get over the deceit once she learns the truth (I hope). Anyway, I’m buttering her up by taking her out a lot. Glad to hear you liked the Louvre, but don’t forget the Musée D’Orsay. It’s my favorite, and that’s where you’ll find all your Impressionists.
Zander
PS
Don’t forget to contact your Mom every day. She needs to hear from you.
Oh, Zander. You don’t know how much I owe you. And how I’ll always be grateful for what you helped me do. Don’t hate me when I disappear from your life.
That vacation isn’t going to happen, by the way.
Hey, Ro!
Your Mom is psycho! Yesterday she freaked and said she was getting on a plane to Arizona! Zander talked her out of it. He was like, “you have to cut the strings,” or something. Or was it leash? I LOLed so hard. They would both freak if they knew what’s going on. Thanks for your pictures. I love the pole guys!
Huggies,
Jada
So how much would you freak, Jada, if I called you right now and told you the entire story? Would you still be LOLing?
I bite my lip. I have to tell Jada some time, but I can’t right now, in the middle of dinner while we sit at some café and people-watch. I shove my phone into my pocket and try to breathe slower. If Zan is planning a Paris getaway in August, I’d better get busy and work on the “I need you, Sylvie and émile, to be my new family” angle, and fast.
People stroll by in the soft summer twilight, clearly out to see and be seen, chatting, laughing, eating ice cream, breathing in the sea air and the perfume of flowers and citrus trees. We’re having a “special dinner to celebrate.” Sylvie was thrilled by what I did, though I’m not totally sure why, since I didn’t catch everything she said in her enthusiastic, bubbly-fast French. So now we perch on tiny metal chairs that surround a cloth covered table, sharing bread, goat cheese coated with herbs, and a salad of chopped vegetables with lots of olives.
“Your portrait, Rosie,” Sylvie begins, once the eating slows down. She places her napkin onto the table and puts her chin in her hands.
“I didn’t mean to make you sad,” I blurt. I wince. Why can’t I talk normally like everyone else?
“Ah, no, Rosie!” émile says. He puts his hand on my shoulder.
“You do not need to apologize to us,” Sylvie tells me. Her eyes are so sad. “I wanted to say how sorry I am for making you feel so, so . . .”
Warm relief floods me inside. I’m glad that Sylvie wasn’t too upset by my painting. She was only worried about me, which is what I wanted in the first place.
“Sylvie!” a woman calls. “émile!”
We all turn as a woman with curly auburn hair weaves her way through the tables toward us. She’s an exclamation point of a person, nothing but long, long legs, like she follows a diet of celery sticks and air. Heads swivel, whispers start and eyes follow her as she hurries right up to our table.