I.
Rosie is moving away. She hasn't told me this, but I know it's true. Rose is moving and never coming back.
I've tried to talk her out of it without actually talking her out of it; if she knew that I knew, then she'd leave even sooner and that would be that. I've done my best to be subtle, which just means I've tried to say it without being too direct. Instead I've brought her things: cobalt sea glass, her favorite chocolate, a mixed tape, a posy of marigolds. Anything else? Well. I've made it a point to tell her about my day. That gets her attention for a while usually, because she knows how much I hate talking about myself. We have to be doing something else at the same time though – crossing the river on the dead tree, bicycling home from school, sitting on the swings or the merry-go-round. Anything. While we sit or cycle or walk, I can tell her the truths I've always kept from everyone else. We can sit and kick our legs out and sometimes we even laugh.
For a while, I've been under the impression that I'm getting through; someone else needing you is surprisingly powerful, and we both know that. I mean, I kind of understand where she's coming from. Sometimes I even feel like I'm in the same house as she is, like I'm hiding the same things. And, really, I know this is the truth: if I really wanted to move away, no one could stop me. Rosie says that's why we became friends - why we've been friends all this time, why she rolls her sleeves up when only I can see what's there: modest scars, and sometimes, finger-shaped bruises.
She says other things too; she says she loves me, and I want to tell her you don't leave the people you love on purpose, but I already know that's not true either.
Dad left. And he loved us. Mom always says so, anyway.
Rosie is beautiful like a good book. The more you read her, the more you love her, the more you find there. That's been my experience, at least. Based on the people who watch her, I think I'm not the only one who sees that. On the first read you get the basics: only child, working-class family, red-haired and blue-eyed, surprisingly strong. If you read her again you notice: Rosie doesn't like a lot of things. Rosie doesn't do "like". Rosie loves. She loves animals, and she loves sports. She loves storms and silent films. She loves the playground with its rusty safety-hazards of equipment. I used to think Rosie didn't know how to like anything, that she could only love it, but now I think she has just never been interested in the word "like" to begin with. To someone of Rosie's kind, to "like" seems halfhearted, so she opts for love.
Being around her makes me feel bad sometimes. I told her once, and she said I shouldn't be stupid. We didn't talk for a week after that, and then when we did start talking again it was without explanations or apologies. It was as though we had some silent agreement about how we missed each other and how that alone was enough of a reason to magnetize back together. Rosie is so alive. I have always thought this, and a year ago that would have been the thought that sent me into tantrums of jealousy, bitter that I had to aspire to be like someone the same age as me. What made her better? It wasn't that I didn't know; it was that I very much knew, and the list was a long one. I don't know for sure if I told her this – in detail or in that vaguely hurried, confessing way – but I have a memory of crying; I think – I swear – Rosie was there and listening to me, brushing my hair back. I think she understood, that time.
II.
Rosie is moving away and there is nothing I can do about it.
No one else knows. They don't see the way I see. I guess she isn't eating much, and I guess she doesn't smile a lot anymore; but when I point this out to a mutual friend they just tell me I'm seeing things that aren't there. Rosie is a very active person; of course she's on the lighter side at the peak of the season. It's senior year, and everyone is a little grimmer around the edges, so to speak. Don't be such a worry wart. That's a favorite people use on me all the time, but they use it so much it bounces right off of me. I continue worrying. I can't help it. It's not just how her clothes hang off of her bones or the number of times I catch her hands shaking too hard to hold a pencil. It's not just that. In fact, I might have to punch the next person who starts their response with “It's just...” because it's not. It's…everything. I don't know how else to put it. But no one believes me. Rosie has every reason to be fine, so she's fine. Everyone tells me. It's unhelpful enough that I stop asking what people see when they look at her. Maybe they don't see Rosie herself at all – just what they think she is, or what she should be. Whatever's easier.
Recently I sat with Rosie in the playground. She was at the top of the slide and I was at the bottom, facing up at her. It was nighttime, too far away from the streetlamps for any real light.
At some point, I told her, "I'd be dead without you," and I meant it.
"You'd be fine." She had her dark blue jacket, the hood sloping down over her eyes like low-cut bangs, and when she smiled I could barely see anything but her teeth - the white sharpness of them.
"You don't know that," I said, unable to say what I meant to say, which was: don't leave. Stay. Friends don't leave each other. You're a liar Rosie Jennings. You're a liar and I hate you. You better not leave.
And... I'm scared. That was what I wanted to say. Well. Some of it.
"You'd be fine," she repeated, but I thought she sounded a little less certain.
I hoped she was.
III.
Rosie moved a month ago. She sent me a letter. I guess she posted it right before she left, because I got it the very next day.
It has no return address but I know where to find her.
When I go, I bring with me: cobalt sea glass, her favorite chocolate, a mixed tape, a posy of marigolds. I tell her about my day, and I tell her what an awful person she is, how I'll never forgive her for moving away and how because of that I'll never forget her either, which is confusing. I sit with her until it starts to storm.
"You planned this."
It's supposed to sound accusatory but it just comes out sad. I don't know anyone else (I've never known anyone else) who could make me as sad as Rosie.
Or as happy.
I don't say goodbye. I just leave, wondering how I look to her – if she sees me at all – with my hands shoved deep in the pockets of her dark blue jacket. Years from now, the late winter rain thieving down the back of my neck will be the first thing I associate Rosie with, strangely like her in retrospect: honest and waiting for no one, inevitably falling down.
Rosie is moving away. She hasn't told me this, but I know it's true. Rose is moving and never coming back.
I've tried to talk her out of it without actually talking her out of it; if she knew that I knew, then she'd leave even sooner and that would be that. I've done my best to be subtle, which just means I've tried to say it without being too direct. Instead I've brought her things: cobalt sea glass, her favorite chocolate, a mixed tape, a posy of marigolds. Anything else? Well. I've made it a point to tell her about my day. That gets her attention for a while usually, because she knows how much I hate talking about myself. We have to be doing something else at the same time though – crossing the river on the dead tree, bicycling home from school, sitting on the swings or the merry-go-round. Anything. While we sit or cycle or walk, I can tell her the truths I've always kept from everyone else. We can sit and kick our legs out and sometimes we even laugh.
For a while, I've been under the impression that I'm getting through; someone else needing you is surprisingly powerful, and we both know that. I mean, I kind of understand where she's coming from. Sometimes I even feel like I'm in the same house as she is, like I'm hiding the same things. And, really, I know this is the truth: if I really wanted to move away, no one could stop me. Rosie says that's why we became friends - why we've been friends all this time, why she rolls her sleeves up when only I can see what's there: modest scars, and sometimes, finger-shaped bruises.
She says other things too; she says she loves me, and I want to tell her you don't leave the people you love on purpose, but I already know that's not true either.
Dad left. And he loved us. Mom always says so, anyway.
Rosie is beautiful like a good book. The more you read her, the more you love her, the more you find there. That's been my experience, at least. Based on the people who watch her, I think I'm not the only one who sees that. On the first read you get the basics: only child, working-class family, red-haired and blue-eyed, surprisingly strong. If you read her again you notice: Rosie doesn't like a lot of things. Rosie doesn't do "like". Rosie loves. She loves animals, and she loves sports. She loves storms and silent films. She loves the playground with its rusty safety-hazards of equipment. I used to think Rosie didn't know how to like anything, that she could only love it, but now I think she has just never been interested in the word "like" to begin with. To someone of Rosie's kind, to "like" seems halfhearted, so she opts for love.
Being around her makes me feel bad sometimes. I told her once, and she said I shouldn't be stupid. We didn't talk for a week after that, and then when we did start talking again it was without explanations or apologies. It was as though we had some silent agreement about how we missed each other and how that alone was enough of a reason to magnetize back together. Rosie is so alive. I have always thought this, and a year ago that would have been the thought that sent me into tantrums of jealousy, bitter that I had to aspire to be like someone the same age as me. What made her better? It wasn't that I didn't know; it was that I very much knew, and the list was a long one. I don't know for sure if I told her this – in detail or in that vaguely hurried, confessing way – but I have a memory of crying; I think – I swear – Rosie was there and listening to me, brushing my hair back. I think she understood, that time.
II.
Rosie is moving away and there is nothing I can do about it.
No one else knows. They don't see the way I see. I guess she isn't eating much, and I guess she doesn't smile a lot anymore; but when I point this out to a mutual friend they just tell me I'm seeing things that aren't there. Rosie is a very active person; of course she's on the lighter side at the peak of the season. It's senior year, and everyone is a little grimmer around the edges, so to speak. Don't be such a worry wart. That's a favorite people use on me all the time, but they use it so much it bounces right off of me. I continue worrying. I can't help it. It's not just how her clothes hang off of her bones or the number of times I catch her hands shaking too hard to hold a pencil. It's not just that. In fact, I might have to punch the next person who starts their response with “It's just...” because it's not. It's…everything. I don't know how else to put it. But no one believes me. Rosie has every reason to be fine, so she's fine. Everyone tells me. It's unhelpful enough that I stop asking what people see when they look at her. Maybe they don't see Rosie herself at all – just what they think she is, or what she should be. Whatever's easier.
Recently I sat with Rosie in the playground. She was at the top of the slide and I was at the bottom, facing up at her. It was nighttime, too far away from the streetlamps for any real light.
At some point, I told her, "I'd be dead without you," and I meant it.
"You'd be fine." She had her dark blue jacket, the hood sloping down over her eyes like low-cut bangs, and when she smiled I could barely see anything but her teeth - the white sharpness of them.
"You don't know that," I said, unable to say what I meant to say, which was: don't leave. Stay. Friends don't leave each other. You're a liar Rosie Jennings. You're a liar and I hate you. You better not leave.
And... I'm scared. That was what I wanted to say. Well. Some of it.
"You'd be fine," she repeated, but I thought she sounded a little less certain.
I hoped she was.
III.
Rosie moved a month ago. She sent me a letter. I guess she posted it right before she left, because I got it the very next day.
It has no return address but I know where to find her.
When I go, I bring with me: cobalt sea glass, her favorite chocolate, a mixed tape, a posy of marigolds. I tell her about my day, and I tell her what an awful person she is, how I'll never forgive her for moving away and how because of that I'll never forget her either, which is confusing. I sit with her until it starts to storm.
"You planned this."
It's supposed to sound accusatory but it just comes out sad. I don't know anyone else (I've never known anyone else) who could make me as sad as Rosie.
Or as happy.
I don't say goodbye. I just leave, wondering how I look to her – if she sees me at all – with my hands shoved deep in the pockets of her dark blue jacket. Years from now, the late winter rain thieving down the back of my neck will be the first thing I associate Rosie with, strangely like her in retrospect: honest and waiting for no one, inevitably falling down.
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