She is Not Made of Roses

two: this meeting is called to order to protest straight teenage boys

TWO: THIS MEETING IS CALLED TO ORDER TO PROTEST STRAIGHT TEENAGE BOYS

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"WHAT'S WRONG, ROSIE?" Jessa asks, eyes wide as saucers. "You've hardly even touched your organic whey lentil patties."

Rosie begins to think there's a fairly good reason she's barely touched her organic whey lentil patties, and a large part of that reason is because they both look, smell, and taste like soggy cardboard. She prods her meal with a fork, her lips sealed shut.

Her mothers sit across the table from her, her sister at her side. Jemima chows down on hers, and Rosie feels that she might be sick if she's forced to look at Jessa's creation one more time. The unmistakable bond that Jessa and Jemima share for all things organic and spiritual has never really bothered Rosie, but once it beings to manifest in the form of her Monday morning breakfast, she takes great issue with it. Despondently, she pushes her plate away, sighing.

"I'm not hungry."

Beside Jessa, Ester pokes her meal tentatively with a fork herself. She looks up, "Is it cramps?" She asks, concerned. "Do you want to take an ibuprofen?"

"No, I'm just not hungry," she insists.

Jemima slides Rosie's plate over, stealing it for herself. "Well, you're missing out."

"You should really eat something," Jemima mumbles to her sister, under her breath. She shifts her eyes back to her plate, eyebrows raised. "Something other than that shit you pile in your mouth every other day."

"What are you trying to say?"

"Just that you eat like a five-year old on vacation."

Rosie rolls her eyes dramatically, "Oh, I forgot! Now that you're getting married, you think you're automatically my superior."

"Don't be stupid," she chortles, "I've always been your superior."

Jessa reaches out a healing hand, "Girls, now, come on. This is a friendly environment. I can sense a difference in your auras."

Ester shakes her head, "No, honey, that's probably just the new candle from Anthropologie burning in the other room. It's called Sweetly Scented Lumberjack Musk. It's a bit of an oxymoron, but it smells delightful-"

Rosie slams her utensils down, quieting the whole room. "You're such a brat, you know that?"

Jemima frowns, peering at her through narrow eyes, "I'm not a brat. You're just too young to understand that. You're only a teenager."

"You're only five years older than I am," she hisses back.

She shrugs in response, taking another bite of her breakfast. "Well, I'm older, wiser, and I've got my whole life together."

Under her breath, Rosie tries her hardest to stifle a laugh. She looks at her slyly, "What, with Lewis?"

Jemima scowls, suddenly shocking the whole family by banging her fists on the table. Rosie nearly jumps from her seat as she stares her down, dripping with ire.

"Yes, with Lewis," she snaps bitterly. "Is there a problem with Lewis?"

Rosie simply smirks, chuckling, as if she's in on a joke no one else quite heard. "Jem. Come on," she insists. "He's a deadbeat twenty-five year old self-proclaimed white Buddhist who majored in bakery science at Kansas State."

Jemima laughs, tilting her chin the air condescendingly. "Wow. Says the head of the 'Contemporary Gender Studies Book Club Propaganda and More' club"-she scowls-"and it's his passion, okay-!"