Fifteen year old Emily Roses is a doll photographer.
At a yard sale, she stumbles across a strange doll chair that somehow brings her favorite doll to life.
While she's busy trying to figure out whether this doll will be her best friend or worst n...
"Emily says hi," I blandly stated, putting my phone away. She had already gone to California Adventure without us, even though it was our plan for the next day.
"When's the drama queen going to get here?" Rosie asked, glancing toward my backpack as I forcefully zipped it.
"Who knows? Emily is absolutely boy-crazy, so it could be hours... or days," I realized with a disgusted shudder, ignoring her name-calling rather than correcting it at the moment.
"Days?! She's here with us! Not that butthead hog boy," Rosie crossed her arms frustratedly, jumping up to take action, "He stole her from us! You know what happens when girls get boyfriends? They grow up and mature. When they mature, they don't need dolls anymore. Dolls are useless once girls grow up and forget the toys they once loved! I'll be forgotten with her childhood!"
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"That... won't happen," I rolled my eyes at her dramatic speech, reassuring her, "You're not exactly an American Girl doll anymore, Rosie. Plus, she loves her Instagram hobby way too much to let that happen."
"Still, that butthead is hogging her up!"
"She's capable of making her own choices, even if they're dumb, irresponsible ones. Seriously, he's an actual stranger and Emily goes along with him without blinking an eye. That's so freaking dangerous and stupid! We don't even know if he's actually a teenager and not some creep trying to kidnap doofuses like Emily, and I can't believe I just let her go with him! Never go with strangers, Rosie," I quickly incorporated an advisory lesson into my brimming rant.
"I know. Emily already told me. Apparently she doesn't do that though. She should be grounded," Rosie decided, frowning at her own realization.
"My parents aren't even home long enough to make sure she stays grounded," I muttered, feeling my eyes moisten, "Plus, if they figured out we skipped school to take a plane to Disneyland, they'd come home, yell at me because Emily is 'too precious to be yelled at,' and it'd end in both of us being sent to live with Aunt Hilda in Utah. Emily would kill me if she had to say goodbye to her 'besties for life."
Rosie snorted in amusement every time I saltily made air-quotes. "That's dumb. Isn't Emily the older twin?" she asked curiously.
"Yeah, by like ten minutes. Still, our parents would freak out at me because they literally can't look at their perfect princess daughter and get angry! I'm the less smart, less talented, more tom-boyish twin, and everything I do is never good enough for them! Yet Emily can just tap a paintbrush on a canvas, and she's freaking Picasso?!" I stopped when I realized I was about to go on an entire rant I probably shouldn't be dumping on a kid at Disneyland.
I regained my composure, taking a breath before I said anything more.
"I'm sorry," I apologized.
Rosie's eyes were filled with confusion, "That's okay. But your parents sound like buttheads."
Wiping at my eyes to make sure they wouldn't leak any unwanted tears, I took another deep breath. "We should get food. Maybe Redd Rocket's Pizza Port?" I asked, changing the subject.
"What the heck is a red rocket pizza port? Red is a color, rocket is a thing, pizza is a food, and port is a computer thing. Yeesh, y'all are confusing with English," the child rolled her eyes.
"It's a restaurant that people eat at. They have food there," I explained, forgetting the child was literally a doll for her entire existence, and she hadn't picked up on anything that Emily and I hadn't said around her for eight or so years.
"Pizza?" Rosie guessed, almost sarcastically.
"Yes. Is that what you want? I need you to stay here and hold our table so no one else gets it while I get our food."
The child, having little experience with hyperboles and exaggerated language, got under the table (it was nailed down to the cement) and tried to lift it.
"No, I mean just sit at the table until I get back," I rephrased it to be more specific, "You can sit at the chair you were just sitting at and just wait."
"Oh, that makes more sense! I can guard the table then," Rosie decided.
