Golden Words

12: Enemy

Rosemary

"Rosemary? Look, I'm sorry."

I don't move.

I lie on my back, my breathing even.

Patricia sighs and I hear her body roll over.

Today was a bad day.

First I was reading Little Women, the bit when Amy falls through the ice, and I tore a page in half. I had to tuck it inside the book so I could tape it together when I got home, and I was too scared to open the book again in case the page fell out and I lost it and could never read the book again.

Then it got all chilly and I didn't bring my bolero so I was really, really cold. I ran around a lot until I got tired, but it didn't warm me up, it just made me feel like I didn't have lungs.

Then I tried to roll on the soft grass for a bit but I kept rolling over crunchy leaves which ruined the sensation, and when I stood up I was dizzy and there were green grass stains all over my good white blouse.

And then I realised I was being silly trying to warm myself up by running and rolling because I had a big vacuum bottle filled with carrot soup so hot it could probably light a fire in my stomach so I started to drink that but it was so hot it made me jump and I spilled soup all down my good white blouse and on Muffin and it was so hot it felt like it was burning me and also it fell right on my chest so I couldn't even lick it off even though I was still hungry so I lay down in my soggy blouse with sticky Muffin spread across my face to block out the sunlight so I could sleep a bit.

And then, like a gross rotten cherry on top of the world's worst cupcake, Patricia arrived late and spent what felt like forever talking to her awful friends about how bad I am.

Honestly, it was scary.

I tried to write it in my scrapbook but it just made me cry more. All I could write was one sentence: I thought Patricia believed in me but it seems no-one does.

I remember her voice, hoarse and savage. I remember her words. Mean.

Well, damn to her.

What do I need Patricia for anyway?

____________________________________________________________

I've never seen anyone so beautiful.

She looks like her name is Jacqueline or Gwendolyn or Yolanda.

She has the most delicate features I've ever seen; a pale button nose, round pink cheeks, rosebud lips, and long-lashed eyes the colour of a baby boy's bassinet. Her hair is the hair Mum wishes I had- a mass of smooth, shiny gold ringlets. She's dressed in a frilly white dress with a puffy skirt, a beautiful but uncomfortable-looking party dress. If I bought her I could fix it. I could kit her out in a butter yellow shirtwaist dress cut from the fabric of my old playsuit and at night I could dress her in a soft white nightie made from the unstained bits of the blouse I spilled carrot soup on last month. I bet those soft blue eyes would close if I lay her horizontal. I imagine the satisfying click of her eyelids, her eyelashes fluttering up and down.

I want her.

"Rosemary? Robert?" Patricia says, for the sixth or seventh time.

Her voice sounds all funny and wobbly.

Probably because she knows that we won't reply.

"We're supposed to be buying Christmas presents..."

I pull away from the window long enough to wipe the place where my face was. It doesn't work and just leaves a damp smear. I lean back into the window anyway.