Roseanne had been six years old the day her biological father left. She had been sitting on the front steps of their small house in Melbourne, watching the two brothers from across the street toss a football back and forth. She remembered that William, the younger of the two, pushed his brother into a puddle of water left over from a long week of rain. They'd yelled and thrown punches at each other until their mother came running out of the house waving a leather belt in one hand. The boys then scattered in opposite directions, laughing as they ran.
Roseanne had watched the mother roll the belt around her hand (in a way that made Roseanne think of a snail) and head back into the house. With nothing left to watch, Roseanne was forced to listen. Behind her, inside the door to her own life, her brother cried, and her mother and father yelled. Then, without warning, all of it stopped.
In the sudden silence, the screen door sounded louder than usual. Her father's footsteps were drowned by the painful screech of the door swinging closed. He walked by her and turned around at the last step. "I'm sorry, Rosie," he said, before walking away.
Since then, her only communication with her father had been in the form of the occasional letter turned occasional email, and in the checks he sent each month. He was as faithful in his financial contributions as he could never be in his marriage to her mother. She could never hate her father, Roseanne knew, but she had yet to forgive him. Fourteen years was not enough to mend that kind of wound. Perhaps a lifetime wasn't, either.
His latest email stared back at her from the list on her monitor, and Roseanne read it without responding. Was she okay? Sure. Had she received his latest check? Yes. What was new? Well, other than her sister being gay, not much.
"You look joyful this evening." Lisa walked into Roseanne's bedroom and sat cross-legged on the bed. "Homework?"
"Father."
"Ah." Lisa nodded, and popped open the can of soda she was holding. After a long sip, she asked, "Any updates from the family about you-know-who admitting she's you-know-what?"
Roseanne sighed, placing the laptop next to her on the bed and leaning forward. "I'm pretty sure they've gone into complete denial at this point. Mom called earlier and she didn't even mention it. It's as if it never happened."
"So, what, they're just going to pretend she's straight?"
"I really don't know."
"Have you talked to Alice yet?"
"No. I honestly have no idea what to say to her."
"I'm sure she doesn't care what you say, as long as she knows you support her." Lisa cocked her head to the side. "You do support her, right?"
Roseanne looked pointedly at her best friend. "Of course I do! It's just ... it's Alice, you know? Alice. I just can't picture her ... you know ..."
"And a gir—"
"Aaargh!" Roseanne covered her ears until she was certain it was safe to unclog them. "That's not quite what I meant. I just don't picture her, being ... gay. She's just Alice, my geeky—"
"Extremely hot..."
"Sister."
"Wonder if she's got a girlfriend."
Roseanne thought about it. "You think? Hm. I wonder what kind of girl Alice would be dating."
"Only one way to find out."
"I'll call her tomorrow," Roseanne decided.
"Or just drop by unannounced so she doesn't have time to hide her girl. Ooh, or girls."
"Lisa"
"Sorry. Where's Jungkook tonight?"
"Debate team practice."
"Ugh, lame." Lisa made a face. "So when are you dumping him?"
Roseanne sighed and sunk down into the pillows behind her. "Do we really have to have this conversation again?"
"Yes, because I've got hot guys lined up for a chance to date you, and they're not going to wait forever. Wake up and smell the testosterone."
Roseanne smiled. "What makes you think I'd jump at the chance to date any of these guys?" "Ah, hello, did I mention the hot part? First, there's John. He's training to be an Olympic swimmer. Swimmer, Roseanne."
"I'm familiar with the word..."
"Then I'd hope you're also familiar with the hotness of swimmers' bodies. Then there's Chris. He's not a swimmer, but he's still hot in a rock-and-roll sort of way. Plus, how cute would it be if you dated a guy named Chris?"
"I'll go with not at all."
"Fine. Lastly, and I've saved the best for last, there's Chanyeol. He's got the most gorgeous brown eyes you will ever see in your life, and he's an artist."
Despite herself, Roseanne was intrigued. "What kind of artist?"
"He's a sculptor," Lisa said, and it was obvious she was pleased with herself. "He even goes to NYU, which is where he's seen you."
"Really?" Roseanne couldn't recall noticing any male sculptors with gorgeous brown eyes at school. "I don't think I've seen him."
"Well, he's certainly seen you."
"And you know this how?"
"I know many things, Rosie. I am like the Oracle of the Village." She paused. "So if you're not interested in the swimmer guy, can I have him?"
Roseanne laughed. "You can have all three of them."
"Mmm," she considered. "You sure you don't want to join in?"
"I think I just threw up a little in my mouth."
Lisa laughed and got up. "I'll leave you to your cybering, or whatever it was you were doing before I interrupted. TV calls. Want to join me later? I think there's a really bad vampire movie on."
"Count on it. Let me just finish up with my email. I have to write to Professor Satan and ask for an extension on that damn Shakespeare paper."
"You still haven't finished it?"
Roseanne sighed. "Do you think having a brother come out of the closet counts as a family emergency?"
"Not in New York City." Lisa laughed and walked out the door.
Left alone, Roseanne picked up the laptop again and regarded the screen. She had no idea what to write back to her father. She had no idea what excuse to give to her professor. And she had no idea who Ruby Jane was. Frowning, she clicked on the mysterious email titled "Your Art".
After reading it over several times, excitement began to overshadow her initial confusion and disbelief. Wow, was all she could think, and she somehow contained her giddiness long enough to hit reply.
Dear Ms. Jane,
Roseanne paused after that, trying to think of something to write that wouldn't sound completely idiotic.
Thank you, I'm so pleased you
So pleased that what? That she thinks I'm a good artist? That she liked the art she bought? I can't say that. She deleted her initial response and tried again.
Thank you for being so kind as to write to me. I can honestly say no one has ever done that before.
God, I sound like such a loser. Why don't I just put 'squeeee' in the subject line and be done with it? She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
If you don't mind me asking, which piece did you buy? I can't help but be curious, as this is the first time anyone has ever written to me about my art.
I don't have any of my work in a gallery, though perhaps some day, if I'm lucky. In the meantime, you can always find me at Central Park should you ever find yourself in New York again.
Again, thank you so much for writing to me. I can't express how nice it felt to read your email.
Sincerely, Roseanne Park
After running the spell checker three times, she finally hit send.