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.
"Rosemary. Come on."
I don't. I won't. Normally, she'd probably try to just pull me away from the window and my beautiful Jacqueline/Gwendolyn/Yolanda, but last time she tried that I just screamed.
I heard Patricia talking to Mum about me one night. Obviously that happens a lot but this time it was different. I heard her voice go all choked and tearful when she said, "She never pays any attention to me anymore. She's not like this with you... I just, she just ignores me. It's like she doesn't even see me! It makes me feel like she hates me."
It made me feel a bit bad at first. I wondered if I should creep into her bed and stroke her hair like she used to do for me when I had bad dreams.
But then I remembered her voice and that awful other girl's voice, talking together, and my tummy clenched up so that I thought I was going to vomit. I wanted to go out there and hit them both when Mum said something about me going through a rebellious phase. Patricia complained about me until I thought I would scream ("She won't let me help her with her clothes, and she always does her buttons wrong," "She screams if I try to touch her," "She won't even let me tidy up her half of the room"). Eventually Mum told her not to be such a whinger. I was glad, glad, glad.
I couldn't get to sleep after that and I got a bit less glad when Patricia eventually came to bed and snapped off the nightlight and I could hear her crying in the dark.
I was still glad though.
Patricia is silent behind me now.
I hear Robert breathe out longingly and glance over at him. He's looking at a large brown bear toy with a red bow on its neck, his misty eyes matching the fogged-up glass.
This is the best toy shop in the world. There's beautiful Jacqueline/Gwendolyn/Yolanda, of course, and the brown bear Robert likes. The bear looks soft, with thick fur. That would be good. Muffin's fur has got matted and sticky and Mum made me leave Muffin at home so she can wash it.
There are other toys in the window that are just as magical: a plastic baby with an alarmingly realistic face, an old-fashioned doll in a powder-blue bonnet, a tiny little doll-sized wicker chair- so many good things!
What is this shop called? I will want to get a doll here- maybe my Jacqueline/Gwendolyn/Yolanda! I just can't remember what the big black letters on the sign said.
I take a few steps back. My foot catches on an uneven bit of pavement- and I fall.
I lie on my back on the asphalt, blinking. I'm spread out like a starfish, and all my limbs feel a bit weird and tingly and numb. I glance around for Patricia. She'll be coming toward me now, filled with questions and concern, spitting on a handkerchief and rubbing my sore elbows.
She doesn't.
I sit up a bit and look around. There's Jacqueline/Gwendolyn/Yolanda in the window, and Robert kneeling next to me and tugging anxiously at the sleeve of my woolly cardigan, and the fat lady in the pink hat that I saw a bit earlier. No Patricia.
I stand up, and Robert makes little noises, going ooh like an owl. He points at my elbow, and I twist my head around to look. I can't see it, but I can feel the blood dribbling down towards my palm.
I look around quickly. No Patricia, not anywhere.
I feel a twist in my tummy. What if she's got angry at me and left me and Robert stranded here on this loud, busy street? She'll catch the bus home and tell Mum she doesn't have to deal with me anymore. I wonder if Robert's mum will be upset to lose him. Maybe not. She seemed happy enough to have Patricia take him out shopping with me while Mum stayed at her house drinking tea and talking. Maybe they'll be pleased to be shot of the both of us, and Robert and I will have to run away and sleep in haystacks and hollow trees, like kids in an adventure story.
I nudge Robert and point around. I can see when he realises that Patricia's gone; his face turns a pale sickly colour, and he starts to breathe funny, like there isn't enough air left in the world. I bet his tummy's way more twisted than mine.
I brush his jacket sleeve with my hand, as if to say don't worry. I feel a bit proud that I'm the calm, comforting, grown-up one.
But then Robert's breathing starts to go even funnier and louder and he grabs my hand so tight it hurts, and though I try to shake free he won't let go.
He sinks down so that he's crouching on the pavement, dragging me down with him. He's gasping now- great big gulps. He keeps making odd noises and trying to press his lips together to stop them, but that just makes them louder. I try to pat his hand to calm him down, but I don't think it's working.
Then I hear clicking shoes and Patricia's soft voice saying, "Good Lord, I leave you for two minutes!"
And she pats Robert on the shoulder, and talks in a gentle voice ("It's all right, little guy") and slowly, slowly, his gasps subside.
Maybe it should, but her being nice to Robert doesn't make me any less angry at her.
____________________________________________________________
Christmas isn't for another month, but Robert, Patricia and I already have all our presents.
Robert refused to show me the presents he got from traipsing around with us in a brightly-lit Woolworths, instead hiding his purchases in a cloth bag (Patricia said we'd be going to new and exciting shops, but all we did was go to a different Woolworths store). Maybe one of them is for me. I hope so!
I buzzed around the store collecting gifts All On My Own. Patricia tried to suggest things, but when she did that I would just hum louder and walk away.
I got some pink artificial flowers for Mum. The girl working there saw me looking and said they were made out of plastic, silk, and paper. They were very pretty and I think Mum will like them. She doesn't like real flowers because they wilt and drop petals all over the place, but silk flowers don't die.
I got a stripy tie for Dad. I don't really know if he'll like it, though. He's always at work so I never see him except on weekends, and then he usually ignores me. I liked the colours of the tie- it's greener than the grass in the field at school- and I'm betting on him liking it as well.
I didn't really know what to get for Patricia. In the end I got her a new nightie, white and lacy and filmy. It's much prettier than her pink pyjamas, and I know she likes pretty things.
Since I'd heard Mum and Mrs Boyd saying that our families might spend Christmas together (I hope so! Imagine, Christmas with Robert!) I got some things for his family as well. I just bought a pair of gloves for Mrs Boyd (she seems the type to wear gloves) and some buttons for Mr Boyd, who I haven't met.
I saved the best present for Robert. It's a jigsaw puzzle of England. It's got all these bright colours and little details, and the best part is that the back is white. That means I can do my own drawing on the other side. It can be a double-sided jigsaw puzzle!
I try to think what I can draw on it. A picture of him, maybe. Or me. Or both of us. Yes, both of us, smiling.
[ID: A crumpled page with four drawings on it; one of a jigsaw puzzle, one of a striped necktie, one of a flower, and one of a nightgown. Written in neat print are the simple sentences "I bought presents today. I think they were good choices." In the bottom right corner of the page, there is a folded up piece of notepaper.]
I roll over, but then roll over again. I need to be careful to maintain my position, facing away from Patricia.
I mean, logically, it's too dark for her to even see me, and she's asleep (as asleep as I should be right now), but I still don't want to be facing her.
I hear a car drive by on the street outside. It splashes through the puddle in the dip in the road. That hole has been there for months now and no-one's done anything about it.
I wait until there's a lull in the traffic, and then I listen hard, straining my ears. Patricia's breathing is loud and slow. Every now and then she snores slightly. I can't hear anything from Mum and Dad's room down the hall.
I reach under my pillow, feeling around until my fingertips graze the thick wodge of notepaper hidden underneath.
I pull it out, stopping when the pillowcase rustles, trying not to make a sound. I wriggle out of my blankets and walk in an exaggerated tiptoe to the bathroom, where I close the door (gently, so as not to make a sound) before I flip on the light.
Just to check. Just to edit and make sure that it's all right.
Maybe I'll give it to her on Christmas. The harshest present of all time.
Author's Note:
Hi! It's been a long while, but I'm finally getting around to uploading something. I apologise for my inconsistency, but do not pretend to make any guarantees or promises for future improvement, as I have a lot of stuff going on right now (in regards to my education and personal life) and so don't really have time to bother, honestly.
I'm doing alright. Not the best, but I'm managing, and I'm writing a little more regularly than I have been recently, which is nice. I'm trying to write at least 300 words a day, which is pretty measly, but it's something.
I hope you're having a lovely or at least okay time.
-Pixie B