Rose Marie was going to dye her hair again.  It had been a year since the last time, but the year had gone full circle and this year would be different.  She would be starting school in a few days.  It didn’t occur to her that changing her hair color drastically might draw attention to herself.  She could go dark brown again, like Cameron’s.  But not this year.   It would be the first time she would be dying her hair red.  So she was preparing for it two weeks in advance. She found the local drugstore on a map—her house didn’t have the internet connected yet—and she took the bus all the way downtown.  It was a mediocre ride, with three stops in between, but at least she got to take a look around her new environment. 

She was going over the bus route in her mind as she stood in line to buy the hair bleach.  There was an elderly lady in front of her buying vanilla wafers and hard candy.  Rose was tempted to buy some—she had a rather intense addiction to things like hard candy.  But she had just finished an entire roll of lifesavers on the way here.

"Bleaching all that dark hair, huh.”  The cashier prompted to ask. 

Rose Marie knew what was coming.  Currently, her hair was dark brown, but this was nothing, it was actually naturally raven black.  She lightened it to this dark brown.  Rose was experienced with this stuff because she had dyed her long hair six times before, once every year since turning eleven.  This color brown was the shade of Cameron's hair when he had dyed it. Frank had forgotten about Cameron dying his hair, but Aunt Edna had the pictures to prove it, and Rose still had her memory, though she would never say so. 

 

“You know, doing it yourself could be tricky," the cashier said. "If you leave the bleach on too long, your hair will fall right out and if you don't leave it on long enough, then your hair will still be too dark." The cashier probably figured Rose had never done it before. She'd eyed the young customer quite outright in between what Rose found to be the obnoxious sound of chewing bubblegum. It would take three bleach sessions to get her hair light enough—she already knew that, but Rose nodded at the cashier's advice; she knew enough to be polite.

Rose handed exact change to the cashier, only half listening to the cashier’s story about the time she had dyed her own hair.  But Rose was preoccupied with wondering where else in town she could go.  She needed a bigger selection of red hair dye.  She had inspected the aisle here, looking at all the hair swatches attached below the boxed colors.  Rose liked to touch hair samples—because she liked to touch hair. It was a strange habit that she had developed very young.  Frank liked to tell stories of young Rose falling asleep, thumb in mouth, while her other hand was tangled in Frank’s long blonde hair.  Some kids had blankees, Rose had my hair—I’d grown it out for the band, but it ended up being more useful for Rose, he liked to joke.

It was frustrating.   Which color of red hair dye would be the correct shade to buy? There were many reds in the drugstore, too many. But all the ones she saw were not quite the same color as the one she remembered.  She would know it with a feeling, as she did so often with many other things.

It was still on her mind as she exited the drugstore, and on her mind when she headed to the bus stop. It was still there when she saw the color—on a person.

She stopped, as though she'd seen a unicorn dancing under the awning of Al's gas station, where the person was. The color was exactly the same as mom's wild mane of red hair had been and that was exactly what Rose Marie was looking for. Without really realizing it, Rose changed her path. She was no longer walking to the bus stop. She was walking toward her unicorn.

Shawn Monroe raised a brow when he realized the puny looking girl across the street was staring at him. She must be lost in thought because there was no way she’d stare at him like that on purpose.  No one did, not unless they wanted trouble, or wanted to hand deliver a love letter to him.  She couldn’t want to give him a love letter, Shawn didn’t know her, but he knew she was some new kid because he kind of recognized her backpack. It was hard to miss—light blue and a tad small, not to mention the rainbow design across the front zipper.

He sat hunched atop the ledge outside Al's gas station as Jordan filled the tank to the old pickup truck, two lanes over. They'd made enough money to fill the tank—and then some—after scoring for some of the local hill kids. Marijuana was easy money anyway. But you could sell a bag with twigs and seeds in it to the kids from the hills, and they'd still pay premium.

It wasn’t long before the other’s found him.  They hadn’t been far.  Most of the people Shawn hung around kind of worked downtown, stealing and hustling.  Shawn's brother, known to all as the golden boy, didn’t approve of Shawn’s crowd, and if his brother knew—he’d for sure be against the practice of Shawn selling illegal substances. There was a high chance that the golden boy would probably be upset about Shawn borrowing his truck for a joyride again—a joyride that had led to a quickie with Debra Luckett, just twenty minutes earlier. But hey, at least Shawn was having Jordan put back gas in the old truck. Soon, it would be Shawn's anyway, as he was sure his parents would be buying the golden boy a brand new whatever he—

This must be a joke, Shawn thought as the girl approached. She was walking right toward the group of outcasts and she wasn't slowing down or changing course. For the life of him, Shawn couldn't remember her name. His head tilted to one side, as he tried to remember. He knew, for sure, she went to his school, right? There was the backpack—and even though she had small boobs and a strange sense of style, he was pretty sure she was familiar.

The group that had gathered around Shawn didn’t notice her approaching.  They all had their backs to her while Shawn faced forward; he was situated in the middle of the assorted group known as the school misfits. A handful of students that were considered the worst of the bunch. Teachers and students alike kept their reserved distance. As far as they were concerned, Shawn was out of their reach now; he’d long chosen to associate himself with the group known for being a lost cause rather than play varsity football, like his brother.

Derek, to the left of Shawn, was smoking the remnants of a cigarette he'd found on the ground near a trashcan in front of Al's adjoining snack-shack. He was in the middle of retelling a story about a car window he'd smashed the night before and was doing his trademark high-pitch hyena laugh at the worst parts.  When the strange girl brushed past him, Derek stopped talking completely, even his eyes, which always twinkled with laughter, went cold.  She didn’t turn back to apologize or grovel, it was as if she had no idea that Derek Johnson was hostile and unpredictable—same was true for the rest of the eyes now watching her.

Was she asking for trouble?

How new could she be to do something no one would dare do?  But she wasn’t done with asking for trouble. She surprised Shawn yet again by walking right up to him.  Shawn jerked back at how close she'd chosen to become.  Was this a love letter situation?  The tips of their shoes bumped and he could smell the cherry candy on her breath. Strangely, her eyes were not looking into his. If they had been, she'd see the obvious dose of shock and alarm—with just an uncontrollable small touch of amusement—lighting up his hazel brown eyes.

To his utter disbelief, she reached up and before he could decipher exactly what she was about, she invited her fingers into his hair. Even more unbelievable, instead of pushing her away, the hard lines of his brow softened and his eyes closed.  Her fingers gently raked over the top and once across the side of Shawn’s wavy, almost shaggy, hair.  It wasn’t the first time a girl had wanted to run fingers through it—his windswept curls was one of the things girls noticed about him.  But it was the first time Shawn’s hands fell nearly limp in his lap and his head began to loll towards her.

"Hey, who the hell is this broad?" Shawn could hear Derek ask from too close a distance. For a minute, Shawn had forgotten he wasn't on an island being stroked by a beautiful goddess. In fact, he was in a small town, on a late cold afternoon, under a gas station awning.  And he was being hair molested by a girl wearing a rainbow backpack.

Shawn's eyes snapped open, and his body language couldn't be clearer to any human being on this planet. It said: get away from me, or I will end you in a very public and embarrassing way. But, Rose Marie continued to run curious fingers through his short and wild hair. It was soft, softer than Frank’s—softer than her own hair.  She was tempted to take a sample of it with her.  But while pondering this crazy idea, and without knowing it, Rose Marie had called his bluff.  He hadn't ended her in any fashion.  Instead, Shawn swatted her wrist away. That seemed to bring her back to reality, even though treating her like that left Shawn with an unfamiliar feeling.

"Get away—what are you?" He asked, his face scrunched up in annoyance. His group chuckled and shook their heads, but they couldn't know—they wouldn't know—that the annoyance Shawn was feeling was not because of who she was.  Rose Marie, in her pink wool hoody and lavender slacks—all five foot, four inches of her, was sorely out of place in Shawn's circle of misfits. If you took a quick look around, it was easy to see, they all felt the same. It would be common sense to play out the annoyance in that direction, but it would also be far from the truth.  He felt a tingling sensation where her fingers had just been.  This strange girl’s touch didn’t bother him, at all, and he didn't know how to feel about that.

How could someone so lame make someone like Shawn feel anything at all?

"I'm Rose Marie, but people call me Rose." The small boobed girl said to Shawn. She didn’t even flinch at the look on their faces.  In fact, even though her voice was quiet and delicate, her words were very clear and matter of fact. That too, caused Shawn to stare at her sideways.

"Yo, what do you want, weirdo?" One of the Shawn's friends asked, he wasn't sure which one.

"I just want to know—what color dye you use for your hair? That red. I know they don't have it at the drug store—"

"It's not dye." Shawn blurted out before she could say anything else.

Rose went rigid. She was very peculiar, Shawn thought. Her reaction was not what he expected.

"You're lying." She stated in a breath of—what Shawn would call— fearlessness. It caused some in the group to laugh aloud and nudge each other's shoulders. They hadn't seen something so funny and odd in a long time.

"I'm not lying. It's the hair I was born with." Shawn said, his own patience growing thin as the cold air. He needed to get home before his brother realized the truck was missing. Shawn stood to check on Jordan, but the strange girl wouldn't let him by. She didn't move an inch. She stared up at him, her big brown eyes made him uncomfortable, like she was looking way too closely for far too long.

It was time to scare her a little.

Shawn edged toward her, enough that she had to take a step back or be body to body with him. "You want to see if the carpet match the drapes, sweetheart?" He asked in his signature purr that either caused the receiver to blush or run away or write him love letters.

Rose Marie did none of those things, she blinked, then took a step back. "If you're sure it's not hair dye—then, I'll believe you. It's just..." she was lost in thought for a second, long enough for her expression to change, then shook her head and the look was gone. "Never mind."

With that, she turned and headed toward the main foot traffic on the street.  She left as abruptly as she had arrived.  Some of misfits chuckled while others scowled.

Shawn watched her for a minute, and curiosity was getting the better of him with each step she took away from him. What was it that she'd wanted to say and why had she looked so far away when she was about to say it?

"Hey, Monroe." Derek spoke up when the girl was out of earshot. "Why did you lie and tell her that that red mess was your natural hair color?"

Shawn's eyes were watching Rose Marie cross the street when he answered with a shrug. "I don't know. Cause?  I don't care, why do you?"

The group laughed in agreement and in a matter of seconds Derek was picking back up on his long-winded story about the broken car window. Shawn hadn't heard.  He’s have to ask about it later. All Shawn could think about was the blue backpack and the girl named Rose Marie whose touch made him feel warmer than he would ever admit to anyone.

 

 

2: Potential

The paranoia caught her off guard. She had to stop in her tracks to take a deep breath.   Rose thought she'd outgrown the jittery feeling and the sudden quickening in her chest. She hadn’t felt it quite this severe in years.  Not since she was twelve, she thought.  And there was nothing around that could have possibly triggered the paranoia, it was just another ordinary day; it just came out of nowhere. I guess, there are some things you can’t outgrow.  

After a few seconds she began walking again, now that she was back to her senses, she could not believe what she'd done back there: she had touched some stranger's hair. It didn't seem to bother him, but—he was one of those types of boys that made Rose's paranoia flare up like a bad case of hives. Or ferocious bug bites.  Melissophobia the intense fear of bees.  Even though he had been sitting, she was pretty sure he was on the tall side.  And he smelled like cigarettes—which Rose hated.  But she had liked the color of his eyes and…

Rose stopped walking again. It was a sudden stop where her legs completely locked in place—one she was known for doing abruptly and at random. If there had been someone behind her, then they would have completely crashed into her, and because of her habit of being lost in her head, they would have completely knocked her down. Once, when that exact situation happened, Rose fell in a flail of limbs and had rolled across a floor; the whole fall had been so dramatic that some woman watching thought Rose had been attacked. It was the reason Frank refused to walk behind her, even though Rose was seventeen now, and she thought, much harder to knock down.

What had stopped Rose Marie in her tracks, this time, was the memory of the hair color on that tall guy's head. It brought a flash of a feeling. Something like, happiness. It made her smile. When Rose started up again, it took her only five more minutes to reach her new address. Frank surprised her deciding to paint the outside of the house Rose Marie's favorite color—baby blue. That also made her smile. He has started yesterday and it appeared now, it was all done.

"Oh—my gosh!" She exclaimed aloud, to no one but herself, and ran the rest of the way up the walkway to 1718 Bush Terrace Lane. Rose entered her new home to find more cardboard boxes cut open and left to sit.  Now there was even more mess to clean up than there was before she'd left for the bus. With a sigh, Rose tossed the plastic bag from the drugstore onto the yellow couch just right of the open door. She didn't even have to look to see if landed where it was supposed to.  Why, when the room was as an unorganized work of chaos, anyway. 

"Frank!" She called into the empty room. She skidded across the floor, it was covered in packing peanuts and crumpled up newspaper.  Rose willed herself to ignore it, deciding not to worry about it, not at this second.

She ran through the living room and into the kitchen, kicking up Styrofoam and almost falling over twice.

"FRANK!" He wasn't there either, only more newspaper sprawled across yellow tiled counter tops and partially unwrapped beer glasses lined up below the wooden cupboards. Where was he?

She checked the bedrooms—he wasn't in any of them. And the bathroom door was wide open, so he wasn’t in there, either. Frank never left the bathroom door open, even if he was just in there to wash his face or stare in the mirror to complain to his own reflection about waking up early. He must be outside—outback somewhere.

It was a small house, despite all the rooms. A cottage style house built sometime in the 1950's. In real-time, it had only taken Rose Marie maybe two minutes to thoroughly check the inside before she headed through the screen door to the backyard. She paused before stepping through, to burp over her shoulder. It was loud and tasted like wild cherry life savers.

"FRRRRANK!"

"Hey, neighbor girl." It was a lazy sounding greeting, as always, from the girl who liked to sit perched up high.

"Hey, neighbor girl—yourself." Rose returned, looking up and around the clothes line still heavy with damp shirts and Frank’s old jeans.

"Over here." An arm clad in red and black plaid waved like a flag, above the hanging clothes, just inside Rose's periphery.

She's sitting on the fence this time. How is that comfortable?

"Is that comfortable?" Rose asked neighbor girl, because Rose was never one to contain what was on, in or around her mind. "How is your butt not being pricked by the fence points?"

The neighbor girl smiled with lips as red as the flannel covering her shoulders and arms. "Naw, there's a brick stack right here." She patted the bricks with a hand riddled with spider web tattoos. "I see your dad painted the whole house blue. It looks like the sky now. What if birds run into it?"

"Birds won't run into it."

"How do you know?"

"Because the doors are not blue, and the windowpanes are brown."

"Yeah I was going to say—the brown and the blue look weird together. Shitty even." Her red lips quirked at how round Rose's brown eyes suddenly were. It wasn't like flannel neighbor girl really had an opinion about the damn windows or the blue paint, she just liked to annoy the new neighbor girl; because Rose was strange and her reactions were funny to watch.

"Have you seen Frank?" Rose asked, changing the subject. 

The girl on the fence found Rose's reaction too short lived and unsatisfying.  It only made her want to poke at Rose some more. "Frank? Who's that? Your hot dad?"

Rose rolled her eyes. "We’ve been over this.  He's not my dad."

"Then, he's your sugar daddy and you're his underage sex kitten?" She also knew all about Frank—kind of. He was like new neighbor girl’s uncle, maybe? But seeing the awkward girl squirm at the thought of Frank in a sexual light didn't seem to get old, then again, they hadn't been neighbors for that long.

Rose Marie's mouth half scowled, and she shivered, like a chill just ran up her spine. "Gross. Why would you say that?" Despite the level approach she was trying to take with her reply, Rose's octave climbed higher with each word she sputtered.  "You know he's not! You're mean. And—gross and just—no! He’s not, for the hundredth time!"  By the end of her tirade, her voice was so squeaky, it could probably crack glass.  Rose didn’t have much practice with expressing herself and neighbor girl was always catching her off guard, saying weird things and asking questions she had asked before.  Sometimes Rose found talking to her, exhausting.  Sometimes, during the day, she avoided coming out here.  Because the neighbor was almost always out here, sitting up high with something new to argue about.

The girl in red flannel nearly fell off the fence, she was laughing so hard.  "Oh my god!"  There was barely any breath for comment, but she made one anyway.  "You sound like a chipmunk when you're mad!"

She could laugh all she wanted, Rose thought as she turned and went back into the house.  She usually does anyway.  Most of their interactions so far ended with Rose being laughed at as she stomped away.

If she falls off the fence I'm not gonna help her up.

There was the sound of clinking and rustling coming from the kitchen, so that's where Rose went next. She wasn't even in the kitchen before she asked,

"Where have you been?"

The person in the kitchen was not Frank. It was some boy wearing a green wedge hat, creased white short sleeved shirt and matching green slacks. Rose stopped in the doorway to observe him. He was mid-unwrapping a beer glass when he looked over his shoulder at her.

He stared at her staring at him.

"Are you a thief?"

He laughed aloud at how gentle yet no nonsense this girl's tone was.  There was something unique about the way she dressed, too.  Everything she wore was outdated and didn’t fit to compliment her small frame, she was either really cool or really dorky.

She must be Rose Marie, he thought to himself as he set the glass down, with the way he’d started unwrapping, it looked like a banana with half its plastic peel undone.  He turned to face her, wiping his palms against his work pants. "No, I'm Ben. I'm a friend of Frank's." He took a step in Rose Marie's direction and offered his hand, meanwhile, Rose was as still as a post, except her gaze, which traveled up and down, carefully taking stock of the supposed friend of Frank. He was in some sort of uniform and his face didn’t look like a thief’s, she supposed.

"A friend of Frank’s?”  She finally echoed, hands moving to her hips.  “Wrong.  That’s impossible, why are you actually in my kitchen." She said it all in a polite tone, speaking in her quiet way. But it had still come out rude.  That way of talking was something that would have to work itself out over time, even still, it made Ben muffle the urge to chuckle.

"How so?" He asked, letting his hand drop when it became obvious she wouldn't return the gesture.

"Several things—firstly, you look about my age."

"Okay." Ben nodded.

"Frank is an adult in his thirties. Why would he have a teenage friend."

Ben's eyebrows twisted a bit. "Why wouldn't he?"

"Secondly—"

"Secondly?" Ben's arms crossed over his chest, he didn’t miss a beat as he leaned in to listen, head drooped.

"We pretty much just moved here. How could Frank make a friend that he's comfortable inviting into our home already?

"Well, come on, that's possible."

"I would have noticed."

"Are you guys together twenty-four-seven? Look, I even know your name. It's Rose Marie—"

"Thirdly—"

Ben stumbled back, his expression, incredulous. "There's a thirdly?"

"There is always a thirdly." A new voice chimed in, actually an old one. Rose's questioning posture relaxed as soon as Frank walked up behind her. His face was blocked by the grocery bag he was carrying and there was still some blue paint on his fingers. "Then after that, there will be a fourthly and a fifthly. She can go on for infinity-thly."

Both Ben and Rose Marie managed to laugh at Frank's sense of humor. For Ben, it had been because it was the polite thing to do, but for Rose Marie, the joke had actually been funny.  Frank’s dad-type jokes still genuinely amused her.  Another one of those things that would change over time, hopefully, Frank thought, very slowly.

"Hello Rosy. Sorry, I stepped out to pick up some dinner at the grocery store."

No one called Rose Marie - Rosy, except Frank.  She would never allow it, it invited too many lead-ins for taunting.  Rosy Cheeks often lead to Rosy Butt Cheeks or Rosy Posy went with Nosy Rosy.  There were more— whatever else, they had called her all those things, during that short time before, when she went to school.  It felt like a really long time ago now but it had only been a couple of years. 

She didn’t bother to peek into the grocery bag, she only moved so that Frank could get by.  "Some sort of pasta dish that's easy to heat up and some sort of precooked meat?"

Frank set the grocery bag down on the yellow counter in a huff. "You insult me by knowing me too well.”  He turned and winked, letting Ben know that this was just the way Rose and Frank were with each other.

“Anyway," Frank swiveled around, taking Ben into a one-armed hug. It was good Ben had set the glass down, otherwise he might have dropped it just then.   "On to other, more interesting, less fully cooked things.  Rose, this is my friend Ben. I met him, organically, in the frozen food aisle of Lucky Market.”

Frank had to pause as Rose kicked up into a fit of giggles.  Ben smiled, mostly because Rose’s giggles were adorable.

“I’m not done—I got to know him a little. And I like what I know.  Not only that, he followed me to the parking lot and got in my car.  So, can we keep him?"

Rose's face with flushed from giggling, she fought to regain a sober expression as her gaze went slowly from Frank to Ben.  "Well, I don't know.” She said, crossing her arms thoughtfully. “Is he house-trained?"

Ben couldn't help laugh aloud. This time, it was genuine, even if what had been said, was blindly said—at his expense. "I am, fully. Have been—since I was four."

"See!" Frank's arms flew up in celebration. He took two long strides and planted that enthusiasm in front Rose. His hands cupped her small shoulders and swooshed her gently side to side.  Her arms limply swished along as she smiled up at him. "Not only is he able to use the bathroom all on his own—but he also goes to your school." Frank's eyes lit up conspiratorially as he leaned in a bit. "He has a job, he’s nice—and I think he has a car too!"

"I won't marry him, Frank, if that's what you're getting at."

Frank’s laughter came out in a loud bark, it put a silly grin on Rose Marie’s face, while Ben turned away to hide the blush spreading out from behind his ears.

"No marriage, Rosy. Just dinner." Frank's arms closed around Rose, pulling her into a warm fatherly embrace. His was the only one Rose had ever known—or really remembered— she welcomed the love, patting his forearms in response. "And maybe" Frank whispered, just loud enough for Rose to hear.  It was okay, Ben was still preoccupied with being embarrassed.

"—if dinner works out—you'll have an escort for your first day of school."

Rose rigidly pulled out of Frank's embrace so that he could clearly see her face and the annoyance she was expressing. "That's your game huh."

Frank smiled and then shrugged. "Hey—why not?  What’s wrong with having a head start on friends?"

Rose bit the inside of her cheek.  She couldn't think of a counter argument, instead of trying to conjure one up, she went around Frank to stand beside the new guy, Ben. She offered her hand even though his face was clearly still red.

"Hello Ben, sorry for being rude before. Most people call me Rose. Does your school have an insect club?"

Frank chuckled and shook his head. He wanted nothing more than to fade into the background, but he stayed, leaning against the doorway.  It took Ben a second, but he smiled at Rose.  Most people did.  There was something about the way she was—she was strange—but not in a needling way.  This would be good for her.  She would be okay with living here, like this. Or at least, judging by her reaction to Ben, there was the definitely potential for okay.

 

 

 

3: Neighbor Girl

Debra’s door wasn’t locked, but no one would come in.  No one would be home for hours.

She watched Shawn pull his belt around his loose fitting jeans, setting the notch in its place.  He wasn’t looking at her anymore; their time together had come and gone—but at least, his body was still in her bedroom.  That was good enough, for now, and she was sure no one saw him like this.  She marveled at his body— he was a work of art.  Shawn’s chest and stomach was as hard as marble, with lines of defining muscle etched perfectly, like a road map to ecstasy—or eye candy land.  She was hypnotized by just his forearms as they worked the buckle—they were strong and the tendons twitched with each flick of his wrists.  Then next, there were his long, rough feeling fingers.

The thought of his fingers on her skin sent a chill through her stomach and down between her thighs.

She could go again.  She was still mostly undressed.  Debra even slid forward on the rumpled sheets and arched her back to look up at him. 

“Where you off to so fast?”  She asked in her best sultry voice. 

Shawn quickly shrugged into his dark blue tee shirt and mechanic’s jacket before looking Debra’s way.  “I have somewhere I need to be.”  His hazel eyes could be as cold as his tone.  Shawn wasn’t a warm person, but at least, he could smile or wink.  Something. 

“Have you seen my keys?” He asked, heading for her dresser.  

“Did you check up your ass?”

He turned and grinned at her, teeth and all.  “What did you just say?” 

She shook her head and sat up on the bed; Debra hadn’t been expecting Shawn to smile—he so rarely did— and she accidentally swooned.  She wanted to say something else that would make him smile like that, but he’d turned back around.  It was like he had already gone.  The moment was over. 

Debra blew out a sigh, already admitting defeat, and moved to retrieve her bra slung over the bed post, where Shawn had flung it.  Reaching for the strap made her flash back to the memory of him showing up at her door.  He’d texted this morning, simply saying “Can I come over?”  To which, she of course texted in her over-hyped up enthusiastic most girlish squealy of ways: “I guess.”  

Debra was not that girly.  And it was most definitely not in her nature to squeal.  

She had paced, wondering if this time her bored sounding reply had turned him off.  Debra was kind of a mean girl anyway, but with Shawn, she made sure to highlight the sass.  He had always seemed to like that about her.  And she liked that. 

Thirty minutes of pacing later—she was near texting him again.  Thank the gods she hadn’t, because he wrote back, texting, “lol, lovely as always, Ms. Debra.  Okay, I’ll be there.” 

She’d made him lol.  She did the same thing when she read his text, but really.  And four and a half hours later, he was at her door with that look in his eyes that turned her to putty.  She’d meant to make him dangle a little.  She’d meant to make him change some lightbulbs in the bathroom, or something.  Make him squirm.   But he made it so difficult to play hard to get.  With his perfect mouth that curled slightly at the edges, making him look like he was smiling faintly, when he wasn’t.  While his golden stare seemed to look through you.  Or, when he showed up at your doorstep, to do the damn thing, it bordered on animalistic.  He might be bad—no good at all, some girls said— but those same girls who made like he was poison, wouldn’t be able to resist him, especially not when you were his target.  Which, at this very moment, Debra was not.  Not unless she had his keys hidden somewhere on her body. 

Debra knew what these times were.  They were just for pleasure, consensual, amazing, perfect pleasure.  She could still remember the night the ball started rolling in this direction.  She was still dating Derek at the time.  The idea of dating him now brought on a visible cringe.  But at the time, she thought she had loved him.  Love has a way of ruining your judgement, she knew that very well, now. 

Derek had broken up with her in the cruelest of ways.  By leaving her stranded outside of a biker bar in front of a bunch of horny looking rough bikers.  It had been cold and she was dressed like a meal for them.  Debra did sexy like most girls do sweatpants.   Her phone was in the car with Derek and her outfit had no pockets, of course.  But somehow, fifteen minutes later, Shawn had shown up in the old pickup truck. 

He got out and found her cowering the in doorway to the bar, trying to get some heat from inside.  She was underage, so they wouldn’t let her in.  His lip was cut and there was a spot of blood on his shirt—that told her all she needed to know about what went down between him and Derek.  He didn’t say a word, just took off his jacket and laid it around her shoulders before taking her back to the truck.  When she’d asked him how he knew she was there, he’d only shrugged. 

Debra had been so moved, she kissed him.  And when he jerked back questioningly, she kissed him again.  It took a few weeks to get to how they were now, but that’s how it all started.   And Shawn made it very clear that he wasn’t looking for a relationship.  Debra told herself that she wasn’t either, even now, a year later, she told herself that.

She hopped off the bed.  Time to get dressed.  She looked around for her jeans, Shawn had peeled them off of her while she was on her back.  That memory brought on another set of good chills. But, he wouldn’t be down for another round. So, now, where were those jeans again?

“Holy—” 

Debra jumped.  “What?  What is it?”  Her heart picked up and she rushed into a tee shirt.  Maybe he heard her mom in the hallway or something.  Not that it mattered, Mrs. Luckett would be too tired to look anywhere but straight ahead and towards the master bedroom.  But that still didn’t slow Debra down.  She was zipped in and covered up in sixty seconds.  She was smoothing down her frazzled hair when she turned to see what the problem was.

What she saw baffled the hell out of her.

Shawn was crouched in front of Debra’s bedroom window, peering through the blinds with his lips slightly parted. 

“What?”  Debra asked again, kind of annoyed she got dressed so fast for something that was outside her window.  She joined Shawn, standing beside him to follow his gaze.  “What are you staring at?  The cops?”

“Who’s that?”  He asked, his strange behavior still locked in place.

Debra squinted into the growing darkness and saw a shaded figure in the yard next door.  She had a clear view into the neighbor’s backyard.  Oh.  She rolled her eyes.  He really made her rush for nothing.  This wasn’t even the outfit she had worn today.

“That’s the chick next door. Remember, I told you some people moved in—about a month ago.  You’ve seen them before.”  Debra reminded him, already turning away to change her clothes.

“I don’t remember.”  He replied, to Debra’s nonsurprise.  Sounded like Shawn to be told something or shown something that he would automatically forget.  “What’s her name?”  He asked, still there, crouched at the window. 

What’s with him?  Why was he acting like this?  Debra’s brow creased and she shook her head.  “I dunno.  Why?”

“It’s Rose…something.  Right?”

Like I said, why?  “I have no idea what her name is, I just call her neighbor girl.”

As if she heard Debra call out to her, Rose Marie’s gaze flicked over to the window before Shawn could look away.  The blinds were pushed down to make a triangle to peek through.  It didn’t faze Rose, she looked right into it and saw someone there, watching her.  Their eyes locked, neither one of them moved. 

“What are you doing?”  Debra asked, now changed into her original outfit for the day—black skinny jeans and a grey tank top.  Watching Shawn act this way bothered her, surprisingly.  She had been friends with him long before it grew into…this thing they did from time to time.  Debra had seen several girls come in and out of his life and never gave any of them a second thought.  So why was she so irritated?

Maybe it was because she was hungry, she thought as she pulled open the blinds and unlocked the latch.  Why else?  I mean, it’s just the weird—

“Hey, neighbor girl!”

“…Uhm, hey.”  Rose called back, a little uncertain if the girl in the window was talking to her.  What was her name?  Rose actually didn’t know.  She just called her neighbor girl.  It was a thing they did.  And only during the day.  To be greeted at this hour by her neighbor, and from her open bedroom window instead of from atop a fence or a flagpole—was a little off beat according to their normal routine. The perching neighbor never spoke to Rose unless she was outside her house; they never spoke while Rose collected clothes off the line, either.  It was the old fashioned way to do laundry, but they didn’t have a dryer.  So it was either this, or buy new clothes.  Especially for Frank—his socks needed to be washed twice a day, no joke.

“So hey neighbor girl, what’s your actual name?”  She asked loudly, elbows resting on the open windowsill. 

Rose looked from side to side.  This was really weird.  She didn’t mind talking, but she didn’t really like to yell.  She set Frank’s boxers in the laundry basket and edged closer to the neighbor girl’s open window.

“…It’s Rose.  Rose Marie.”  She came all the way up to the fence that separated their yards.  It was taller than her, but she rested her palms against the wood panels and jumped to see the other girl’s face. 

Debra saw the tops of Rose’s brows.  She looked like a little kid peeking over to see what the neighbors were up to. 

“So, what’s your name?”

“Debra.”  She said plainly.

“Oh.”  Rose found a short chunk of wood.  It looked like a piece broken off from a longer piece.  Maybe the kind of wood people used for fire pits.  She used her foot to scoot it over.  When it was between her legs, she stood on it, like a makeshift pedestal.  If she stood on her tiptoes, it did just the trick.

“Nice to meet you, neighbor girl Debra.”

Debra smiled, because Rose’s big brown eyes were all Debra could see over the fence points, and it was cute.    Everything about her awkward neighbor was out of place. To Debra, Rose was like a puppy who wore human clothes and spoke English.  She chuckled—that was exactly it: Rose was like a cartoon character.

Then, Debra remembered Shawn was in the background and her smile fell flat.  She shifted in her skinny jeans, turning to look over her shoulder and right at him—he was kind of hiding. Wasn’t he?  He was sitting at Debra’s desk, across from the window, next to the door.  Looking very disinterested with getting up, but clearly trying to see around Debra to look at Rose. 

Didn’t he want to meet Rose? Wasn’t he the one in spy mode? So why was he sitting down in the shadows now?  

Don’t tell me that he’s shy?  Debra couldn’t even think it without scowling.

Just a moment ago she was happy to have him here in her bedroom, now she wanted to kick him out of it.  What was his deal?  Did he not want the neighbor girl to see him?  Why? Was she a narc?

“You were right, Shawn Monroe, her name is Rose.  Rose Marie.”  Debra said loudly, so that the peeking neighbor could clearly hear.

Rose had heard.  Debra spoke the words like she was reciting lines for a play and it all came out like bad acting; Rose tried to stand higher, onto the very tips of her tiptoes.  She wanted to get a better look over the fence and into Debra’s window. 

“Shawn…Monroe?”  Rose echoed.  “Who’s that? Is he in there?”

Debra smirked at Rose’s crumpled brow and scooted to the side, so that there would be a clear view all the way into her room.   “Take a look.  See anyone you know?”

Shawn, who was trying not to be seen, got up from the chair and walked toward the door.  Debra was tempted to shine a flashlight on his face.   

“Where are you going SHAWN?”  Debra grinned, despite herself. Not because of Shawn’s behavior toward Rose—but because he was uncomfortable, period.  Serves him right.

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his short wavy hair.  Shawn even mouthed a few curse words under his breath.  But he made no move to approach the window, or introduce himself from where he was.  He wanted to escape this thing Debra was doing.  He could more than tell he’d upset her. He hadn’t meant to be curious about that Rose girl.  But seeing her suddenly, two days after what she’d done at the gas station, caught him completely off guard.  Why was he acting this way? Whatever it was—it happened two days go.  This reaction, spying from closed windows and hiding, was unlike him.  It was too much.

He ran his hand through his hair again, thinking about it, or trying not to.  Her touch…had stayed with him for a long time that day, and it pissed him off or—whatever, who cares?  She wasn’t even his type.  He wasn’t even into having types. Or being bothered by anything like this. 

This is why he didn’t like to be attached.  He and Debra weren’t even together and she was acting like a jealous girlfriend. That’s because of you—it’s your own fault, he told himself.  Two things Shawn had learned on his own, in his life, that had never failed to be true were that people will always disappoint you.

And females were trouble.

“I gotta go.”  He grumbled.  Debra barely caught the words.  She ducked back into her room to see him off down the hall. 

“Okay—see you.  Tomorrow in class.”  She said with a wave. He didn’t look back.   She shrugged. Typical.  Oh yeah, the neighbor girl.  Debra turned toward the window again, but no one was there.  Rose Marie was already gone.

Rose had left the minute Debra turned away from the window.

Shawn Monroe—who was he?  Why was Debra saying his name so loudly?  Was there a reason?  Rose saw the figure leave Debra’s room.  And she chased after it from her side of the fence, swatting clothes still needing to be taken down, dashing through the house and out the front door. 

By the time she was out front, she was out of breath from sprinting.  Rose had no idea why she’d just sprinted. 

She stood on the pathway to her house as the door opened from across the lawn.  It was a man—no wait—a young man with long legs, strong shoulders and red hair. 

Red hair.

Rose’s breath caught, she took a step into the yard, then another.  Was it him?  The one from before? So, he was friends with the neighbor girl Debra, all this time?  Wow, Rose thought while shaking her head.  Sometimes the universe…was amazing.   

“Shawn Monroe.”  She called, reaching out to stop him.  She was still a lawn and a half away from actually being able to physically stop him, but he heard her, just fine. 

His head turned mid-stride.  Shawn stopped as if someone had yanked his shirt collar from behind.

It was her.  She was standing there, in all her strangeness, minus the backpack. 

Rose took in the sight of the stilled Shawn Monroe.  He was tall, like she thought he’d be—and he looked really strong too, like he could lift her over his head and run the block without breaking a sweat.  He wasn’t made up of chunky muscles—but the attractive, smooth kind.  His dark shirt even fit snugly across his toned chest.  Boy was it toned, she could see how toned it was like there was no shirt there at all.  Looking at him made her heart do somersaults.  It was the first time for her.  But then again, Rose didn’t have much interaction with people, let alone young men built like Greek statues.

But it wasn’t the first time she’d seen a good looking guy.  There was the ones on TV.  And Ben wasn’t bad looking either.  So, why did Shawn make her feel…like this?  It must be because of his red hair. 

She wanted to ask him again, if she could look at it up close.  As strange as that might sound to a regular person—the color of Shawn’s hair made Rose feel like her mother was around.  She did not remember her mother’s laugh or the way she smiled.  She couldn’t even remember her mother’s face as clearly as she used to, but she remembered the feeling.  It was close to this feeling, now, she thought.

Shawn could tell that Rose was going to walk over to him.  He did not want that.  Why?  Because she was weird, that’s why.  What if she touches me again?  Why does that not bother me as much as it should?  He was baffled by her, by himself—

“Hi again Shawn Monroe.”  Rose said simply.  Her words were plain enough.  Nothing special.  But she looked up at him like she knew him.  Like he meant something to her and that just made…no damn sense.

He half-waved at her with a set of car keys in his hand.  Before she could say anything else, he got in the truck and started the engine.   It started up with a roar and in a second, it pulled off the curb and blazed down the street.

Rose watched, clueless to the cause of this spectacle.  He must be in a hurry, was all she thought.    Rose Marie watched for a minute, then shrugged.  She thought she might as well finish taking down the laundry—the one thing she learned for sure, that always proved to be true, was that you could never predict the weather.  It could be sunny, but still, you never knew when rain would come.