Rose of No Man's Land (15 page)

Rose dashed around waiting on people, a huge, polka-dotted clown hat pointing in a wobbly cone atop her head. It sunk down low on her forehead. The hat’s thin elastic chin band dangled inches beneath Rose’s jaw. A nub of hairnet bunched out of it in the back, a twirl of Rose’s hair, dark, snagged inside it like an exotic sea thing. Stripes ran down her shirt, yellow-green-orange, yellow-green-orange. As I shifted uncomfortably on the dusty plastic bucket, trying to sit in a way that did not reveal my underwear, it occurred to me that I didn’t know what Rose really looked like, and she didn’t know what I looked like either. We were both wearing costumes. At the counter she handed some deep-fried cheese sticks to a couple of dudes with military haircuts, and Gina rang them up. You couldn’t see it from the front, but the back of Gina’s clown hat had a big dent in it. Rose dashed back to a fryer and yanked it dripping from the oil. Tiny muscles percolated in her scrawny arms. She was born malnourished and grew up stunted but
Rose looked like she swung from trees, both stringy and strong, like a monkey. I felt lumpy in comparison. I was lumpy in comparison. My body was soft, like it was stuffed with a thin layer of down. Ma’s body was like that, and so was Kristy’s. It’s what drove Ma to Weight Watchers before I was born, and what inspired Kristy to swear off carbohydrates. But it didn’t really bother me.

You wanted the California Platter?
she asked.

I shrugged. If It’s Too Much Trouble I Can Just Have A Cheese Stick Or Something, I said. Don’t Put Yourself Out.

No way
, Rose said. She had a paper boat full of steaming brown globs. Oil still twitched in crevices of crust.
Whatever you want, seriously.

You Won’t Get In Trouble, Having Me Back Here?

Nah
, Rose dragged the back of her hand across her forehead, leaving a smear of grease.
Zack’s gone for the afternoon, nobody’s here except me and Gina and she doesn’t give a fuck.

Yeah, I don’t give a fuck
, shrugged Gina from the register.

I picked at the vegetable nuggets. I lifted a blobular crusty one from the paper boat and blew and blew until the oil shining on the stiff batter didn’t look scalding. I popped it into my mouth and sucked in air to cool it off.

Hot, huh?
Rose nodded. She grabbed an empty basket and knocked crumbs of fried batter onto a countertop. She swept them up with her little hand and dumped them into her mouth.
Mmmmm!
she rolled her eyes back like it was the best-tasting thing in the world. I crunched down on the grease ball cooling on my tongue.
I like to try to guess what vegetable it is
, she said, watching me chew.
The choices are
broccoli, zucchini, I think cauliflower…

Yams!
Gina shouted back from the register.

Carrots
, Rose corrected.

Yams!

They’re carrots
, Rose said to me.
Who even eats yams? Nobody eats yams.

I Think I’m Eating A Carrot, I told them.

Open your mouth
, Rose said. She peered inside.
Yeah, it looks orange. Marty, he usually cooks while I do the register, he said it’s all just the batter but they put different food coloring inside to trick you into thinking they’re vegetables.

No, I shook my head. I probed the mass inside my mouth with my tongue thoughtfully, and swallowed. I Really Tasted Carrot.

It could be artificial flavoring
, Gina suggested.

I popped another into my mouth. Rose watched expectantly. It Has No Flavor, I told her. None At All.

She nodded.
Weird, right? What are they?

I shrugged, ate another. I Don’t Know. They’re Good, Though. I’m Starving.

You fit better here at the Clown more than you did at Ohmigod!
Rose said.
No offense or anything. Everyone who works there is so stuck up. Even that girl Kim, I don’t care if she tried to kill herself or whatever. She was a bitch. She kicked Gina out of the store once.

What Did You Do? I asked.

Gina looked horrified.
I didn’t do anything!
she said.
I never do anything!

It’s true
, Rose verified.
Gina never does anything. Do you? You do things, right?
Rose’s eyes upon me seemed too
much. It was like supersonic rays came at you when she looked your way. It made me feel shaky. I turned my face down toward my fry boat and scraped some batter off a nugget. The vegetable-thing beneath was a pale green color.

Sure, I lied. I Do Things. Things like sit in my room and stare at the ceiling. The ceiling, if it is stared at long enough and especially while drunk, can come to look like a weird terrain, another world, with rupturing volcano and mountain ranges and wide lakes where the paint had flaked off in chunks, revealing the pale blue beneath. There’s a lot more to staring at the ceiling than you might think.

Cool
, Rose said. She turned to Gina.
I’m Gone.

Technically not for another five minutes
, Gina said, looking at the clock on her register.
Can’t you please wait? I hate being here by myself. What if I get held up?

Rose snorted.
You’re not going to get held up. Look, everyone’s here.
She gestured around at the food court. Wanda at SugarMuffin mistook her wiggling arms for a wave and waved back.
See, Wanda’s right there.

I Hate Wanda, I offered.

What if I have to go to the bathroom?
Gina continued scrolling down her list of concerns.

Go now
, Rose told her.
Go, I’ll watch the register.

Gina moved down the corridor of fryers and hit the switch on the bathroom wall, sending the ceiling fan alive with a whooshy whine. The seam on the ass of her striped shorts was distressed enough to give you an idea of what color drawers she had on. Something in the blue-green family. Aqua. She clicked the door shut.

Why Don’t You And Gina Trade Uniforms? I suggested.

Rose shook her head.
No way. I like mine baggy. Then I can do more of this.
She struck a key on her register and the cash slid out on its oiled tray. Rose slid her hand into the money and then down the front of her shorts. For a brief second it looked like she was playing with herself, then she swung her hip at the cash drawer and bounced it closed. Rose kept the coolest look on her face the whole time, like she was totally bored and not involved in something exciting such as stealing actual cash. She gave a quick glance about the mostly dead food court and squatted below the register.
Look at this
, she hissed, and gave her pants a quick yank down. There was a significant cash bulge in her underwear. Which was pink and shiny. The crotch jutted out and looked sort of uncomfortable.

Does It Itch Or Anything? I asked. Surely it couldn’t be good to keep money all up on your hoo-ha. My mother has spoken much to me and to Kristy about the unfathomable filthiness of dollars and coins, starting when we were little kids and she caught us sucking on pennies.
Money is filthy!
she had shrieked.
People pee on money, money falls on the ground, in the dirt! People touch it with their dirty hands, sick people touch it!
She went on and on but really I couldn’t get past the part about the pee. Why would anyone pee on money? I’ve never been able to figure it out. Maybe it’s a sex thing. Rose stood up straight once more, her underwear and its stolen prizes tucked back inside her baggy Clown shorts.

No, it’s not itchy
, Rose laughed.
Are you allergic to money?
Her bony fingers scrambled down the front of her shorts and pressed into the balloony fabric.
I love it!
she
squealed.
That’s like, a hundred dollars or something.

No Shit? I asked.

At least
, she whispered.
At least. Hey. How come you got fired?

It’s A Long Story, I said. I Lied A Lot. My Sister Lied, I Lied — I remembered the cell phone stuffed into that crappy little purse. And I Stole, Too. But I Didn’t Get Caught.

Rose moved closer and held her hand out for me to slap it. Behind me the door opened and the whine of the ceiling fan hummed louder as Gina exited, vainly tugging at the ass of her shorts.
Let’s hang out tonight
, Rose hissed as our palms clapped together.
Can you hang out? You got plans already?

I shook my head. No, I Can Hang Out, I said.

You can stay out late? You got a curfew?

I kept shaking my head. No, No Curfew, I Can Do Whatever I Want, I told her. I Can Stay Out All Night, Who Cares, Whatever.

Lucky duck!
Gina pouted.
You guys are such lucky ducks. I don’t get to do anything.

I Stole A Cell Phone, I mumbled low, very low, almost not even moving my mouth, like Rose was a puppet I was trying to fling my voice through. Her eyes lit up at the word “stole” but her forehead crunched at the rest of my jumbled mumble. Gina lingered, leaning.

Gina, the register
, Rose said. She cocked her head toward the front counter, where an old man stood squinting up at the menu boards. She leaned back in to me, close. The smell of the place had nested in her so deeply she seemed to be its source, exuding the stink of hot oil more
than the bubbling vats themselves. She was fry personified. I pushed the bottom of her clown hat up off her ear and spoke into the tiny whorl.

I Stole A Cell Phone, I Need To Charge It, I hushed.

Rose stood back and appraised me, the situation. She looked toward Gina, who looked back at us with strain in her face.
Rose, one fish fry? Please? Before you go?

Rose grabbed a frosted, bread-colored plank from a freezer and tossed it into a fry with an explosion of steam. Slick clouds billowed up and refilled the place with steamy haze.
Where is it?
she asked me. One of her penciled eyebrows was, at this point, totally gone, the hair there sparse. The other eyebrow wiggled crazily on her brow. I picked up the plastic pink pouch from where I’d tossed it into a dustball on the floor beside me. I picked the gray fluff from the strap and handed it to her. It’s Inside There, I said. I Don’t Know What To Do With It.

I can charge it
, she whispered.
This is great, this is really great.
She paused, thinking.
We can call all over the place. We can call, like, Japan if we want. Do you have anyone to call?

I thought about it. I Think My Dad Lives In Louisiana, I said. I imagined a phone ringing in a little shack, a shack balancing on stilts smack in the center of the swamp. My dad knocked out on a wooden boat, oblivious, an alligator making ripples in the water. But I Don’t Know For Sure, I said. My Mom Lies A Lot.

Rose nodded.
My mom’s girlfriend is in Iraq. Do you think we could call there on it?

I shrugged. Why Not? I asked. If You Can Call Anywhere?

Find out where your Dad is, get all the long-distance numbers you can and we’ll meet up tonight and make tons of phone calls! We’ll call fucking everywhere!

Okay, I said. All Right. We made plans to meet and I left her there, dredging for that block of fish with a pair of long metal tongs, cursing as the oil spattered her arms.

Nice to meet you!
Gina hollered. I cut quick through the court and was out of there.

The walk back home from the mall sucked. It sucks even on a regular day, and this day was not regular because I was wearing a skirt that crawled up my rear and a shirt that sparkled, drawing the attention of every ape on the streets to my boobs. I don’t know if there are creeps everywhere or if Mogsfield is some kind of unfortunate creep central, but dudes were just blatantly staring at my chest and there were cars on the street piloted by guys who felt the need to holler at me out their windows as they sped by. At least they didn’t stop. At least I couldn’t actually hear whatever it was they felt compelled to tell me. The speed they zoomed at made their cries sound like
Heeeeeeyyerabababafreaarrma! Hahahaha!
At least none of the guys on the street showed me their dick or flashed me their ass. As a girl I had a lot to
be grateful for, plonking home in my flops. Once I was walking in my neighborhood and this skinny white guy in a pair of nylon running shorts and no shirt, not even those useless tank tops that guys like to wear, the ones that scoop way down and are slit down the sides, he jogged past me, took the edges of his shorts beneath his cheeks and lifted them real quick, flashing me his moony white ass. I cut my walk short, went back to my room and stayed there. It had made me feel pretty depressed, to be honest. This walk home wasn’t having such a powerful effect on me thank god, and I think it was thanks to Rose. I was starting to see the benefit in having friends, or just one friend, really. Too many friends seemed to get troublesome. Rivalries occur, and then comes backstabbing and shit-talking and other dramatic events. I’ve seen it on TV and at school. If you’re going to indulge in friend-having, it seems best to keep it to a manageable single individual. But having Rose to think about took my mind clear off the lousy guys I had to shuffle past, and helped me to not spend too much time thinking about if the dude who drove by in the van had called me a douche bag or an old hag. Or maybe a fag. Seriously. There’s no logic to these people.

When I got home I was greeted by Donnie, shirtless, drinking a beer on the porch. Thank god we don’t have an actual front yard. He’d be out there like a mechanical lawn ornament, drinking and waving to passersby and getting pink and peely with the sun. At least this way he is set back from the street.

Hi Donnie, I said.

Hey kiddo
, he smiled and scratched at the snarl of hair
on his chest. Donnie lived life nude to the waist whenever possible. He scratched at himself like something from
Animal Planet
, then rubbed his sweaty-wet beer can across the tangle, making it all damp and matted.
You walk all the way home?
He squinted at me.

Yeah, I shrugged. I Just Worked Half A Day. To Start.