The Kissing Diary (13 page)

Her mother reached over and stroked Rosie's head. “Are you dead? Are you hurt? Does it really matter if you have a blue mouth? It's kind of cute, you know?”

“Oh man,” said Rosie, looking into her mother's somber brown eyes. “What about you, Ma? Look who's talking?”

“What about me?” she said, arching an eyebrow.

“Miss middle-aged teenager, what do you care what Doris thinks? Are you sick? Are you dead? Does it really matter?”

Her mother looked deep into Rosie's own green eyes that Grandpa used to tell her reminded him of emeralds. Finally, she said, “You're right. You're so right.” Then she smiled slyly, and said, “Hey, let's not be
blue!
” and laughed so uproariously that Rosie had to join in.

“How could the policeman give such a beautiful mother a ticket?” said Rosie.

“How could anyone laugh at my adorable daughter, just because she has a blue mouth and tongue?” said Mrs. Goldglitt.

They laughed together some more, and without Rosie's even asking, her mother declared home detention officially over.

After supper, Rosie wandered upstairs to her room.

She wrote in her diary:

Wednesday evening

Dear Diary,

Today, Robbie laughed at me because my lips were blue. But I would have laughed at me, too, so I forgive him. Detention sucked, as usual, Billy slept all day and left right after. The best part was watching Teresa at the wrestling match. She blew me away! She's my new idol. Be yourself. Make mistakes. Rally. Mom and I had a few laughs, and I can watch television again, and go on the computer and make phone calls like a real person. Hurrah!

I have a dilemma. I saw Jimmy's girlfriend at the ice cream shop kissing somebody else. I don't understand it. When I saw Jimmy and Linda last week, they were all over each other. Today, she was all over somebody else. If I tell him, he'll hate me. If I don't, I'll feel awful. I'm going to wait and see if he says anything to me. So far, he hasn't. Maybe he doesn't know yet?

About kissing. I've set a goal for myself. I think if I kiss someone, I want it to be special, and only for him, not for anyone else. Otherwise, it's wined. That's my theory right now. If Linda was practicing, she should have used a pillow, not another boy.

I am yours,

Rosie Goldglitt-turned-blue-but-getting-better

15

Rosie Goldglitt's Dance of Doom

When your father has a career in mental health, or as your mother puts it, in the “everyone is nuts” profession, it makes you watch what you say. Rosie did. If she told her father that she didn't like wearing green, he'd raise an eyebrow first. A ten-second pause would follow, and then the pursing of lips as he arrived at his psychological evaluation. Rosie might hear something like, “Your mother decorated your room in pale green when you were a baby, which I told her resembled the color of vomit. Perhaps this feeling goes back to infancy.” If Rosie told her mother that she didn't like wearing green, her mother might say, “Wear purple. It brings out your eyes.” Her father dug deeper than Rosie wanted. Sometimes, he was right, and the arrow hit the bull's-eye. Sometimes, it just made her crazy.

Rosie's father had been informed about the Hitting Episode the day it happened. To Rosie's relief, he couldn't make it to the house until Friday evening. Her mother was back to normal again and no longer considered her daughter to be a juvenile delinquent. All was forgiven, or at least forgotten. When Mr. Goldglitt entered the house, he shocked Jimmy by instructing him to go play Xbox. (Mr. Goldglitt believed that Xbox, Play-Station, and anything similar damaged social skills and killed off brain cells, even if he didn't know a thing about them. Rosie's mother worried less, but she hated the noise.)

Despite Rosie's protest that detention was over, at home and at school, her parents retreated with her into the kitchen, where they had a long discussion that she could have done without. Dad began by saying, “Your mother and I don't believe in hitting, anywhere, at any time. When you were a little girl and ran into the street, your mother slapped you out of fear.”

Mrs. Goldglitt piped up. “You slapped her when she put her hand by the fire, remember?”

Rosie listened halfheartedly, and replayed the feeling she had had when Mr. Woo had looked at her so mournfully. Her father's expression reminded her once again that she had fallen off her pedestal and no longer possessed a shred of star power, whether she had served detention or not. The Goldglitt family didn't hit people.

Rosie suspected that her father took her out to dinner that very evening so that he could evaluate what made her “act out in anger,” as he put it. Her brother begged off with a stomachache. Rosie didn't believe him. He had come home after school and flopped down on the couch, staring at the ceiling in a zombie state. Jimmy glared at Rosie when she gingerly asked him if everything was okay. He didn't look ill. He looked angry and hurt. Only Rosie knew why.

Mrs. Goldglitt's face darkened when she heard Jimmy was sick. She had made plans to go out to the movies with Sam. “Do you need me to stay home, honey?” she said to Jimmy.

“Nope,” said Jimmy, still focusing on the ceiling.

Mr. Goldglitt put his hand on his son's forehead. “He might be a little warm,” he said. “I don't think you should go out, Lucy.”

Rosie's mother left the room.

Mr. Goldglitt followed, and they had a heated exchange. “He's a big boy!” said Rosie's mother. “If he says I don't need to stay home, I believe him!”

“Get your priorities straight,” said Rosie's father.

“They
live
with me. They're always my priority,” Lucy hissed back at him. But guilt took over. She removed her coat, hung it up in the closet, and made a phone call to Sam.

“I don't think he's sick,” said Rosie quietly. “I think he's sad.”

Mr. and Mrs. Goldglitt snapped to attention. “Why would he be sad?” said Mrs. Goldglitt, alarmed.

Mr. Goldglitt was exhibiting his concerned therapist's face. “Has something happened to trigger a depression?”

“I saw his girlfriend kissing someone else.”

“What girlfriend?” said Mr. Goldglitt, bewildered.

“Rosie saw him kissing a girl,” said her mother. “He goes around the house singing.”

“He did,” said Rosie. “Her name is Linda Reeves. And a couple of days ago I saw her kissing someone else.”

“Yikes,” said Mr. Goldglitt, not sounding very therapeutic.

“The poor thing,” said her mother. “I'm definitely not going out.”

“See if you can get him to talk,” said Mr. Goldglitt, calling goodbye to Jimmy as he and Rosie left the house. Jimmy didn't answer.

It was easier for Rosie to talk to her father while he was driving. She didn't have to look at his problem-solving face, his probing worried eyes, the hairs in his nose that needed trimming. He could make her so mad that sometimes she wondered if she had the same problems with her father that her mother did. The week before, when Mrs. Goldglitt had asked Rosie five times to get off the computer, she'd turned out the lights. Rosie typed in the dark until her mother pulled out the plug. Then she called Rosie's father on the telephone, saying, “Your daughter is being insubordinate again!”

Rosie took the receiver and said, “I don't even know what
insubordinate means!
”

“Sweetheart,” Mr. Goldglitt started. “It means ‘disobedient.' You have to listen to your mother, although it's very normal for someone your age to rebel. But every action has its consequences, and we'll have to punish you if it continues.”

“We?” said Rosie. “What's the ‘we,' Dad? You're not even around to punish me. Don't you mean Mom?”

“I know you're speaking out of anger, Rosie. If you're talking about the divorce, sometimes the only person who can save your life is yourself. Even if it means sacrifices. I had to save my own life.”

“So you sacrificed us,” said Rosie coldly. Then she did exactly what her father had predicted. She rebelled by hanging up on him, and her mother had to call him back.

“What's with the
‘we,'
Bob, as in
‘we'
have to punish her? We haven't been a
‘we'
in a while, have we? I agree with Rosie.”

“Lucy, it's only a figure of speech. We
do
have to enforce the rules and take control, before she's a full-blown teenager.”

“If you ask me, she already is,” said Mrs. Goldglitt. “It's only a matter of months.”

“I'm what?” said Rosie.

“A full-blown teenager,” said her mother.

Mr. Goldglitt decided that “he had to run,” and the conversation ended.

When the almost full-blown teenager and her father drove to Angelo's for dinner that evening, her father spoke first. “So you saw Jimmy's girlfriend kiss somebody else?”

“Uh-huh,” said Rosie. “It made me feel sick. Poor Jimmy. I think he liked her a lot.”

“It's a rite of passage, having your heart broken.”

Rosie didn't answer. Her father was right, of course. Maybe this was the year to have her heart broken. To never be kissed. To lose her good friends. To learn a lesson or two, even if she'd rather not.

“He'll survive,” said her father. “I did.”

“How was your heart broken?” Rosie asked. “You broke Mom's heart.”

Mr. Goldglitt stopped at the traffic light. He bowed his head so that it almost rested on the steering wheel. “My heart was broken because I couldn't make it work.” He changed the subject as the light turned green. “How are you doing, honey? You must be glad detention is over.”

“My friends are acting weird,” she said, praying that her father wouldn't say something stupid. She couldn't hang up on him, or jump out of the car in a strange neighborhood.

“You acted out of character.” He turned into the parking lot. “The Rebel Rosie made them nervous. Do you think you want to talk to someone, professionally?”

“I'd rather not talk about it at all,” said Rosie. “I'd rather talk about what I'm getting to eat. Spaghetti and meatballs.”

Rosie's father chose the same, and a dish of broccoli rabe, her least favorite vegetable in the world. After all, her nemesis, Mary, liked it. She had looked up the word in the dictionary, and it fit Mary perfectly. Nemesis: the Goddess of Divine Retribution and Vengeance. Except Mary wasn't a goddess.

“Try it,” said her father, offering her a forkful of the green stuff that made her want to puke. Rosie wrinkled up her nose, to which he responded, “Just say no thank you.”

Was it a rite of passage to be embarrassed by your parents, Rosie wondered as her father chomped noisily on a piece of bread. She had left her mother at home, dressed in tight designer jeans for an evening out. Stiletto heels. A tiny top that most mothers would wear at least two sizes bigger.

“You're chewing too loudly,” she whispered to her father, glancing nervously at the table next to them. She twirled her spaghetti and attacked it so fiercely that sauce splattered across her face.

Mr. Goldglitt kept eating, stopping only to compliment the food. Rosie couldn't find her napkin anywhere, and her father was using his to wipe his mouth. She was too shy to ask the waiter for another, and if she bothered her father, he would make her speak up. Then he would tell her that he just wanted her to learn to be more independent. Rosie would get defensive and say, “I'll learn that later.”

She fished in her jean jacket for a handy tissue, and found one alongside the thin piece of loose-leaf paper folded into a square that she had forgotten to read. After cleaning her face, Rosie opened up the note. It was barely legible, but the way it was written, with no curlicues or flourishes, Rosie knew immediately that it was from a boy. She squinted at the scribble and read: “Would you like to go to the dance with me?” It was signed
R.

Rosie felt just like Cinderella when the glass slipper fit and everything changed. The note had materialized and transported her to heaven. It neutralized detention and her annoying family. Her father's noisy chomping was music to her ears. Her brother's sullenness didn't pain her anymore. Her mother could dress as skimpily as she wanted. Rosie knew in her heart that she would be Mr. Woo's star again. Lauren and her friends would come back to her. All was forgiven. Life glistened like a jewel. Robbie Romano had asked her to the dance.

Rosie shared a dish of zabaglione with her father to celebrate. He quizzed her in the car about how she knew Robbie. Oh, this is the boy who fell over in the bushes? Who said you were cute in the play I didn't see? Who didn't talk to you for a while after you insulted his manhood? (That one hurt.) Didn't he have the courage to ask you in person? Is he so intimidated that he had to write a note? Is he the son of the man who crashed into your mother's car? On any other day, Rosie might have exploded, but the note, nestled in her pocket like a diamond, had granted her tranquillity.

When they got home, her mother was washing the kitchen floor.

“Is everything okay?” said Mr. Goldglitt.

“What do you mean?” said Mrs. Goldglitt, squeezing out the mop.

“You're cleaning!” he said, enjoying his own joke.

“Don't quit your day job to become a comedian,” said Mrs. Goldglitt. “How was dinner, Rosie?” She brightened at the sight of her daughter's face. “You're beaming!” she said.

“I am?” said Rosie, handing her the note. Her mother started hunting for her reading glasses and held the paper to the lamp when she couldn't find them.

“Never mind,” said Rosie, tucking the note in her pocket. “Robbie asked me to the dance!”