Roses for His Romi

I grabbed the burning metal doorknob, twisted and pushed the door in quickly. Cool air suddenly flowed over my skin as I strutted inside the automail shop like I owned the place, which I guess I sort of did. Tossing my plaid messenger bag into the corner of the room, I headed into the back of the shop, looking for any signs of life. At the mahogany desk placed against the back wall sat a woman in her early thirties dressed in a black boob-tube (as I called it) and grayish-purple sweatpants with long blond hair held away from her face by a matching bandana. I liked to call her mom.

"Hey, Mom," I sighed, slumping over into an extra chair next to her work spot. All of the tension in my muscles released slowly.

"Romi Trisha Alphonse Rockbell," Mom scolded me. I got the feeling she was glaring at me, even though she didn't take her cerulean eyes off the prosthetic metal limb she was designing. And don't ask why I have two middle names, or why one of them is a boy's name. I honestly have no idea; I think it has something to do with my father. Whoever the hell that bastard may be. "Where were you? I was worried sick!"

I cannot believe her. I told her three times this morning that I was going over to Ana's, my best friend's, house today for a bit after school. How freaking cliché of her. "Not worried enough to put down your wrench and do something to find me," I growled beneath my breath.

She turned to look at me, her bright eyes sharpened at me as she raised one of her eyebrows. "What was that?" she demanded.

"Nothing!" I snapped defensively, my golden eyes – along with my middle names, also a trait from my father – widening. I quickly averted my eyes from her intense stare.

"I'm sure it was," Mom sighed angrily. "So, where were you?"

"I was at Ana's house," I explained, "practicing alchemy."

Mom froze, like her bones were suddenly coated with ice. "You were practicing alchemy?" she asked, sneering. Wait, I thought it was her that told me I should try new things besides making automail, which I don't enjoy in the first place. Alchemy is a science, we are studying it in school, and I like it so how should it be a problem?

"Is there a problem with that?" I asked casually, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees. The smell of oil hit me out of the blue, making me cringe. Gross…

She paused, as if avoiding answering my question. "Well," Mom said at last, "I guess that's alright… How did you do?"

Does it matter how I did? "To be honest, I did alright," I admitted, beaming. I don't care about sounding self-centered right now, I failed at making automail so I might as well tell her I could finally do something right. Alchemy may be extremely advanced for a fourteen year-old but it's like I already knew everything, it came pretty naturally. "It came easily, I suppose."

"That's nice," she mused thoughtfully. Mom returned to tweaking with the steel arm lying on the desk before her. We sat in silence for a moment; I traced a transmutation circle into my palm with my thumb nail. Getting up to my feet, I stole a peek over her shoulder at what she was designing before heading upstairs. The arm was about the same length as mine, muscular but in a lean way, and slender; it was probably an arm for a man around her age. But I couldn't think of any of her customers that would need an arm like that. Brushing it off, I raced up the black spiral staircase in the far corner of the room to our loft above the shop. I locked myself in my bedroom, pulling out a pad of paper and pen and began to doodle random transmutation circles.

I smirked to myself. While I have them drawn out I might as well try to transmute something. I flipped to a new page and drew a new circle, placing it down on the floor. Now what to transmute…. I scanned my room, looking for material to use. I spotted an old figurine of a porcelain baby's boot that I got when I was born, according to my mom, and put it on the paper. Thinking of all the correct calculations and what I wanted this object to become, I placed my palms against the outer lines of the circle. A lime green light flashed quickly and the figurine shifted into a porcelain rose. It wasn't the best looking rose there ever was, the edges were rough and the surface was very pores, but you could at least tell what it was supposed to be. I smiled proudly.

Mom knocked on my door. The smile vanished from my face and I sulked to the door. Pulling it inward, I asked, "Yes?"

She stood leaning against the doorway, smiling at me. "Why don't we start over?" Mom suggested. "How was your day today?"

"My day was fine," I answered monotonously. "And I'm sure yours was too, you sat here making automail all day. Your dream came true!" Sometimes I just don't understand my mother; recently she has been more obsessed with making artificial limbs than anything. It's like she doesn't even care that I'm here. When I was little I used to think it was because she was lonely, that Mom just wanted something to take her mind off of the jerk she calls my father. But then I realized that she has me and the fact that she never started dating again, so it couldn't be that. Now I think she is trying to avoid me.

Mom stepped inside around me. "Yes, my dream has come true. Working in the automail capital of Amestris as a mechanic with my beautiful daughter," she exclaimed, planting a light kiss on my forehead. I sighed; she just had to through that in there, of course!

"I'm glad you're glad," I sighed, backing into my room to sit on the edge of my bed. "Is there anything else that you wanted?"

"Did you do this?" Mom asked, picking the rose I transmuted up from the floor, sounding excited.

"Um, yeah…" I trailed off.

"I am so proud of you! This is some of the best alchemy I have seen in a very long time! In fact, I think it is the best I have seen since I was with your father. He was very gifted too, you know."

And here we go. Now Mom is going to start gushing over how amazing Dad was. I had no idea he was an alchemist but I have heard many, many stories about him. "That's great, Mom," I groaned, leaning back into a massive pile of pillows.

She glared at me. "Why is it that whenever I talk about your father that you seem so mad?" Mom asked.

"He left us, why wouldn't I be mad?" I shot back at her.

"He is your father," she reminded my sternly. "You shouldn't be so angry with a man you've never met."

"Exactly! I've never met him, how can I consider him to be my father? Biology has nothing to do with this; he hasn't been in my life."