chapter seven: if i try to get close


In the morning, Rosie is quiet; she pushes around colourful cereal with a limp spoon held in an equally limp hand, each shred melting into blobs of saturated chunks, because she is too distracted. Ruth cradles a phone between her shoulder and ear while she rushes around to collect the scattered clothing in the bedrooms, dashes downstairs into the kitchen to pack lunches, all while she speaks with Jughead's main social-worker – he is doing just fine, the girls adore him, really – because she must maintain the pretence that he is still here and not at Sunnyside.

Slowly, Rosie scoots out from her table and then trails upstairs. Rosie is hardly ever silent. She stomps, she jumps – she had a phase the week before last in which she thought she could use echolocation like a bat, and so she used to let out sudden screams with her eyes clamped shut, reassuring us that she knew exactly where the armchair was based on the sound. Then she would blindly bump against the sofa or trip into the table. So, Rosie has never been much of a wallflower.

I drop my slice of toast, brushing off crumbs from my lap while I stand and march into the hall. Ruth is still in the living-room, promising that Jughead has had perfect attendance at Southside High and that he will certainly be here for his next meeting, scheduled for the end of the month. I remind myself to tell him about it. I push open the bedroom door with 'ROSIE' pasted in chunky, glittering letters against its wood, little flower-stickers dotted all around. She sits on her bed, plucking at loose threads from the marine-blue jumper which Ruth had chosen for her to wear today. Rosie has a tendency to choose flimsy, thin shirts even if the wind howls against her windowpanes in the morning. Ruth, eternally diplomatic, selects her jumpers or coats for the walk to school and just hopes that Rosie will not tear it off once she reaches the school.

"Hey, Rosie," I smile. I plop myself at the end of her bed. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she answers; but her shoulders are dipped inward, her lips held in a small pout. I am almost amused by her sullenness if only because she is useless at hiding her emotions. She had only slipped from Ruth's watchful eye because of this whole Jughead thing. "I'm okay."

I hum a small, uncertain sound. "Okay. But you do remember that Ruth told us we should always tell the truth, right?"

Indignant, she glares at me, those rich curls flopping against her forehead and a small crinkle held between her furrowed eyebrows. "I am telling the truth."

"Is that why you look so sad, then?"

She blinks, shifting around uncomfortably. "I just-…If I tell you, will you tell Ruth?"

Really, I would like to promise Rosie that I will never tell Ruth, but some part of me thinks that it would hurt her more if I made a promise which I then had to break. "That depends, Rosie."

She chews at her lip, holds it between her small, pearly teeth and then releases it. "You know how Ruth and I went over to the park on the Northside, yesterday?"

Oh, boy. The Northside. "Yeah?"

"There was this other little girl there, in the playhouse. She said-…Well, she said I was dirty because I'm from the Southside, and then she said that Ruth only looks after me because she has to look after me – she said her Mommy wants her, but mine doesn't want me. I wanted to push her away because she was blocking the door and I couldn't get out to go to Ruth – and then she said that I couldn't push her even if I wanted to, because then she would tell her brother and he would call the people in charge of us, and they would take me away from Ruth and you and I-…" - her glassy stare finally cracks, small tears pouring onto reddened cheeks – "… and I like it here."

"Oh, Rosie," I mumble softly, holding my arms out for her.

She scrambles across her blankets and practically knocks me over with her full weight. I let her curl against me, let her sob and sob until she is coated in snot and ruddy skin, her fists scrunched into my shirt. Gently, I brush through her springy curls, soothe her hot cheeks with my cold hands and rock her just a little, because she really cries hard, but soon settles into an almost comatose state, in which she simply stares ahead, occasionally sniffling.

"Now are you gonna tell Ruth?" she asks; her voice is hoarse, and it sounds so much like mine that I almost smile, but the sadness in her takes it away in a short breath. I think it over. Rosie attends a school here on the Southside, and she might not ever come across this girl unless Ruth takes her to the park at the exact same moment that this other girl appears again, but I figure I could tag along with her and keep an eye out.

"Do you want me to tell her?"

"I don't know," she mumbles. "Will she be mad?"

"Probably," I answer honestly. "But not with you, Rosie – because what that girl said isn't true. You're not dirty. At least, I don't think so-…" – I lift her arm and pretend to sniff at her, which makes her shriek with laughter and buck against me because she is incredibly ticklish – "…and I don't think I'm dirty either, right? And Ruth definitely wants you. I want you here, too. That's all that should matter, okay? You and I got really lucky getting to stay here with Ruth, didn't we?"

She nods feebly, still caught between relief and sadness. I suppose she feels better for having said it all, but sad because it still hurts. She hesitates for a second, lips scrunched as if to hold in the words, but then she says, "Her brother was there, too. He didn't say anything to me, but he looked mean. We saw him before, outside that other shop, when Ruth let us buy our journals and I got to colour-…"

Reggie, I realise. I hear a faint ringing in my eardrums, like the tinny whine of that bell in school. I recognise it well, that flood of sound which rushes through me, hot like blood, hot like anger. In the months before my Grandmother had passed, that sound used to come before I would punch something, before I cracked my fist against concrete or bone, whichever was closest, and whichever hurt the most. Now it comes again, and I count out my numbers like I usually do, but it doesn't seem to soothe me much – that rattle is still there even once Rosie seems reassured and playful, slipping on her jumper and hopping around, all that hurt forgotten for now.

It is not forgotten for me, though.

I pull away from her and slip into my bedroom, holding deathly still, thinking over her words, her puffy face streaked in tears etched into my brain; she would tell her brother and he would call the people in charge of us, and they would take me away from Ruth and you and I…and I like it here.

In a sudden bolt of aggression, I clench my fist and slam it into my wall. I feel the rip of skin, splintered and torn, the fresh spill of blood and the release of all that pressure once my bones seem to rattle, all through my arm and into my skull, smothering that aching noise. I hold still again, straining for the sound of Ruth and Rosie, who might have heard me. Nothing follows, and I let out a shaky breath, relieved.

ii

Gripping the handlebars of my bicycle, I look at the bridge which leads into the Northside, scrunching my fists so tight that the cracked, dried blood which crusts my knuckles splits and oozes new trickles of blood. I want to find Northside High, find Reggie and kick his skull in, then pull him back into the Southside and drop him in front of Rosie, rip open his shattered jaw so that an apology can pour out between mouthfuls of copper warmth. Still, I know that Rosie would be more scared than grateful and I'm not thinking like I should be – when I should be at Southside High right now, in a dull class of Math followed by English. I know that the first bell would have rattled its tinny, whiny tune almost forty minutes ago.

I know that I should be there, because I promised Ruth that I was better now, that all of the stuff she had read about me in my files was another Mila; not me, not this Mila, but yet now I am stood here in this street with a bicycle and bloody knuckles and I can't really see the difference anymore.

I feel a vibration against my pocket and find my phone, realising I already have four messages. The first comes from Toni, who asks if I am really ditching her for the day – but the second is filled with a lot more concern and she asks if I am sick, because she can make a mean chicken-soup, and could you just please just answer now, Mila-…Then, the third message comes from Sweet Pea: You're freaking Toni out. Answer your phone. Finally, I flip to the fourth and last message, and all of that anger fizzles out once I realise that Sweet Pea has sent another message which reads, quite simply: You're freaking me out. Please answer.

I release a slow, tired sigh and rub my hands over my face. I type out a quick reply to Sweet Pea: Sorry. On my way.

I take another glance at that lush, dense shrubbery which coats the Northside and cuts off once it reaches the Southside bridge. I feel the sting of my knuckles for the first time; the sting of regret soon follows.

iii

Slipping into our third class of the morning, I feel the prickle of their stares and shrink into my seat. Jughead glances at me, his eyebrows furrowed with that same crinkle that Rosie always has once she is in deep contemplation. I avoid the questioning stare of Sweet Pea, the mixture of relief and worry which still plagues Toni. She is evidently relieved that I came to school, but she knows that I had a reason for being late. I feel as if the class drags for hours. Yet, somehow too soon enough, the bell rattles.

I stand. Before I can flee, I am instantly surrounded by my friends. Sweet Pea crosses his arms. Toni drops her hands flat onto my table and leans forward. "You really let me sit through an hour of Math alone?"

"Uh, not to be 'that guy', but we were there," Fangs mutters, glancing at her with a mildly offended look on his face.

I would have laughed if Toni had even loosened up just a little and smiled. Instead, she stands straight, crossing her arms, mimicking Sweet Pea. "Well, Mila?"

"I just woke up a little late. Rough morning."

I smile at them all and then shift around them, walking into the hall. I can tell they are not appeased, but from the scuff of shoes and leather, I know that they follow anyway, toward our next class, but my stomach churns because I know that I might need to tell them after all – especially with that narrowed stare Toni shoots throughout the next class, her lips pursed. I look over at Sweet Pea and find myself surprised that he does not look so intense, like Toni. Instead, he smiles, but it is nothing like his usual smile; it is far gentler, reassuring.

Then his eyes drop and his smile falters; he has seen my right hand, swollen and sore. He looks at me, but I flinch from his stare, flinch from its intensity and furl the cuff of my coat around my hand, ashamed. I can feel him, feel that pleading look: please answer.

iv

Before myself and the others file into the canteen, he catches me. I am shuffled into an emptied classroom, an apparent habit of ours now to find a secluded place in Southside High to discuss our issues. I feel swallowed beneath his large frame because he looms close, his expression clouded in a blend of concern and frustration because I attempt to brush this off once more. He reaches for my wrist, catches it gently, peels off the cuff and drinks in my knuckles. He never touches the broken skin, but instead lightly tugs me out of the classroom without a word.

He brings me toward the backside of the school, its darkened halls splattered in artificial whiteness from a broken light, which flickers and flickers. He ducks beneath a splintered piece of wood which covers a door and then pulls at me to follow him. I bend beneath the wooden splint and find that we stand in an old, unused bathroom, the doors of the stalls torn off and cracked, its tiles smashed into dust. Still, he approaches a sink and turns the faucet, which sputters out a blackened liquid which soon brightens into clearer water.

He pulls my hand beneath this warm stream and holds it once I try to pull away because of the harsh sting; he dares to smile and mutters, "Good lesson."

"What?"

"Good lesson," he repeats, looking directly into my eyes. "Whenever I punch something and I gotta clean up my hand and it stings badly, I think – good lesson."

"If it was such a good lesson, you wouldn't need to say it more than once, Sweet Pea. You would have stopped punching the first time," I grumble.

He smooths a thumb across my knuckles and seems apologetic this time when I wince, letting my hand drop and flicking off the faucet. He leans against the sink, half-sitting on its edge. "Yeah. Thought the same thing when I put that dent in Ruth's wall – your wall. I thought it was stupid of me. But that was after I did it – when you're about to punch something, you're not thinking at all. That's the point. So, now, we're in the after-part of you punching something, Mila. What are you thinking now?"

I am mildly surprised by his maturity, the way he looks at me so bluntly, as if there is nothing else in the world right now apart from us, apart from this. I swallow and feel my voice crack all over again. "You're gonna think it's dumb."

"What does it matter what I think?"

"It matters to me," I mumble.

He straightens, momentarily looking away from me before he meets my eyes. "Well, you saw me lose my cool – more than once, actually."

I shrug. "Just-…Rosie and Ruth went over to the Northside at the weekend, to visit the park. And Rosie said this girl was picking on her because she's from the Southside – she called her some names, but then she said that if Rosie tried to fight back, she'd just get her brother to call social services and Rosie would be taken away from Ruth. And I know her brother. Sort of. I met him once when I first visited the Northside."

Sweet Pea loses that calm, neutral expression; his mouth tightens, jaw clenches. He stands from the sink and I am thrown by his height again, stepping backward to look up at him. Lowly, he asks, "And what happened when you met him?"

I shrug again, more because I am not sure what else to do with myself. "It was just him and some friends trying to make fun of me, that's all-…"

"What happened?"

"They stood around me, asked why I was bothering to buy notebooks because-…. because there was no need for them here in the Southside and-…" - I hesitate, but Sweet Pea steps closer, his chest almost bumping against mine, ensuring that speak, and so I reluctantly continue – "…And that Southside students couldn't read, anyway. Couldn't write, either. He said that I was too defensive of the Southside, so I must be shacking up with some Serpent and-…that an adopted Southsider is the same as any other Southsider. But look, Sweet Pea-…"

"Look, what, Mila?" he interrupts furiously. "You were in Riverdale how long, and they were already harassing you?"

"I was fine. I'm still fine."

"Yeah, you're fine. That's why your hand is all busted up, right? So, what were you gonna do?"

"What?"

"You didn't turn up this morning. So, what were you gonna do? Go over to the Northside?" he asks. I flush, and his surprise seeps through, realising that he had guessed correctly, his mouth held apart in shock. He had been leaned toward me, bent closer to my height, but he straightens now. "Mila, were you really-…"

"Yeah."

"You could have been badly hurt."

"I have been in fights before, you know."

"Yeah, against how many guys? Those Bulldog jackasses might be dumb, but they do know how to throw a punch." He snorts bitterly and adds, "I should know."

"I wasn't thinking," I admit. I still feel embarrassed. "I just-…I was really upset. I wasn't thinking, Sweet Pea, and I just thought if I went over there…"

"I'm glad you didn't."

I blink at him, startled by his frank tone.

He continues, "If you had cracked open a Northsider's skull, your social-worker would have heard about it within the hour. Even if I hate to say it, what that brat said was right – one call from her brother after that, and you'd have been taken out of here in an instant, Mila. Your word against a Northsider? You wouldn't have stood a chance."

"I didn't think," I repeat. "I was just-…"

"Trying to protect your family," he supplies softly.

I nod weakly, looking down at the tiles because my eyes seem determined to swell with tears that I do not want to shed. Family. I had not been with Ruth and Rosie that long, but for someone like me, who has only ever felt temporary – well, it means a lot more to be here with them than anywhere else that I had ever been.

Sweet Pea surprises me all over again. He steps forward and wraps his arms around me, lets me lean against his chest. I stiffen, initially unsure of myself, but his heartbeat is there, and his arms feel safe, so I allow myself this moment. I mumble into his shirt, "You're nicer than most people think, Sweet Pea."

"People think I'm not nice, huh?" he laughs; the sound rumbles in his chest, and I blush because of how warm it makes me feel. "Where do they think I got the nickname Sweet Pea from, then?"

Once we pull apart, he must notice the pink which stains my cheeks because that smirk blossoms on him again. I am glad he doesn't mention it aloud, but he does let me wash my knuckles some more, and he finds a roll of toilet-paper which he tears into shreds to pat against my hands and dry them off. He is very careful, he avoids the sorest parts. I suppose he has enough practice with his own, after all of those punches into concrete or skulls; whatever hurts the most.

"Thank you, Sweet Pea," I say quietly.

Sweet Pea stands close. He smiles, too, before his eyes dart toward my lips; he leans forward so suddenly, his lips against mine in such a brief second, that I hardly react – but then, his hands find my waist, and I finally understand that this is real – not just a small peck, but a kiss. I feel the softness of his lips and the smile which comes when he feels me return it, my hands lifting to rest against his chest.

Once he pulls away, I feel dizzy and breathless; maybe that is why I blurt, "Was that awful?"

Confused, he asks, "What do you mean?"

"I've never kissed anyone before," I explain, my skin aflame. "I thought-…Maybe-…"

"It was perfect, Mila," he laughs, pulling me against him again. "Good lesson."

"Good lesson," I repeat, grinning against his chest.