glanced up from the stove, but she did not smile.
“Good. You’re back,” she said, but she had no smile for her niece. Instead, she stirred her soup, tapped thewooden spoon on the pot, and set it aside, then went past Rose into the corridor and called up the stairs. “Suzette, she’s back!”
“That smells delicious,” Rose offered, trying to melt the ice that had formed between herself and her aunt. But her rudeness that morning had obviously upset or offended Aunt Fay deeply, and soothing that hurt would not be so simple.
Aunt Suzette came downstairs and joined them in the kitchen, reading glasses propped on her head. She glanced at her sister and then gestured at the small oak table beside the tall window that looked down on Acorn Street.
“Rose, sit down,” Aunt Suzette said. It was not a suggestion.
Sunlight washed across the table. She pulled out a chair, its feet squeaking on the tile floor, and sat in the warm light. Aunt Fay went back to stirring her soup, turning her back to them.
“I’m sorry I shouted at you,” Rose said.
Aunt Suzette nodded. “You were upset. Teenage brains are chaotic. It won’t be the last time. We understand that, don’t we, Fay?”
“We do,” Aunt Fay said without looking around from the stove.
“But it’s going to be a morning for apologies,” Aunt Suzette went on.
Rose’s heart sank. “What else have I done?”
“Not you,” Aunt Suzette replied. “Us.”
“I don’t understand. Why do you need to apologize?”
Aunt Suzette glanced back at Aunt Fay, who seemed almost to be pretending they were not in the kitchen with her.
“This party you mentioned last night,” Aunt Suzette said. “You can’t go.”
Rose felt her heart sink into despair, then almost as quickly a fire rose up within her.
“Why? Why wouldn’t you want me to go?” she demanded, rigid in her chair.
“We don’t know these people—”
Rose laughed. “Bullshit.”
Aunt Fay turned around, wooden spoon dripping onion soup, to stare at her. “Rose!”
“No, no. It is total bullshit. I have a cell phone. I can call you as soon as I get there, give you the phone number, everything. It starts at eight, and I can promise to be back by midnight. I’d be there maybe three hours.”
“No,” Aunt Suzette said. “You won’t be there. You’ll be here.”
Rose stood so abruptly that her chair tipped backward and slammed to the floor, cracking a tile.
“I don’t understand you two at all. Are you kidding? This is what you wanted, me making friends, trying to fit in and make some kind of life here. How am I supposed to have friends or a life if you won’t let me?”
“Friends,” Aunt Suzette said calmly, putting her hands on her plump hips. “Not
boy
friends.”
Rose could only laugh in disbelief. “Come on! What is wrong with you two? You want me to be a nun or something? I go to school with boys. I talk to them. That doesn’t mean we’re screwing in the broom closet!”
Aunt Suzette slapped her hard enough to rock her head back.
“You don’t talk like that to us,” she said coldly.
Rose held a hand to her cheek, staring at her aunt—her kind, jovial Suzette—trying to make sense of the sting of the blow.
Aunt Fay exhaled loudly and stirred her soup. “We should have taken her back to France.”
Rose stared at one and then the other, shaking her head, finally settling on Aunt Suzette since Aunt Fay would not even look at her.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” she whispered, still holding her cheek.
“You need to listen,” Aunt Suzette said, faltering, a glimmer of guilt finally making its way into her eyes.
“That’s how you make me listen? Maybe I was better off in a coma.”
“Don’t—”
“Maybe I’m better off without my memories, if this is what’s in them.”
“Rose,” Aunt Suzette said, “you’ve got to listen.”
“No,” Rose said. “You’ve got to trust me. You two are way, way overboard about this whole boy thing.
“Good. You’re back,” she said, but she had no smile for her niece. Instead, she stirred her soup, tapped thewooden spoon on the pot, and set it aside, then went past Rose into the corridor and called up the stairs. “Suzette, she’s back!”
“That smells delicious,” Rose offered, trying to melt the ice that had formed between herself and her aunt. But her rudeness that morning had obviously upset or offended Aunt Fay deeply, and soothing that hurt would not be so simple.
Aunt Suzette came downstairs and joined them in the kitchen, reading glasses propped on her head. She glanced at her sister and then gestured at the small oak table beside the tall window that looked down on Acorn Street.
“Rose, sit down,” Aunt Suzette said. It was not a suggestion.
Sunlight washed across the table. She pulled out a chair, its feet squeaking on the tile floor, and sat in the warm light. Aunt Fay went back to stirring her soup, turning her back to them.
“I’m sorry I shouted at you,” Rose said.
Aunt Suzette nodded. “You were upset. Teenage brains are chaotic. It won’t be the last time. We understand that, don’t we, Fay?”
“We do,” Aunt Fay said without looking around from the stove.
“But it’s going to be a morning for apologies,” Aunt Suzette went on.
Rose’s heart sank. “What else have I done?”
“Not you,” Aunt Suzette replied. “Us.”
“I don’t understand. Why do you need to apologize?”
Aunt Suzette glanced back at Aunt Fay, who seemed almost to be pretending they were not in the kitchen with her.
“This party you mentioned last night,” Aunt Suzette said. “You can’t go.”
Rose felt her heart sink into despair, then almost as quickly a fire rose up within her.
“Why? Why wouldn’t you want me to go?” she demanded, rigid in her chair.
“We don’t know these people—”
Rose laughed. “Bullshit.”
Aunt Fay turned around, wooden spoon dripping onion soup, to stare at her. “Rose!”
“No, no. It is total bullshit. I have a cell phone. I can call you as soon as I get there, give you the phone number, everything. It starts at eight, and I can promise to be back by midnight. I’d be there maybe three hours.”
“No,” Aunt Suzette said. “You won’t be there. You’ll be here.”
Rose stood so abruptly that her chair tipped backward and slammed to the floor, cracking a tile.
“I don’t understand you two at all. Are you kidding? This is what you wanted, me making friends, trying to fit in and make some kind of life here. How am I supposed to have friends or a life if you won’t let me?”
“Friends,” Aunt Suzette said calmly, putting her hands on her plump hips. “Not
boy
friends.”
Rose could only laugh in disbelief. “Come on! What is wrong with you two? You want me to be a nun or something? I go to school with boys. I talk to them. That doesn’t mean we’re screwing in the broom closet!”
Aunt Suzette slapped her hard enough to rock her head back.
“You don’t talk like that to us,” she said coldly.
Rose held a hand to her cheek, staring at her aunt—her kind, jovial Suzette—trying to make sense of the sting of the blow.
Aunt Fay exhaled loudly and stirred her soup. “We should have taken her back to France.”
Rose stared at one and then the other, shaking her head, finally settling on Aunt Suzette since Aunt Fay would not even look at her.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” she whispered, still holding her cheek.
“You need to listen,” Aunt Suzette said, faltering, a glimmer of guilt finally making its way into her eyes.
“That’s how you make me listen? Maybe I was better off in a coma.”
“Don’t—”
“Maybe I’m better off without my memories, if this is what’s in them.”
“Rose,” Aunt Suzette said, “you’ve got to listen.”
“No,” Rose said. “You’ve got to trust me. You two are way, way overboard about this whole boy thing.
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