Nathan

NATHAN

(AGE 12)

Not like that.

What did she mean?

How could she say that so… normal? Like hurting her in any sort of way was okay.

The pizza I forced myself to eat for dinner churns in my stomach.

Mom knows I like to play in the woods, but she doesn't know I've been spending all my time with a girl. I don't know if she'd freak out, but there's no point in telling her now.

She was mad that I took so long to come back to eat, but then she just gave me a hug. I guess she could tell I was sad about moving.

I look out my bedroom window to the woods behind my house.

It was almost two years ago that I stumbled across Rosie in that forest.

I was just walking around, bored, and she was sitting on the ground, building a little house out of broken sticks. I was impressed and wanted to try building one myself, so I asked if I could sit down with her, and that was that. Almost every day since, even in the winter, we'd meet in the woods.

None of my friends at school know about her. She's younger, so they wouldn't know her.

I frown at the woods.

It's like no one knows about Rosie. I never hear anyone say her name. And she never talks about anyone else. And that makes my stupid heart ache.

Because Rosie is amazing. She's funny and smart and easy to talk to.

She's my best friend.

And I'm never going to see her again.

I stand.

No.

I can't just give in like that.

I can't never see Rosie again.

I need to at least say goodbye.

I never said goodbye.

Moving around the boxes piled in my room, I rush out into the hall.

My feet fly down the stairs, and I grip the banister at the bottom to spin me toward the front door.

"Where're you going?" Dad hollers.

"Just gotta run down the street." I shove my shoes on. "I'll be right back."

Before Dad can tell me not to, I open the front door and run out.

I'm on the sidewalk before I realize what I'm doing.

I should go to the woods. It's the only place we've ever met.

But the sun is setting, and there's no way she'll still be out there.

I've never heard her dad calling for her, but she has to go in for dinner sometime.

Her dad.

My hands ball into fists at my side.

I've never met him, and she doesn't talk about him, so I don't even know what he looks like.

Rosie doesn't talk about her mom either. I just know she died the year before I met Rosie.

I remember my mom going to the funeral. She said people from the neighborhood should show their sympathy. But she didn't make me or my brother go.

I was glad at the time. I hate funerals. Especially for people I don't know.

It's so weird to be sitting there, feeling no certain way about the dead person when people around you are crying.

I was glad I didn't have to go. But now I wish I did.

Even if I didn't know her then, I could've been there for Rosie.

Like you were there for her today?

The last image I have of Rosie is burned into my memory.

Her light blue eyes on me, watching. The color looking even brighter with the constant shimmer of tears.

I wanted to hug her.

Wanted to tuck her dark red hair behind her ears.

I wanted to get that look off her face.

That look of a broken heart.

The one I put there.

I start jogging.

I'm going to hug her.

I'm going to tell her goodbye, and I'm going to hug her and tell her I'll never forget her.

When I reach the walkway that goes from the sidewalk to the front of Rosie's house, I slow.

I know which house is hers because I've seen her get off the bus and walk there, but I've never been inside.

The concrete under my shoes is cracked, and dandelions stick up in the grass.

The front of the house is normal. Plain. With paint peeling in places.

But I don't care what her house looks like.

One step leads up to her front door, so I step up onto it and ring the doorbell.

This close to the house, I can hear the TV playing inside.

It's so loud I don't know if they'll hear the bell.

I press the doorbell again.

A second later, the door swings open.

The movement is so sudden that I stumble back off the step.

"What do you want?" the man filling the doorway snaps.

He's standing on the high ground, two steps between me and him, so I know he looks bigger from this angle. But from here, he looks huge.

And angry.

There's none of Rosie in his features.

She's girly and soft and all pretty eyes and thick hair.

This man is square jawed and narrowed eyes and a greasy comb-over.

And I know—I just know —it would be a bad idea to ask for Rosie.

Does he hurt you?

Not like that.

I force my mouth into a big smile. "Hi. I'm fundraising for?—"

I don't even have to finish the lie.

The door slams in my face.

Unease crawls over my skin, thinking about Rosie being stuck in a house with that man.

Backing away, I look up at the windows on the second story, but I don't see any movement behind the curtains.

No sign of Rosie.

The woods are empty and dark enough now that I'd need a flashlight if I hadn't walked this path a hundred times before.

But as I reach our spot, it's easy to tell it's empty.

Something in my chest pleads with me to go back to Rosie's house, hoping she'll be the one to answer the door.

But I don't do that.

I lift the bag of marshmallows that's still sitting on the log from before.

Rosie rolled it shut, but she didn't take it.

I slip my handwritten letter underneath the bag, then set it back down.

Hopefully she'll come back for it tomorrow.