Rosalie

1954.

“Stand up straight,” My mother breathes the words to me under her breath and her fingers reach out and pinch me where others will not notice. I no longer whimper when she does it. “Do not forget to smile.” It is not a reassurance- it is a warning. A warning to be perfect. I practice at night, pulling my lips into the wide grin she favors. I practice the pitch and tone of my voice as I dutifully extend my hand and repeat over and over ‘Hello, it is nice to meet you’ and ‘I am Rosalie Anderson, it is nice to meet you.’ I practice until I am practically blue in the face and when I sleep I no longer know who I am. If I am Rosalie Anderson, the girl who does not like her mother. The girl who thinks there is more to life than this town. Or if I am Rosalie Anderson, the next beauty queen for the state, trophy daughter of Doctor Fred Anderson and Elizabeth Anderson. 

“I won’t,” I promise her and she nods, pushing me forward towards the den where my father nurses a drink and a cigarette. He smiles as we enter and he kisses my mothers cheek. I pretend not to notice the lipstick inside his collar and the smell of alcohol on his breath. I simply smile at him, as large as I can and kiss his cheek. 

“Hello daddy.” He nods in my direction in response as my mother grabs her coat from a chair. It takes us exactly two minutes and fifteen seconds to get to the front door and out to the car. The brand new Chevy Bel-Air sat in the driveway, its sky blue paint reflecting the evening sun. I hate that car. It reminds me of my mothers eyes, and I hate it. I slide into my seat like the obedient daughter I have to be and I stare out the window. Each house passes by in succession, each looking like the last. The manicured lawns, the pink flamingos in the grass, the kids playing games in the driveway- it is all the same no matter which direction I look. 

It takes exactly six minutes to arrive at the large two-story home of her father’s business partner. His wife greets us at the door with a smile, her light green dress immaculate. She kisses my mothers cheek and ushers us inside. It is all routine. “You must be Rosalie,” She says and I nod, making sure my smile is large and happy looking. 

“It is nice to meet you Mrs. Robinson.” Mrs. Robinson is the second wife of my fathers business partner. Something everyone talks about behind closed doors, but ignores within her presence. I am careful to not show that I am aware of her status. 

“My son Harris is just in the library if you would like to join him.” She supplies me with an opportunity to escape the scrutinizing glance of my mother and I smile and quickly excuse myself. I do not want to be in my mothers presence longer than I need to be. 

The house is expansive, with large walls full of pictures and paintings. I follow them like a map that leads me to the library. The room has always been my favorite in his house before he remarried. It held books from floor to ceiling over any subject I could ever think of. I would drape myself across a chair and throw my minds into another life. A thousand words would wrap my mind up in the comfort of knowing I could be anyone else. 

Harris had laid himself out on a sofa, his legs crossed, his arms folded upon his chest as he stared at the ceiling. His posture screamed of boredom. He grunted when I entered the room and continued to stare. I had met him before at school, but he ran in a much different crowd than I did. He and his friends played football and went to diners on the weekends. If I ever even dreamed of a weekend diner date my mother would commit my life to the church. My days instead were spent studying how to be a proper wife and etiquette classes. I could identify all the different types of forks, but I could not laugh with friends outside of my mother’s watchful eyes.

I studied the boy for a moment, his eyes were brimmed in black lashes and his eyes the more amazing shade of green. His hair looked like spun gold and I had to admit I could understand the hype within the female population at school. He was gorgeous. But he was not Ida. 

Even the thought of Ida was enough to spin my heart within my ribcage. Ida, my Ida, with her coarse black hair and luxurious lips. I feel an aching pang within my chest and I long to see her. But she would never be allowed within the walls of this home. That thought alone is enough for me to hurt, and I shove the thought down once more. 

“You okay?” Harris asks suddenly and my thoughts evaporate. I am once more standing in front of the boy, far from the hill where love lies. “You kind of went somewhere else there for a minute.” 

“I was thinking. About books.” My hands wave over towards the shelves. Lies come naturally to me, they roll off my tongue like they are dipped in honey and I deliver them so sweetly to everyone in my life. Everyone except Ida. 

I find my way to a chair, far enough away from Harris to maintain distance in case someone should walk by. I grab at the first book I see and grimace when I see it is a law book. The law never interested me. 

“Books, sure.” My eyes drift once more to the human presence and I nod. “I think I know what it looks like when you’re thinking about someone and not something.” Fear strikes up within me and I want to reach out and crash my hand against his mouth. I want him to unsay the words in case the walls have listened. But, I do not move. I only look at him and plant the fake smile on my face once more. 

“I do not know what you mean,” I say and my voice sounds as fake as plastic. His eyes roll and he stares at the ceiling again and for some reason I wonder if what I have done is wrong. “I am sorry.” I say too quickly and he does nothing but shrug. “I was thinking of someone. But not like you’re thinking.” 

“Doesn’t matter.” He is wrong. Ida does matter. Ida matters more than any person has ever mattered to me. She is the air my lungs take in, and the blood that plunges through my body. She is the flicker of light within my soul. But I do not say any of these things.

“Do you think of people?” I ask him instead, defering the attention off of myself. 

“Don’t be stupid.” He says and I stare at him, offended. He sits up, staring at me with those beautiful green eyes. They are narrowed and he is visibly aggitated. His arms hang down onto the sofa, his fingers gripping into the fabric. 

“Please, do not pretend to be stupid.” 

I am shocked. The words bounce around my mind and I think on them longer than I should. I should ignore them, leave the library and return to the other women who were undoubtedly in the den partaking in pleasant gossip about people they pretended to like. But instead I stay, my lips pursed and my arms crossed. 

“I am not stupid.” I retort.

“I never said you were,” it is a valid point but does nothing to ease the offense battling within me. “I said do not pretend to be stupid. All you girls are alike, with your fake smiles and your stupid words. Nobody wants a women who is made out of wax.” 

“Oh,” is all I manage to say. He is right again. Something that keeps happening tonight. I wonder if Ida thinks of me as wax. If she thinks I have nothing of substance to offer. I pray she does not. For if I am wax she is slowly melting me down, and I fear under her touch I may become nothing at all.