Kissed by a Rose: A Dead Roses Novel Read online

  “The Sigma Nu party? Okay, sure.” She waves as she walks away. “Bye.”

  “Uh-huh.” I check her out as she walks away. A short skirt, socks that go to the middle of her thighs, and a black shirt.

  Evan whistles, following her with his eyes. “Wow, bro. You’re so lucky.” He punches me in the arm.

  I return the blow, playfully, though a little harder than expected. “She’s definitely pretty.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Verge is bringing over party favors tonight. Care to partake with us before we hit the party?” By party favors, I know he’s talking about recreational drugs.

  I don’t do drugs. Never have. I don’t like how they affect people. I much prefer being in control. Evan knows this but refuses acknowledge what he calls my shortcoming. “Nah. I’ll catch up with you after though.”

  “Whatever, dude. You’re so squeaky clean. Makes me wonder if we’re actually related.” He chuckles. Slaps me upside the head. “By the way, have you seen Lard Rose yet?”

  I follow Evan outside, swallowing the lump in my throat at the rude nickname. It goes down hard. “Rosie,” I correct, my stomach clenching at her name.

  He makes a face. “Yeah, Rosie,” he says, his voice laced with sarcasm. “She’s registered. A brand new UB freshman.”

  I cross my arms, feigning calm, but I’m not feeling calm, not at all.

  When we were younger, Evan and some other kids called Rosie, “Lard Rose.” It annoyed me then and it still does. I mean it’s a stupid name. I growl internally, grinding my teeth in frustration. “I mean it. Don’t call her that.”

  He doesn’t respond right away, which means he’s offended, but I don’t care. I’m a laid-back guy, except where she’s concerned.

  “It looks like she’s going to be taking English with Ms. Spears,” he says. “How you gonna handle it?”

  He’s smirking, and I want to punch him. I also want to ask him how he knows her schedule, but I’ve learned that with Evan, the less I know the better. Of course, he’s suggested many times that I go into business with him. The thing is, I know that whatever he’s into, it’s shady, and I have no desire to walk that road.

  “Great. That’s great,” I say between gritted teeth.

  Because it is great but also frustrating and exciting and irritating. I knew she’d finished school and hoped she would choose to go to college here. It’s stupid, but I’ve thought about Rosie a lot. Especially lately. She’d been my best friend. We hung out every day, up until her parents, Phillip and Sophie were killed. It’d been devastating, losing her all of the sudden like that. Even losing her parents had been awful. I’d liked them. They were good people.

  All of these feelings… Shock? Happiness? Anger? All three at once? I can’t even begin to come up with a word to describe what’s coursing through my body. I have so many questions about the past. Like, why had she stopped talking to me? Why hadn’t she responded to any of my letters? She’d listened to me moan about not having a mother, about what a jerk my father was. All the crap he put me through. I stood up for her when other kids were mean. How could she stop being my friend?

  “I’ve got to go.” Without waiting for a response, I run to my Jeep. Drive like a controlled maniac back to my apartment.

  Inside I go straight for the piano. It’s thirty minutes of endless playing before I’m able to relax. By the time I’m finished, I’ve decided to play it cool when I see her. It’s been seven years. I’ve outgrown her. She isn’t a part of my life anymore. The lies keep coming for the rest of the night, but I keep saying them over and over, hoping they’ll stick, knowing at the same time they won’t.

  3

  Are You Ready To Parr-Tayy

  Rosie

  I have a thing for firsts. First day of school. First crush. First tattoo. Once, a long time ago, I made a promise to a boy that all my firsts belonged to him. But that was before…

  “Are you ready to parrr-tayy?” Gina hollers at a random group of girls crossing the dark soccer field next to us.

  They speed up, seemingly desperate to be as far away as possible. I can’t blame them. I want to abandon half our duo.

  Gina is my roommate, and so different from me I wonder if we’ll work out. It’s like the people handling the roommate selection process wanted to mess with my head. I can almost hear two evil senior girls cackling. “Ohh, she likes to read, she’s into classical music, and she likes puzzles? Ha ha.” They high-five each other and pull an application from a pile. “Let’s give her this one. No one wants this one either.” Bam! I get Gina.

  The only music Gina listens to isn’t even music. It’s some guy screaming. The band name is Black Veil Brides. I know this because she has posters of them all over her side of our dorm room. Plus, she plays their songs over, and over, and over. If that isn’t bad enough, she doesn’t own a single book—at least, she didn’t unpack any. Worst of all, she has no idea what Sudoku is.

  “It’s funny,” Gina says, bringing me out of my reverie. “I scare them,” she points at the scurrying girls and continues, “but they’re heading into the lion’s den.” She shakes her head. “Are you scared, Rose?”

  “A little,” I admit.

  The truth is, this whole place makes me nervous. I mean, it’s college and I’ve been here two days. It still blows my mind that on Tuesday night I was living with my aunt and uncle and now I’m here. Unsupervised. Unfettered. Free as a bird. And it’s scary. Scarier than I thought it would be. But I’m here because I’d been awarded a full ride scholarship for music.

  Playing piano is the only thing—other than tattoos—that brings me a semblance of peace.

  As I walk the field with the rest of the girls from my dorm, I still find it hard to believe I’m not the pre-teen girl with the scared eyes finding her parents dead. Because I’ve gone on living, while they are buried and gone. I want to believe there’s life after death. It’s a hope, though when I think about how my parents died, I wonder.

  Gina’s features turn serious as she studies me. “It’s okay to be scared. That means you’re growing.”

  I’m shocked. Her words are deep. “Well, don’t be surprised if I wake one morning as a giant.”

  She smirks, tucking some hair behind her ear. “Roommate is a comedian. You go.” She pats my shoulder awkwardly.

  “I have my moments,” I say, eyeing her, hoping I haven’t crossed a line. Gina looks scary. Shaggy long blond hair reaches her waist, but the top is spiked. Gobs of black eyeliner circle her blue eyes. A slinky black dress and black motorcycle boots complete her outfit. Her vibe doesn’t say, “Hey, I’m sweet.” It’s more, “Look at me wrong and I’ll beat you into a pulp.”

  I wonder if the girls crossing Asher Field with us are as nervous to be here at the University of Bellam as I am. Gina doesn’t seem to be, but it’s my first time living on my own, without my aunt and uncle. I’m guessing it’s a first for most of these students. And going to a party without parental supervision, with no curfew—another big first—at least for me.

  A part of me wishes the boy I made the promises to when we were younger could share this first, but I quickly push the thought away. It’s been seven years since I’ve seen him. And that’s for the best.

  I gingerly touch the tattoo below my belly button, flinching at the new pain. Reveling in it.

  Definitely for the best, I think.

  Millions of stars sparkle overhead, the skies cleared after the heavy rains from two days ago. Darkness covers the wilderness the University sits on, complimented by the occasional street light. Gina and I are staying in Irvine Hall, the tallest dorm on campus. It’s across the street from the cafeteria. The smell of overcooked food swirls in the air, as does a feeling of exhilaration.

  “We don’t have to go, you know. I’ve got—” I begin, but Gina interrupts.

  “Don’t even try it, Rose Hansen. We’re going to this party, and I demand you have fun.”

  “It’s Rosie,” I say, correcting her for probably t
he twentieth time. It’s not that I hate my name. In fact, I love it because it was my mom’s middle name. But that’s also why I don’t like using it. It reminds me of her. Her smell, the way she would always cut shapes into my sandwiches and tuck me in to bed every night, even when I was probably too old for it. “Why do you care if I have fun?”

  She looks like I slapped her but recovers quickly. It’s a fair question. Two days ago, I didn’t know she existed. “I’ll call you Rosie as long as you do two couch shots at this party. Deal?” She punches my arm.

  I rub the spot she hit, worried. I have no idea what couch shots are, but after a moment I agree. “I guess.” I try to smile. My lips aren’t sure how it works, so I give up.

  Gina doesn’t seem to notice my attempt as she gives me a quick once over. “And next time we go out, you have to let me pick out your clothes and do your hair and makeup. You look like you don’t care what the boys think. Those jeans. Really? They’re like two sizes too big.”

  I blush, thankful she can’t see my embarrassment in the dark. Casually I glance at my clothes: slightly baggy jeans hanging off my bony hips, tan ballet flats, and a pink t-shirt. “What do you mean? This outfit… works.” It isn’t stylish like hers, but it works for me.

  I have a serious infatuation with shoes, not fashion. All I own are ballet flats, but studying shoes are how I figure out people. Her motorcycle boots tell me she’s ready to stomp on the world and everyone in it who gets in her way.

  She huffs. “Did you even brush your hair?”

  I’m not one for confrontation, but Gina is getting on my nerves. “Yes, I brushed my hair,” I say, discreetly running a hand along the ends. “Rude much?”

  Her face falls. “I’m sorry. My therapist says I need to work on thinking about what I say before I say it.”

  She sees a therapist? Good to know. Maybe we do have something in common. “No problem,” I say.

  We walk in silence until we’re across the street from the frat house. People are all over the lawn, on the wide wrap-around porch, and hanging out the second and third story windows. Everyone appears to be having fun. A part of me longs to let go, to be carefree. To “live a little.” That’s what my aunt told me to do when she dropped me off.

  We cross the street and Gina asks, “We good?”

  “Of course.”

  The party-smile returns to her face. “Cool! Let’s rock,” she shouts, raising a fisted hand in the air.

  Several kids at the frat house yell their agreement.

  If outside is crazy, inside the party is wild, filled with young, sweaty bodies gyrating to music so loud it’s rattling the windows. Everyone has large plastic cups filled with a red liquid. People are laughing in groups. Couples are making out. My cheeks feel hot and my eyes water. It’s like I’ve entered another world.

  This place is like nothing I’ve ever known. It’s harsh, sordid, and raucous. The noise, the brilliant colors—it all makes my head spin, and my heart racket against my chest.

  It’s obvious how naïve I really am. I had no idea people did stuff like this. Living with my aunt and uncle was good enough; they took care of me, gave me affection, but I was also homeschooled, kept in a pampered prison. Up until this moment my only social life was therapy sessions, piano recitals, and a yearly visit to the tattoo parlor.

  The atmosphere around me is everything I never imagined.

  “Come on, let’s go nuts and do something stupid,” Gina says excitedly.

  I follow her, trying hard not to run into anyone, but it’s difficult. People are everywhere. Gina moves ahead of me, her lithe body sliding around people like they aren’t even there.

  In the living room is a ratty green couch. Around it is a lot of commotion. People cheering. Bewildered, I stop to watch. A guy is kneeling on either side of the couch. Two girls sit down. The guys tilt the couch back and two more guys pour liquid in the girls’ mouths. On either side, students are chanting, “Go. Go. Go.”

  A couple of seconds later the guys tilt the cough back up. The girls squeal, looking flushed, their eyes glassy. Giggling, they wobble as they stand and stumble away. Two more girls take their places and the guys repeat the process.

  If that’s what Gina means about couch shots, then she can call me Rose for as long as she wants. I turn away, looking for my roommate, and she’s in my face, two cups of the red liquid in her hands.

  “Here you go, Rose.”

  I take the cup from her and sniff. Orange, lemon, and lime chunks are floating on top. It smells like gasoline mixed with citrus. “What is it?”

  “It’s called Jungle Juice.” She tips the cup and chugs down the whole thing, takes out a piece of fruit, and bites the meat off the rind. “Ahh, this stuff is good. Try it.”

  I bring the glass to my lips and flinch, the smell burning my nose, and I debate whether I’m ready to drink what’s inside. Before I make a decision, someone bumps into me, and I get some in my mouth. I swallow without thinking as the rest spills down my chin, my neck, and onto my shirt.

  “Welcome to the best part of college,” Gina says, touching her cup to mine with a plastic clink.

  I gasp as the drink scorches my throat and I pull the cup from my mouth unsure about what to say. My mind is reeling as a fire slowly blooms in my belly. It could be that I didn’t eat dinner tonight and my stomach is empty, except for the fruity gasoline. But I also think maybe I’ve been waiting my whole life for this. And suddenly I want more, more, more. But I’m also sticky and in desperate need of some water so I can clean myself up. “Great.”

  Gina snickers, brushing a piece of fruit off my chest.

  “Not funny,” I say, but for some reason my body disagrees, and a gurgle of laughter escapes my throat.

  Gina winks. “I need a refill. Want one?”

  “Why not.” My fingers cover my mouth. I’m shocked. Where did that voice come from? So full of excitement. Happiness even. Definitely not me. At all. “I’ll meet you back here. I’m gonna wash this off.” I point at the red juice staining my shirt. My top is ruined, but I don’t care. The fire’s been stoked, warm and lovely. I’m relaxed, more than I ever thought possible, and I want to explore.

  “‘Kay, see ya in a few.” Gina takes my cup and disappears into the crowd.

  I’m stumbling a little, leaning into people. Smiling a lot. Apologizing more. Someone hands me a drink.

  “Thanks.” I gulp it down in three swallows without thinking about the consequences. This liquid wasn’t red and fruity, but I don’t care. My throat, my stomach, each and every one of my veins are fueled. My head feels heavy and light at once. It’s freeing. No more pain. No sadness. I forget for a moment what I’m doing. What was so important that I left Gina and the fruity drinks? I think.

  “What’s on her shirt?” A girl asks, pointing at me.

  “I think she puked,” someone answers.

  I look down and remember the red stain. Like my heart is bleeding.

  “Someone spilled on me,” I say, laughing. “Do you know where there’s a bathroom?”

  I’m bold, unencumbered, and ready to make friends with the world. A giant weight has lifted. So, my parents died. I need to move on. It’s been seven years. No amount of depression will bring them back. As my shrink says, “Accept what you cannot change.” That’s what I’ll do. Experience all college has to offer. Maybe this is what my aunt meant when she told me to live a little. I didn’t need tattoos, but alcohol mixed with punch, and chunks of fruit floating on top.

  “That way,” the girl says, rolling her eyes.

  I don’t even care. “Thanks.” I wave and move on until I find a bathroom. When I giggle the handle, it’s locked.

  A girl pushes my shoulder. “Hey, there’s a line.”

  I glance at her, and see she’s pointing at a group of girls leaning against the wall. It seems to go on forever.

  “Oh, sorry.” I’m not deterred and decide to see if there’s a kitchen. There should be. This is a house. I spot an entry w
ith swinging western doors and push my way in.

  It’s the kitchen all right. There’s an island with pots hanging above it. To the left is a microwave, a stove, and cupboards. Straight ahead is the sink, but it’s occupied.

  The girl is situated on the edge of the sink, the guy standing in front of her, their hands roaming as they kiss each other. She wraps her legs around his hips and moans.

  I’m about to leave when her eyes flash open and lock on mine. She smiles before closing them again, losing herself in the moment.

  My face heats and blisters at their abandon. “Sorry,” I say, but either they don’t hear me, or they don’t care, and I’m not waiting around to find out.

  A delicious ache spreads low in my belly. Seeing the way they were so into each other, lost in the moment. I can’t help but wonder what that must be like.

  At the end of the hall is a set of stairs, and I climb, still thinking about the pair, my body singing with hunger for something I don’t understand. Aunt and Uncle Hansen weren’t exactly forthcoming on the “birds and the bees” front. They gave me the basics, methodically and without emotion. Then they played me a video of a woman having a baby. It was horrific, full of blood and goo. I thought the woman was dying. If they were trying to keep me from being curious, it worked. But as my thighs and knees quake with need, I get the sense there must be more.

  At the top of the stairs is a long hallway, several closed doors on each side. I’m thinking maybe I should forget about cleaning my shirt and go find Gina. Get more Jungle Juice and maybe try a couch shot after all. But as I’m debating, I’m walking, and open a door.

  The room is full of smoke and a strange smell. Two guys are sitting on the lower bed of a set of bunks, holding a python. It must be ten feet long. Its slithery body is trying to coil around one of the guys’ thighs. A couple of girls are in chairs across from them. They’re laughing until they notice me.

  The guy whose thigh isn’t being strangled stands. “Come on in.” He indicates a place next to him on the bed as he smiles, showing off a dimple.