Page 7 of Dear Rosie

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.

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