Genes I: Braids

Rosie was looking for something she deemed ‘grown up’. That year, she asked for an adding machine for her birthday. She walked the aisles of Best Buy, searching for the one that looked the most complicated. It ended up being a dull gray, the plastic less important looking than the one at grandma's house. That one was a deep blue metal that was always cold to the touch, even if it had been left out in the sun all day on the red shag carpet that never quite became clean, no matter how often her mom vacuumed. Rosie didn't mind. She would sit in the middle of the room and try to braid the endless yarn. Every so often, she would slowly pivot, so that by the end, she was encircled in tiny braids like an ancient ruin or something from the fairy tales her mom read to her every night. 

Her cousin Hannah taught her how to braid the summer before. Hannah’s hair was straighter and smoother than Rosie’s, braids slipping out before she even moved her head. 

“Here, like this.” Hannah took Rosie’s little hands in hers. They were up in the half-furnished attic of the old beach house they returned to every summer. They sat criss-cross apple sauce together in the center of the floor on a pale woven rug, knee to knee, an old doll with shiny hair like Hannah’s in between them. They could hear the waves even with the window closed. Sand stuck in between Rosie’s toes, a funny tickle when she wiggled them.

Rosie’s first ten or so braids ended in a big rat tail Hannah had to comb out. It took Rosie years, probably fifteen, to learn how to french braid. Hannah tried to teach her the following summer, but it never stuck. Rosie’s fingers would end up tangled amongst her sections and she would give up altogether. One day, years and years later, without even trying, it clicked. She just knew what to do. She instinctively reached out a hand, the other holding her braid together, to call Hannah. Rosie remembered she and Hannah don’t talk anymore. A natural drift, as they say, after everyone grew up and those summers ended. 

Rosie still thinks of Hannah every time she braids her hair.

—

Her grandma’s adding machine was running out of ink. Rosie didn’t know how it ever stayed alive as long as it did. It had been used in grandma’s store - half pharmacy, half gift shop. She wanted Rosie’s mom to take it over, or her aunt, one of them. Keep it in the family. But they both grew up and left and the store closed. So Rosie got the adding machine. Her mom always said that she would have loved working in the store. Rosie agreed. She liked monotony, the feeling of being important and having a lot of big business things to manage. She also just liked to press the buttons and hear them click. 

The person who presses the buttons is always important.

—

Rosie was looking for something grown up. She had her adding machine, far better than any calculator, so she was looking for something new. Probably a wallet or a pair of pumps. CVS does not have a good wallet or high heel selection, so she had to be content with a can of hairspray. Women on the go use hairspray. They need their hair to last the commute on the train or their bikes, clicking and clacking through the big lobby with marble floors to get to their fancy offices with big bright windows. Meetings all day, a real whirlwind, before catching a cab to go to dinner with their friends and drink wine. A business woman has a busy day. CVS does have a good hairspray selection. Long tubes in perfect rows, standing at attention. Rosie ran her finger over one row, then up a level, and so on, serpentining her way until it was too tall for her to reach. 

She liked the bumps along her fingers, like the lockers at school. They were the same dark blue as the adding machine, but not as cold and didn’t have any buttons. Only a handle that was always stuck. She had to wiggle it just right - usually left, right, slightly up, then press all the way in - to get it to finally unlatch. When Rosie was in first grade, she was new and didn’t know many people yet. Celia Morin took an interest in her. 

“You’re coming over on Wednesday. After school. Tell your mom.”

“I am?”

“Yes.”

Celia's house was big and white and very, very clean. The girls sat on Celia’s queen-sized bed in her very very messy room and talked about everyone they didn't like and why.

“Mae is a b-word,” Celia whispered the last bit, even though her mom was out in the garden. “She cheats at dodgeball.”

“How do you cheat at dodgeball?”

“I don’t know. But she does. She wins every time.” Celia took one of her many dolls in her lap, slowly petting its tangled hair. “Who don’t you like?” 

Rosie didn’t know anyone enough to dislike them, so she said that Jane smelled like poop. She did, sometimes, but Rosie still liked her. Celia laughed, though, so Rosie said Grace had bad breath. She didn’t. Grace was nice and they tried to do the splits together at recess. She smelled like lavender laundry detergent and had very white, straight teeth. Celia laughed at that, too.

Rosie’s mom had put a magnetic white board on the back of her locker door, a cheetah print border. Most of the other kids had whiteboards, but no one else had cheetah. Her mom would write her notes every morning when she walked Rosie to class, letters scribbled in her rush to leave for work. “Have a Great Day!”, “Love you!”, “You got this!”. Rosie liked writing notes back - having a secret only they two knew of - even though she would see her mom a few moments later when all the parents lined up in the gym to collect whichever child was theirs.  

Thursday, Celia said Rosie wasn’t allowed to play with her at recess or eat with her at lunch, so when Rosie was getting her backpack before pick up, she wrote “I have no real friends,” a big sad face underneath. Celia’s locker was three doors down from hers, and even though Rosie tried to keep the door only slightly ajar, hiding her secret from view, Celia saw.

“What do you mean you have no friends?” she yelled. “I am your friend. You’re so mean!” 

“But you said I couldn-”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be friends, then. If that's how you really feel.”

“No I-”

Mrs. Reed came out before Rosie could say any more.

 “What’s going on? What's the big commotion?”

 “She's bullying me!” Celia cried out, pointing to Rosie’s locker.

“Now Rosie, that is not a nice thing to say. Why would you write that?”

Rosie opened her mouth, but the bell rang before she could say anything at all.

—

Rosie liked the hairspray with the dark brown cap. It looked the most mature, like a cup of morning coffee. The bottle was black with a big white swoosh across the center. It read “Maximum Hold” in small letters. She liked the font. When she pulled it down, another immediately snapped into its place, a perfect wall of polymer.

When Rosie was little, she was obsessed with drinking coffee. It wasn't about the taste, she had never actually tried it. She just wanted to bring a steaming cup to her lips and drink what everyone else was, to drink from the fountain of age - she had too much youth already. The smell enticed her. It smelled like pantsuits and important phone calls and her mom. Her parents weren't as thrilled at her new obsession.

“You can’t drink coffee yet. You’re too young,” her mom said.

“Why?” 

“It's bad for you.”

“Why?”

 “It makes your breath stinky and your teeth yellow and it makes you short.”

“You drink it. All the time.”

“Yes. It's bad for me, too.” Her mom sighed, taking a big swig from her mug.

“But you're tall.”

“I didn’t drink coffee until I was in college.”

“But I won't be in college for forever,” Rosie whined. She ran over to the cabinet, nearly too tall for her little limbs, fingertips just barely grasping the handle of her child-sized mug with the skyline of Chicago painted on the front. She had never been to Chicago, but she liked the blues and greens and the way the windows were painted as tiny yellow dots against globs of black buildings. She brought over the mug to the countertop, placing it down delicately. She wrapped both hands against the kettle’s big gray handle and with a grunt pulled it out of its cradle. She let its weight take over, pitching it slightly forward and watching the water run out. 

“It's cold! Why is it cold?”

“You need to boil it, silly.”

“Help me. Please.” 

“Okay, okay. When making coffee, I always put it on boil. But these buttons will make it different temperatures. Some teas taste better with water that isn't so hot.” Rosie pressed the farthest button.

“Now, while we wait, we measure out our coffee. You, my dear, are having decaf.” Her mom pointed to a little glass bottle with a green label. Rosie picked it up and listened to it twinkle as she tipped it from end to end, watching the brown crystals falling over each other. 

“What’s decaf?”

“It has less caffeine, so you’ll still be able to sleep tonight.”

“But it's still coffee?”

“Still coffee.”

“Okay. How much?”

“A big spoonful.” Rosie took her favorite spoon, the one with green and white stripes on the handle, and dove it into the bottle. Careful, as to not spill a single splendid morsel, she transferred the coffee into her cup.

“Does this look right?” she asked.

“Perfecto! And the water’s done boiling. Great timing.” Her mom reached out and snatched up the kettle. “Let me do this part. It's very hot, so don’t touch it right away.”

“Okay.” As the now boiling water dribbled into her cup, Rosie breathed in that beloved scent - early morning banana pancakes, late night kisses, her mom. 

“Do you want any milk?”

“What do you do?”

“I like a splash.”

“Me too.” Rosie let her mom grab the milk from the fridge, too preoccupied with standing over her mug, letting the steam warm her face and flood her nose. The surface rippled as the milk went in, at first hidden at the bottom before coming up in white globs, turning her coffee a dark tan, like the color of the horses she rode every Friday. 

“Okay, go ahead.” She brought the cup to her lips, waiting at the precipice, savoring the moment. 

“Ew!” 

—

Rosie tripped walking out of the CVS. Her toe caught on the ribbed weather mat, pitching her body forward. She went down hard, skin scraping the carpet. Her mom tried to grab out for her as she fell, but she wasn't quick enough this time. When Rosie was much younger, she was standing on the old red stepstool helping her mom make pancakes. She reached for an egg across the counter and lost her balance, falling backward. Before she could even yell out, her mom had caught her, pulling her up in a hug. Her mom’s heart beat loud and fast and steady against Rosie’s ear. 

Her mom wasn’t fast enough this time - no one can do it all. She kneeled down in front of her. 

“Are you okay?” she asked. “What hurts?” 

Rosie pulled her legs out from underneath her, blood already seeping out of her knee. Little pebbles and sand were stuck to its surface, unearthed from the rug. Blood, her blood, was redder than Rosie thought it would be. Did you know blood is blue when it's in your veins and only turns red when it's out in the air? At least, that's what Grace said. There was no blue in her blood, only thick, hot red. A curious finger touched the scrape, wiping away a particularly dark pebble. It burned and she started to cry. Her mom wiped the tears from Rosie’s eyes with her pinky, the rest of her cheek with her palm. Gently, taking her time to catch the tears before they fell. 

“Come her.,” She scooped Rosie into her arm, picking up the rolled away hairspray with the other, bringing the three of them to the car. Rosie took the hairspray back, clutching it with both hands. Her mom opened the trunk and set her down amongst the shopping bags. 

“Oy,” she muttered, more to herself than Rosie. “It's better than it looks.” The car’s metal was hot under Rosie’s thighs. Her shorts must have ridden up when she fell, bunching unevenly beneath her. The roof, at least, blocked the sun from her already crying eyes. She has very sensitive eyes. Her mom ran around to the front of the car, leaving her and her hairspray, before coming back with a water bottle. 

“This will hurt, but it's better we clean it now. Be strong for me.” She dripped the water down, washing away the crusting blood. Rosie squeezed the hairspray till the top popped off and landed in the pink hued puddle at her feet. 

“That's no good,” her mom scooped it up with a finger and wiped it off on her pant leg. Rosie couldn’t get it back on herself, so her mom took Rosie’s hands in hers and helped her press down. The lid dug into Rosie’s palm, leaving a red line parallel to the ones permanent.
“See, that wasn't so bad. I knew you could do it.” She bent down again, blowing the knee dry. “A kiss to make it better.”