Chapter Eight. Rose #2
He’s quick and light on his feet, easily the best dancer among the boys.
I’m sorry when the song ends and we all switch partners.
When a Charleston plays, Grace grabs her brother’s hand and says, “Let’s show ’em how it’s done.
” Together, the twins are electric. Ella and I have had dance lessons, and at school we all listen to records and dance in the parlor, so we’re not half bad—but Coop and Grace put the rest of us to shame.
When the song ends, everyone claps for them except Stanley, who’s too busy cracking open another beer.
A few songs later, while I’m being twirled by Blue Eyes, Kitty yelps. Stan’s stomped on her foot.
“Ouch!” She hops, then stumbles into the coffee table, knocking over the second bottle of champagne and the plate of cocktail weenies.
Ella grabs the bubbly before it spills. “Good save,” I say. “Are you all right, Kitty?”
She’s sitting on the sofa, grimacing. “I’ll live,” she mutters. “Sorry about the mess.”
“Let’s play a game,” Grace suggests. She’s flushed, but I can’t tell whether it’s from exertion or embarrassment because her boyfriend is already sauced. As Ella crouches to pick up cocktail weenies, Stan is rather obviously ogling her backside.
“How about post office?” Blue Eyes says, with a mischievous grin. Dumbo and Red hoot in approbation.
“Sounds good to me,” Stan says, guzzling another beer.
I look askance at Grace. I’m not sure. “How about charades?”
“Aw, don’t be a square.” Barb’s wheezy laugh reminds me of one of those little pug dogs.
“Yeah, loosen up, Rosie,” Ella says scornfully.
I bite my lip, stung. Am I being a square? Would I be more excited if there were a roomful of pretty girls for me to kiss?
Maybe. My stomach sinks.
Barb and Kitty are already primping, fluffing their curls and smoothing their skirts. Ella glares at me as though I’m embarrassing her.
I meet Coop’s eyes. He seems a little trepidatious, too.
What would it be like to kiss Cooper Harrow?
Altogether different from the pushy Parkhurst boys, I bet.
“All right,” I say. “Post office it is.”
Grace takes charge again. “Boys, go out into the hall. Girls, you stay in here.”
The boys troop out of the library. Barb pulls a compact from her pocketbook and fixes her red lipstick.
Ella raises her hand.
“Yes, Ella?” Grace asks, like a schoolmarm.
My sister giggles. “What are the rules? I’ve never played.”
“Oh, it’s easy,” Grace says. “One of us will knock on the door. One of the boys will answer and say how many stamps—how many kisses—your letter costs.”
“What letter?” Ella asks.
“There isn’t any letter. It’s a blank piece of paper. An excuse for kissing,” Kitty says impatiently. “Who wants to go first? Who do you hope you get?” She lowers her voice. “I wouldn’t mind kissing Gene. He’s good-looking, don’t you think?”
I shrug. I can’t remember which is Gene. The only one who stands out to me is Coop.
And Stanley, for all the wrong reasons.
Is that abnormal? Should I have taken more interest in the other boys?
“You first, Rose. It’s your party,” Barb says.
Ella pouts. “It’s my party, too.”
“You can go next,” Grace reassures her.
I tuck a stray ringlet back into my pearl comb, then make a show of sashaying to the hall door and knocking once, twice, thrice. I can do this. It probably won’t be too repulsive—only a quick kiss for show. No one will get fresh in front of a crowd.
Who will be on the other side? Please, God, not Stanley.
Cooper opens the door.
Oh. I feel a pleasant little buzz of—excitement? Curiosity?
“Hello, Mr. Postman.” I flush as his friends hoot and holler and press into the hall behind him to watch.
Coop’s eyes dart past me to the girls arrayed on the sofas. “That will be, uh, three stamps.”
Three. Does that mean he wants to kiss me? Or is he only being polite?
It would be an insult to say one stamp, wouldn’t it?
Coop shuffles his feet. Blue Eyes laughs. “Are you gonna kiss her or what, Harrow?”
“Pretend they aren’t here,” I whisper, smiling up at him.
He smiles back. He has outrageously long eyelashes for a boy.
He leans down, and my eyes drift closed.
His lips brush mine once, twice—and on the third kiss, he takes his time.
His hands settle gently on either side of my waist. His mouth is soft and unhurried.
My hand on his shoulder relaxes, fingers unclenching. Not pushing him away. Melting into him.
I almost forget that it’s only a game.
Then one of the boys wolf-whistles, and Coop and I break apart, both of us blushing madly.
“Oh, your letter! Here.” He hands me a folded piece of paper from his back pocket.
“Thank you!” I push the door shut and sail back to the sofa.
That was a nice kiss. Disconcertingly nice.
I’m used to boys with rough, fumbling hands.
Their kisses leave me feeling bruised and unseen, as though it hardly matters who they’re kissing.
I could be anybody with lips and breasts and legs. Kissing Coop—it wasn’t like that.
I glance at Grace out of the corner of my eye. She’s leaning against the cold fireplace, sipping a Coke. Surely she has uncharitable thoughts about me kissing her brother, but she doesn’t seem angry. She’s pulled her hair into a perky ponytail, but she looks … sad.
Barb snatches the paper. “You have to push it back under the door, Rose. I’ll do it.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“Lucky duck,” Kitty sighs. “Coop’s never kissed any of us like that.”
Hasn’t he? What does that mean?
Does Cooper Harrow fancy me?
Could I fancy him?
“Your turn, Ella,” Barb says impatiently.
“Oh, I—I have to go to the washroom. Excuse me.” Ella flees through the pocket door into the adjoining parlor, avoiding the hallway full of boys.
“I’ll go.” Grace knocks on the hallway door, shave-and-a- haircut-style.
Red opens it. His cheeks go almost as bright as his hair when he sees Grace. “Uh…”
“Watch it, Gene,” Stanley growls.
“It’s only a game, Stanley.” Grace rolls her eyes. “How many stamps, Mr. Postman?”
“Just one!” Gene barely pecks her.
Grace glares at Stan, grabs the letter out of Gene’s hands, and slams the door.
Barb is matched with Dumbo, who requests four stamps. “He tastes like onions, and his hands are all wet,” she grouses afterward. She clearly fancies Blue Eyes, and Kitty fancies Gene. I feel a little bad for poor Dumbo.
“What’d I miss?” Ella asks, coming back through the pocket doors.
“Stan’s being a dope,” Grace mutters.
“I think it’s sweet,” Barb says. “He doesn’t want anyone else to kiss you.”
Grace frowns. “It’s not a two-way street. You’ll see.”
Maybe she does notice the way he ogles other girls.
“Are you ready now, Ella?” Barb asks.
“You don’t have to play,” I remind her. She’s three years younger than everyone else.
“Don’t be silly.” Ella takes a long sip of bubbly, then shoves the letter back under the door, giggles, and knocks.
Stanley opens the door. My heart sinks.
“H-how many stamps?” Ella stutters.
Stan holds the letter up high, above her head, teasing her. “Five.”
He’s a grown man, broad-shouldered and clean-shaven, over six feet tall. Even in her heels, with her makeup done and hair down, Ella’s a skinny child next to him.
“Stanley, no!” Grace hisses. “She’s just a kid!”
“You don’ tell me what to do,” he slurs.
“You don’t have to play, Ella,” I say again.
My sister scowls. “I’m not a kid anymore, Rosie!”
Stan leers. “She don’ look like a kid to me.”
“She’s fourteen!” I protest. He’s twenty-one. I know girls at school who’ve dated older men, and no one’s batted an eye, but—this is my little sister!
Would it be her first kiss? I remember mine with Thea. Maybe it was unnatural—and it was in front of a crowd, too—but at least I wanted to kiss her. I liked kissing her.
I want to stop this. Say the game is over and send everyone home.
But then I’d look like a real square. And Ella would be absolutely livid. This is just the way men are, especially when they’ve been drinking.
So I don’t say anything. I don’t stop it.
Not when Stanley bends his head and kisses Ella, one arm yanking her close. He’s clumsy; Ella stumbles in her heels and falls against him. He mashes his mouth against hers, hard. I catch a glimpse of his pink tongue and feel a little sick, but still—I don’t speak up.
“Stanley!” Grace’s voice is like a whip.
Stan raises his head, but he keeps one arm around Ella. His big hand rests on her barely there hip, his pinching fingers entirely too close to her backside. She leans away, rubbing her hand over her mouth. His bleary eyes sharpen on Grace.
Grace is holding out his Swiss Army pocketknife. We’ve been using it as a bottle opener, but she’s holding out the knife. She’s pointing it at Stanley.
How much has she had to drink?
She strides toward him, her gait jerky, her shoulders tight. Even her face—
Her face is so contorted with rage, she doesn’t look like Grace anymore.
“If you don’t take your hands off that girl right now,” she says, “I will cut them clean off.”