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What do you need? Rosie had asked; she hadn't expected an answer but asked anyway, her hands clasped in Eponine's. Wanting to help even as she didn't know what she could give. Rosie was always there to help, if a friend needed it.
What she'd provided so far had been small, but important: keeping the evening staff members at the Home distracted with questions or requests for homework help as Eponine or one of the others crept out the back door; unlatching the dormitory window in anticipation of their return before she went to bed. Staying awake, sometimes, until she hears the clatter of the window and the soft thud of their feet on the floor.
She doesn't know all of what they do, those nights. She doesn't ask, but thinks she can guess, pieces together an idea from the scraps of conversation she hears. They should be the ones afraid of making us angry.
Rosie got the call, a response to her flier, a few days ago. A woman looking for someone to water her plants and pick up her mail for the next month, while she takes care of an aunt living out in the countryside. It's so silly, I know, the woman said. I'll be close enough that I could come in, but this will just be easier. She took the job, accepted the keys, took careful notes on the preferred times and ways to water each plant.
That night, she hears the name of the woman's apartment building hissed in a whisper. It's where he lives, Eponine says. She doesn't specify who she means; she doesn't need to. I saw him going inside.
She could have--maybe should have--said something then, but Rosie waits. She wants to be sure, before offering up this possibility. Later, she'll wish she'd never done anything at all.
The next afternoon, once the mail has been collected and the plants watered, Rosie leaves the woman's apartment and goes up one floor. She just wants to see, to get a sense of whether the spaces above mirror the ones below. From the position of the doors along the hall, it seems they do, even the dogleg at the end of the building, apartment 508 hidden around the corner just like 408 directly below. She's coming back around the corner, satisfied with her investigations, when the door to 505 opens up and he steps out into the corridor.
She should have kept moving, projected either a casual air or a confused one, but Rosie freezes. Only briefly, but enough to catch his attention. "New to the building?" he asks, and smiles.
"Visiting a friend," she says, trying to make her voice light, unconcerned about the question. "It's so stupid, I think I got off on the wrong floor." She walks past him, towards the elevators.
He follows. "Must not be a very close friend, then." Rosie pushes the button marked with a down arrow, hoping to hear the chime of the doors. Instead, there's only a grinding as the elevator car lumbers its way up from below. She pushes the button again.
"That doesn't make it come any faster." She turns to look at him, catches the downward flick of his eyes, then back up again. Wishes she'd worn a longer skirt, a looser sweater. The elevator dings, the doors open, and she steps inside.
So does he. There's room enough for both of them to stand side-by-side, but he shifts behind her, slouching against the back wall. They stand there for a moment, just like that, before he leans forward, reaching past her to press the button for the first floor. His hand brushes against her side, light enough to be accidental. The doors begin to slide closed and Rosie bolts, squeezing out of the elevator just before they shut completely.
She hears him laugh, surprised, but she doesn't look back, throwing her weight against the door to the building stairwell and running down to the fourth floor, hoping she won't hear his ascending footsteps somewhere below. They don't come; she lets herself back into the woman's apartment, waiting there for fifteen minutes before she collects her things and leaves.
Back at the Home, before Rosie goes down to dinner, she leaves the keys to the woman's apartment--405--under Eponine's pillow, along with a note.
He lives one floor above. Use the kitchen window to get onto the fire escape. I'll need the keys back in the afternoons.
She doesn't sign it.
What she'd provided so far had been small, but important: keeping the evening staff members at the Home distracted with questions or requests for homework help as Eponine or one of the others crept out the back door; unlatching the dormitory window in anticipation of their return before she went to bed. Staying awake, sometimes, until she hears the clatter of the window and the soft thud of their feet on the floor.
She doesn't know all of what they do, those nights. She doesn't ask, but thinks she can guess, pieces together an idea from the scraps of conversation she hears. They should be the ones afraid of making us angry.
Rosie got the call, a response to her flier, a few days ago. A woman looking for someone to water her plants and pick up her mail for the next month, while she takes care of an aunt living out in the countryside. It's so silly, I know, the woman said. I'll be close enough that I could come in, but this will just be easier. She took the job, accepted the keys, took careful notes on the preferred times and ways to water each plant.
That night, she hears the name of the woman's apartment building hissed in a whisper. It's where he lives, Eponine says. She doesn't specify who she means; she doesn't need to. I saw him going inside.
She could have--maybe should have--said something then, but Rosie waits. She wants to be sure, before offering up this possibility. Later, she'll wish she'd never done anything at all.
The next afternoon, once the mail has been collected and the plants watered, Rosie leaves the woman's apartment and goes up one floor. She just wants to see, to get a sense of whether the spaces above mirror the ones below. From the position of the doors along the hall, it seems they do, even the dogleg at the end of the building, apartment 508 hidden around the corner just like 408 directly below. She's coming back around the corner, satisfied with her investigations, when the door to 505 opens up and he steps out into the corridor.
She should have kept moving, projected either a casual air or a confused one, but Rosie freezes. Only briefly, but enough to catch his attention. "New to the building?" he asks, and smiles.
"Visiting a friend," she says, trying to make her voice light, unconcerned about the question. "It's so stupid, I think I got off on the wrong floor." She walks past him, towards the elevators.
He follows. "Must not be a very close friend, then." Rosie pushes the button marked with a down arrow, hoping to hear the chime of the doors. Instead, there's only a grinding as the elevator car lumbers its way up from below. She pushes the button again.
"That doesn't make it come any faster." She turns to look at him, catches the downward flick of his eyes, then back up again. Wishes she'd worn a longer skirt, a looser sweater. The elevator dings, the doors open, and she steps inside.
So does he. There's room enough for both of them to stand side-by-side, but he shifts behind her, slouching against the back wall. They stand there for a moment, just like that, before he leans forward, reaching past her to press the button for the first floor. His hand brushes against her side, light enough to be accidental. The doors begin to slide closed and Rosie bolts, squeezing out of the elevator just before they shut completely.
She hears him laugh, surprised, but she doesn't look back, throwing her weight against the door to the building stairwell and running down to the fourth floor, hoping she won't hear his ascending footsteps somewhere below. They don't come; she lets herself back into the woman's apartment, waiting there for fifteen minutes before she collects her things and leaves.
Back at the Home, before Rosie goes down to dinner, she leaves the keys to the woman's apartment--405--under Eponine's pillow, along with a note.
He lives one floor above. Use the kitchen window to get onto the fire escape. I'll need the keys back in the afternoons.
She doesn't sign it.
