Unravel

1

Good afternoon, everyone. Or will it be the evening? Good evening, everyone. No, no, that doesn’t sound right. Hello, everyone. Yes. Hello, everyone, I’m Rosemary Madison. Or should I say Rose? Hello, everyone, I’m Rose Madison. Or just Rose? I looked up from my paper at the exasperated face of my roommate, and smiled nervously. Sorry, I must be driving you mad.

Emma rolled her eyes. "You are. Listen, stop stressing. You’ve got this, Rose. You’ve practiced this a million times. In fact, I’ve heard this speech so often, even I could stand up and say it. You just need to relax, that’s all."

I drew a deep breath. Emma was right; I just needed some confidence. I eyed the wine rack in the corner of the room, which was surprisingly full for two twenty-three-year-old college students. A fine layer of dust lined the top. I know what would help me relax. My gaze was still focused on the bottles.

Rose, it’s three o clock. Emma was lying face down on the sofa, which was too small for the length of her body. Her legs dangled off the edge. Tie her hair up in pigtails and put a lollipop in her mouth, and she’d look like a restless child.

Since when have you been so worried about drinking early?

Since I decided to start taking better care of my body.

I couldn’t stop the snort that flew out my mouth. Though I didn’t know Emma well enough to consider her a good friend, I knew taking care of her body was not one of her top priorities. The amount of chocolate bars she stacked up in her part of the fridge was telling me otherwise.

You’re taking better care of your body? This is news to me. After moving a pile of books to the floor, I sat down on the sofa beside her. Seriously, Em, what’s going on?

Nothing is going on. I just don’t feel like drinking wine right now. Like I said, it’s only three.

You’re pregnant!

She craned her neck to look at me. What? Why would you say that?

Er, because you’re not drinking wine. That’s why. It’s simply the only explanation.

Emma laughed and moved out of her restless child position. She lifted her legs and sat cross-legged on the sofa, before looking back at me. I’m not pregnant. Who on earth would’ve made me pregnant, anyway? It’s just . . . it’s my birthday soon, and I sort of realized the other day that I needed to start acting more like an adult. Which means, no more drinking wine in the afternoon.

You’re turning twenty-four. I wouldn’t exactly call that old. And anyway, why can’t you drink wine in the afternoon if you’re an adult? I’d say most adults probably need to drink at that time more than anyone else.

That’s easy for you to say. Emma’s dark hair fell over her face as she picked at a thread on the end of her jeans. I wanted to tell her that she looked like an emo. Or like that girl from The Ring. But I figured it wasn’t the best time. She seemed genuinely upset about this age thing. This surprised me. Twenty-three-year-olds didn’t have the right to get upset about their age.

What do you mean? Why is it easy for me to say?

"You’re . . . well, you’re you. You’re Rosemary Madison. You’re pretty, popular, confident and shy in equal measures, and liked by all. How’s that for a great byline? And your short story was chosen out of hundreds to be read out loud in front of the whole school."

That was unusual. Emma wasn’t usually one for compliments. Although, there was an edge to what she said that didn’t make them feel like compliments at all. It seemed almost as if she wished I wasn’t any of those things. Er, thank you. But what does my short story have to do with you not drinking wine?

Emma tugged at the loose thread and held it up admiringly, as if she’d just accomplished something great. She looked back at me. She smiled her emo smile—the one where her eyes and her upturned mouth didn’t match. Oh, Rose. Miss Rosemary Madison. Your whole life is about to unravel before your eyes. From my vantage point, I have to say it looks pretty darn spectacular. You’re going to become this famous writer, and go on to inspire everyone with your words. It doesn’t hurt that you look like a doll everyone wants to protect. Unlike me. My story didn’t even make the top ten. I wonder if they even bothered to read it. Perhaps they just saw my name at the top and threw it into the bin.

You are being seriously over-dramatic, Em. You do realize that thousands of students submitted their stories, right? Which means thousands of them didn’t make it into the top ten. Yours could’ve been story number eleven. Anyway, this is just some silly little competition. It doesn’t mean anything.

There was the weird half smile again. Oh yeah? Then why are you so nervous?

I’m nervous because I have to stand up in front of the whole school. That’s why! I hate public speaking. Come on, you’re an amazing writer. You know what? I’m going to open up that bottle of wine right now. Who cares about the time? And don’t you dare say no. You’re not pregnant, and you need some cheering up.

I jumped off the sofa and bounced toward the wine rack. I always bounced when it came to wine. It was my one guilty pleasure. I didn’t drink all that much of it, but when I did, I hopped around like a Gummi Bear. I poured us each a generous glass, making sure to choose the expensive adult glasses rather than the usual paper cups, and handed one to Emma.

Your Gummiberry juice. I curtsied.

She chuckled and took a sip.

Ah, she smiles! I said dramatically.

Yeah, yeah. She smiles.

It wasn’t the best of smiles, but it was better than the half-smile. I desperately wanted to go through my speech again, but I knew it wasn’t a good time. I’d have to practice it when she wasn’t around. I had no idea Emma felt the way she did.

We sat drinking wine, and watching re-runs of Gilmore Girls for the next two hours.

Nobody talks like that, you know, she said when the show ended.

What do you mean?

Like Lorelai and Rory. It’s not very realistic. Haven’t you ever thought that? And yet, the show is so popular. It’s unrealistic, and yet it’s popular. She sighed. She’d clearly given this a lot of thought.

Sure, but surely you can say the same about a zombie movie? Since when do shows have to be realistic?

"Yeah, I guess you’re right. But Gilmore Girls is portraying their show as realistic. And yet, it’s not."

Maybe it’s just not realistic to you. Perhaps this is just somebody else’s version of realism. Maybe there really are mother-and-daughter relationships like Lorelai and Rory’s.

Perhaps. Is that what you and your mom are like? she asked.

We hadn’t had many afternoons like this. Drinking wine and talking. We ran with different friends and attended mostly different classes. It was nice getting to know each other, even if she was being a bit of a Debbie Downer today.

I considered the question. Of course, I knew the answer was no. My mother and I didn’t have the same sort of relationship that Lorelai and Rory had. I didn’t meet up with her for endless cups of coffee to discuss life, love and everything in between. We didn’t reference pop-culture every ten minutes. But, if we weren’t Gilmore Girls close, then what were we? We’re close. I suppose. But she’s quite hard on me. She’s an author, and a very successful one at that. I often feel as if I have a lot to live up to. Have I told you that before? That she’s an author? I used to tell everyone, but now I kept it mostly to myself.

Emma was face down on the sofa again, the now almost empty glass of wine within reach on the floor. Emma had changed positions countless times throughout the afternoon. I hadn’t known she was so fidgety. She slid to the floor when I asked her the question, and sat up with her back against the sofa. Your mom’s an author? No wonder you’re so good at it.

Well, yeah, but it’s also a lot of pressure. And my writing style is very different to hers. I’m constantly thinking that I’m not good enough.

Does she critique you? Or do you tend not to show her your work?

I hide some away for myself, but she’s quite demanding. She asks to see something at least once a week. She prints it out and takes a red pen to it. I swear, she should’ve been a teacher. Then she scans it and sends it back to me. It’s awful. There’s always more red pen than black ink by the time she’s done with it.

"But there’s a positive to all of this. I mean, you’ve basically got yourself an editor, and she’s obviously done you good. After all, your story was chosen to be read out in front of the whole college."

I suppose.

It was true. They had chosen my story, but the little niggling voice inside my head kept wondering if they’d only chosen me because of who my mother was.

You know you didn’t win because of your mother, right?

I smiled at her. Yeah, I guess so.

Now who’s being overly dramatic? Face it, Rose, you’re good.

Thanks, Em.

You want to run through your story one more time for me? she asked.

Seriously? I thought you were sick of it?

Nah, nobody could ever truly get sick of you.

I stood up, cleared my throat, and tried to imagine that Emma was just one face in a room filled with students and teachers.

Hi, I’m Rose Madison, and I’m honored to be here today. This is my story . . .

Later, I lay in bed and thought about my story. I hadn’t sent it to my mother. I couldn’t face the red pen on a story I liked so much. I’d spent months writing and rewriting it. Every word was examined, every comma scrutinized, until the only thing left to do was send it in and hope for the best. It was only after I won that I realized my mother would want to be in the audience. I could just not tell her, and face the consequences of her finding out some other way. Or I could tell her, and see the look of disappointment on her face when she realized I’d submitted it without first sending it to her. I was in trouble either way. I’d deal with that in the morning.

My chat with Emma had boosted my confidence. After I’d read my story to her, I’d received a text from Aiden, inviting me for coffee the next day. Aiden. I’d looked up the name before. It meant Fiery, which wasn’t the most accurate description for Aiden Forde. He was quiet and contemplative. If he weren’t so handsome he probably wouldn’t be nearly as popular as he was. But he was. Aiden Forde was everyone’s dreamboat. And he’d sent me a message. I closed my eyes and remembered my conversation with Emma, and my message from Aiden. All in all, it had been a good day. Despite my nerves, I knew I was lucky.

You have a great life, Emma had told me.

I do.

The only reason I didn’t sleep through the night was because the vibration from my phone woke me. At first, I had no idea what was going on. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. I peeked out the window and saw that it was still dark outside. Who is phoning me at this time of the night? My phone stopped vibrating. The moment I reached for it the vibration started again, and the name Mom flashed on the screen.

Mom! What’s going on? Is everything all right?

Why didn’t you answer your phone? she asked.

I was sleeping. What time is it?

"Oh. Sorry about that. You know I get up early. It’s when I do my best work. Anyway, it’s not that early. It’s four a.m."

Four! Mom, I never get up at four! Is something the matter?

I heard you took first prize in the Paul Schuber short story competition.

Shit!

Yeah, I did. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was going to phone you tomorrow.

Really? Apparently the results came out last week. I believe you’ll be reading it out to the entire college in a few days. I heard friends and families of the winners are allowed to come.

How does my mother always know everything about my life?

I sighed. Mom, I’m sorry. I’m not thinking straight. It’s too early. I was going to phone you tomorrow. Or today, I guess. But not at four in the damn morning!

Well, congratulations. Somehow she managed to make it sound as un-congratulatory as possible.

Thanks, Mom. How did you find out about it anyway?

Someone named Aiden emailed me.

What? Aiden emailed you? What the hell?

Is he your boyfriend? Something else I don’t know about your life?

No, Mom, he’s not my boyfriend. Why would he email you? That makes no sense.

Clearly, someone was kind enough to think that I might want to come and watch my only daughter reading her winning story. I think I rather like this Aiden guy.

Mom, are you sure it was from Aiden?

That’s what it said. Now, don’t get all upset with him. I think it’s rather nice that you have a friend who is so thoughtful. For goodness’ sake, Rosemary, you should’ve told me.

I was going to! I insisted.

Right, well, I’ll let you get back to sleep. I’ll see you next week, okay?

Okay, Mom.

I couldn’t get back to sleep. I lay there staring at my phone and trying to make sense of the conversation. Why would Aiden email my mother? He barely knew anything about my life. Was this some weird sort of way to get into my good books? Did he want to see me suffer? Either option seemed unnecessary.

Aiden, I typed out, why did you email my mother about the short story competition?

I sent the message and waited for a reply. One tick. The message had been delivered but not read. I stared at the phone. Come on, read it! Read it! It was early. He was probably sleeping. My eyes felt heavy as the bright light of my phone swam in front of me.

When I woke, it was seven-thirty, and my phone was lying on the floor. Had I imagined the four a.m. conversation?

I reached for the phone. A message from Aiden was waiting for me.

What? I didn’t email your mother. Why would I do that? Did you just sleep-text me?

2

Aiden and I met for coffee that morning. He’d insisted since my weird text. As I walked to the café, I ran the conversation with my mother around in my head. I’d messaged her again asking if she was certain Aiden had emailed her. She’d vowed that she was and sent me his email address. I had no idea if that was Aiden’s correct address. I’d never had a need to email him, but I was almost certain that the whole thing was a mistake. Either way, I figured I’d be able to tell by talking to him whether he was lying.

You sure have some weird way of getting me to go on a date with you, I said the moment I saw him. He was sitting at a little corner table, which had the perfect view of the street. I liked him more for choosing that table—mostly because I loved people-watching so much. I brushed off the possibility that the waitress had simply shown him to that table.

Is this a date? He winked at me.

I could feel the heat rising to my face. Emma always called me a porcelain doll, and I was certain it was because I looked like I belonged in Antarctica. I’d always hated my pale face. Aiden, on the other hand, was half-Mauritian, and had an enviable dark glow all year round.

Uh no. I’m just desperate for some coffee. I have questions.

He raised his eyebrows. So do I. Let me get us some coffee first. I have a feeling we both need it.

He got up to get the coffee, and I tried not to stare. It wasn’t easy, and I wasn’t the only one who was watching him. Aiden Forde was impossible not to notice. He came back with two steaming cups of coffee and placed them down in front of us. I took a sip and smiled.

Dash of milk. No sugar. How’d you know?

Oh, come on, Rose. We’re friends, aren’t we?

Are we?

Knife through the heart!

I blushed again. Sorry. I mean, of course we’re friends, but, we don’t usually hang out, you know. That’s all I meant.

"Does that mean you have no idea how I take my coffee?"

I chuckled. Almond milk. No sugar.

He laughed. Not even close. Regular milk, two sugars. Wow, for someone who was harboring a guess, I’m surprised you went for the elusive almond milk.

"Elusive? Everyone is drinking almond milk these days. What’s up with the two sugars? Not sweet enough?"

Ha! How dare you assume I just go along with what everyone is doing these days! And yes, I’m not sweet enough. He smiled at me. Oh, you’re sweet enough.

Well, now I know for next time.

There’s going to be a next time? he teased.

I liked being around Aiden, but his question reminded me of the real reason we had met up in the first place. Aiden, is this your email address? I opened the message from my mother and showed it to him.

He leaned forward and frowned. Yeah. Why? What’s going on, Rose?

I shook my head. I have no idea. I told him what had happened.

But I didn’t email her, he insisted. "Why would I email your mother? I don’t even have her address. Hell, I don’t even have your address. This is seriously creepy."

Tell me about it, and now I have my mother on my back about this whole thing. I was obviously going to tell her about it, but somebody beat me to it.

But why would someone do that?

I don’t know.

Someone who’s jealous of you?

"But why would they send it from your email? How did they even get into your account?"

Yeah, that’s baffling me too. Any chance that this whole thing is down to some totally weird computer error? Like maybe someone else sent it but for some reason my email address came up?

Is that even possible? I asked.

I don’t know. I’m not the most clued up person when it comes to things like that. Maybe it’s possible.

Or maybe someone really wanted my mom to find out, I said solemnly.

Maybe. Rose, it wasn’t me. I need you to know that. I mean, that’s sort of creepy. I wouldn’t do that.

I believed him. I know.

So, what are you going to do?

I shrugged. What can I do? Leave it, I guess. I mean, if I reply to that email she got it’s just going to come back to you. If someone’s playing a prank on me, they’ve covered their bases quite well.

Don’t worry, Rose. Take it as a compliment. If someone went to all that trouble to mess with you, they’re probably just really jealous. So, why didn’t you want your mom to know? He quickly shook his head. Sorry, I hope that’s not too personal?

Do you know who my mother is?

Of course I do. The great Eleanor Madison!

I groaned. That would be her. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother. It’s just that this is the first story I wrote without showing her. She likes to critique my writing. I submitted this one without her seeing it. Which is great news for me—validation that I might not be such a bad writer after all—but a bit of a blow for her. I was just gearing myself up to tell her, that’s all.

Do you really need validation that you’re a good writer?

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. Sort of.

You’re crazy. You know the only reason why I invited you for coffee was to get some insider secrets from you? Because, clearly, my biggest goal in life is to make sure I beat you. You may have won this round, Rosemary Madison, but the next one is mine for the win.

I chuckled. Is that a threat? You know there’s another competition coming up in a few months, don’t you?

Oh, I know. I know. I hope you’re not thinking of first place again?

I am now! I said, my voice rife with determination.

Oh yeah? We’ll see about that. I already have my outline all planned out in my head, he said.

I already have my outline all planned out on paper.

Damn. I need to up my game. Another coffee?

Yes please.

I was having a good time with Aiden. So much so, I managed to push the strange email to the back of my mind. Perhaps Aiden was right; maybe someone out there was just very jealous of me. We spent the next hour just talking and drinking coffee, until there was too much caffeine and not enough food in my system.

I think I better get going, I said. I’m starving.

Me too. Want to go for breakfast?

Uh, no. I mean, no thank you. I groaned. What was wrong with me? Sorry, that came out wrong. I just need to get back. I have a paper due tomorrow and I haven’t even started it yet. But thank you.

Aiden chuckled. Ah, getting turned down by the lovely Rose Madison is like watching the wrong chocolate bar fall down from a vending machine.

Nice analogy. I giggled. Are you practicing your prose for the next competition?

No, I just really feel like chocolate.

Well, you should use it. Because getting the wrong chocolate bar from a vending machine is a terrible injustice. I sighed dramatically.

Oh, trust me, I will not be using any of my short story analogies on you in person.

Why? Are you afraid I might steal them?

One can never be too careful these days. We barely know each other. Before today, you didn’t even know how I took my coffee.

Well, I know now. Soy milk with honey.

Such a tease. So, am I seeing you later?

Later?

Yeah, at Norman’s place. Some new game he wants us to test drive.

Oh, you’re going? Yeah, then I guess I’ll see you later.

I was grateful Emma wasn’t home when I got back. I didn’t want to share my feelings about Aiden with anyone just yet. I barely wanted to think about them myself. I liked Aiden, but I didn’t know him, and I’d promised myself I wouldn’t date unless I was sure the guy was worth it. I’d made that decision after my last relationship—if I could even call it that—and I wasn’t about to crumble just because of some good-looking guy. Even so, I was happy he’d be at Norman’s that evening.

I spent the rest of the day holed up in my bedroom, revising my next story, until I couldn’t stand to look at it anymore. I’d gotten that obsession from my mother—the unyielding, self-induced pressure for perfection. Not that I told anyone this,