thing: adaptability.
Dammit. I’ve got to get him out of my head.
I pretty much stick to my routines, so I’m not the only one who’s surprised when I show up outside Rosie’s office. Her caseload must be crazy: your typical overworked, underpaid city social worker — and not even my social worker any more since I aged out — but I needed to get off campus and talk to another human being, and she is literally the only person I could think of to go to. So pathetic.
The Social Services building is not my favorite place. Before she was promoted, Rosie shared a huge office with sixteen other people. The first and last time I walked in there, I began hyperventilating at the gauntlet of chaos I had to overcome to get to her cubicle. But now she has her own office. I run into her in the hallway right outside her door. She does a good job of picking her jaw up off the floor.
“Maia!” Rosie rarely says my name without an exclamation mark. She always makes it sound like a cheer at a pep rally. When I was seventeen, I was going to change my name. “Maia” sounded too girly and pretty. Too unlike me. When I told her, Rosie confided in me that she hated her name, too. I didn’t understand why — it totally fit her.
“That’s why,” she said. “Everyone looks at me and thinks I’m this special flower. They don’t take me seriously. It’s not a nickname, either — not short for anything like Rosemary. My mother actually named me Rosie — put it on my birth certificate and everything. That kind of sealed my fate.”
“Names have power,” she said. “But it’s only the power we give them, like everything else.”
She hadn’t ended up changing hers, so I kept mine too. I didn’t have a good reason at the time other than laziness. It sounded like a lot of paperwork, another trip to the courthouse. I should have thought of it earlier — when I was getting emancipated, maybe I could have handled it all at once. But now, looking at the genuine joy she shows at my unexpected presence, I think there was something else that stopped me. Rosie is Rosie; her name fits her. Maybe someday something can fit me.
“I was just going to get something to eat. Want to join me?” she asks.
I shrug and follow her. She yammers on through lunch at a fancy salad shop where they use tongs to put together a bunch of random ingredients into a huge bowl. We choose our salads and when she beams at me, it feels like this was the right decision, coming to see her, though I have no idea why.
We’re walking back afterward when I guess curiosity gets the best of her. “Is there anything you wanted to talk to me about in particular, Maia? Not that I don’t love the chance to just hang out.”
Only Rosie could think that what we’ve been doing, her talking and me grunting, could be considered “hanging out.”
I didn’t plan to ask her anything. We don’t really talk about personal stuff, certainly not about boys, and I doubt she has the answers to what I really want to know.
“Do you believe in soul mates?”
The question hangs in the air between her surprise and my regret for asking.
She takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. Part of me really wants to — I mean, wouldn’t it be comforting to believe that there was one person out there for you? But then there’s the pressure of having to find them. The world is such a big place — if you subscribe to the notion that there’s just that one perfect match for you, how do you know they’re not living in a hut in Papua New Guinea? Or they weren’t born a hundred years ago and you’ve already missed them? Or they’re in the nursing home you volunteer at and you meet them on the day they die?”
Her pretty red open-toed shoes click on the pavement. “And the idea of having multiple soul mates — well, what if you meet two at the same time? What if you’re lucky enough for that?” she asks.
“Would that be lucky?” I quirk my eyebrow.
She looks at me closely,
Dammit. I’ve got to get him out of my head.
I pretty much stick to my routines, so I’m not the only one who’s surprised when I show up outside Rosie’s office. Her caseload must be crazy: your typical overworked, underpaid city social worker — and not even my social worker any more since I aged out — but I needed to get off campus and talk to another human being, and she is literally the only person I could think of to go to. So pathetic.
The Social Services building is not my favorite place. Before she was promoted, Rosie shared a huge office with sixteen other people. The first and last time I walked in there, I began hyperventilating at the gauntlet of chaos I had to overcome to get to her cubicle. But now she has her own office. I run into her in the hallway right outside her door. She does a good job of picking her jaw up off the floor.
“Maia!” Rosie rarely says my name without an exclamation mark. She always makes it sound like a cheer at a pep rally. When I was seventeen, I was going to change my name. “Maia” sounded too girly and pretty. Too unlike me. When I told her, Rosie confided in me that she hated her name, too. I didn’t understand why — it totally fit her.
“That’s why,” she said. “Everyone looks at me and thinks I’m this special flower. They don’t take me seriously. It’s not a nickname, either — not short for anything like Rosemary. My mother actually named me Rosie — put it on my birth certificate and everything. That kind of sealed my fate.”
“Names have power,” she said. “But it’s only the power we give them, like everything else.”
She hadn’t ended up changing hers, so I kept mine too. I didn’t have a good reason at the time other than laziness. It sounded like a lot of paperwork, another trip to the courthouse. I should have thought of it earlier — when I was getting emancipated, maybe I could have handled it all at once. But now, looking at the genuine joy she shows at my unexpected presence, I think there was something else that stopped me. Rosie is Rosie; her name fits her. Maybe someday something can fit me.
“I was just going to get something to eat. Want to join me?” she asks.
I shrug and follow her. She yammers on through lunch at a fancy salad shop where they use tongs to put together a bunch of random ingredients into a huge bowl. We choose our salads and when she beams at me, it feels like this was the right decision, coming to see her, though I have no idea why.
We’re walking back afterward when I guess curiosity gets the best of her. “Is there anything you wanted to talk to me about in particular, Maia? Not that I don’t love the chance to just hang out.”
Only Rosie could think that what we’ve been doing, her talking and me grunting, could be considered “hanging out.”
I didn’t plan to ask her anything. We don’t really talk about personal stuff, certainly not about boys, and I doubt she has the answers to what I really want to know.
“Do you believe in soul mates?”
The question hangs in the air between her surprise and my regret for asking.
She takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. Part of me really wants to — I mean, wouldn’t it be comforting to believe that there was one person out there for you? But then there’s the pressure of having to find them. The world is such a big place — if you subscribe to the notion that there’s just that one perfect match for you, how do you know they’re not living in a hut in Papua New Guinea? Or they weren’t born a hundred years ago and you’ve already missed them? Or they’re in the nursing home you volunteer at and you meet them on the day they die?”
Her pretty red open-toed shoes click on the pavement. “And the idea of having multiple soul mates — well, what if you meet two at the same time? What if you’re lucky enough for that?” she asks.
“Would that be lucky?” I quirk my eyebrow.
She looks at me closely,
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