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Rose's mom forgot to pick her up again. I mean, the closest middle school to Rainbow Falls was miles away. Why did she put her daughter back into public school if she never makes an effort to bring her back home?
That's a really stupid question, actually, that has a possibly equally stupid answer.
Her mother wanted more time with her alcohol collection.
So here Rose was, sitting miserably on the bench in front of her middle school, fiddling with her thumbs and staring at her scuffed-up shoes. It's hard to ignore the other children racing by to their own families. It makes her feel even worse. It makes her feel jealous. Sadder. Angrier.
Rose messes with the back of her hair, a curly, bleached mess, as she stares into her cracked phone's front-facing camera. She puts it back in her back and closes her eyes and leans her head against the bench. There's a lot of tears to hold back. It would be horrifically mortifying if Rose was to cry in front all these people. She is already mocked sinisterly her every waking hour, so what's a little more, right?
Whatever. Rose hugs her knees close to her chest and counts the number of black cars she sees in the small parking lot and driving past her. She spends a lot more time doing things like this than she would like to admit, and it goes on for way too long. When Rose loses count of the black cars, she glances around to make sure no one watches when she punches herself in the ribs or snaps the thin, black hair pretties against her wrist.
It's a stupid thing to get mad at herself for, even more so to harm herself over some stupid fucking vehicles. To say that she did this to ground herself when she's depressed or panicking (which she does say, to the school counselor that she is forced to visit, but often ends up counseling herself and doing a fucking fantastic job at it) would be somewhat of a lie. It's just self harm.
There's next to no one else here by now aside from the one or two other children whose parents also forgot them, or they just don'twant to leave. The sky is blue and orange and the shadows of the trees and building are more refined, and it's more chilly than it was that morning, which really says a lot when you live on top of a waterfall in New York.
Rose sighed. She really didn't want to walk home; I mean, would you after wearing too-tight Converse for hours at a time?
As she stood up from where she sat, her butt was numb. She was tearing up. It's not worth it to walk for what seemed like hours to where she lives only for her to have to do it all over again the next day after waking up at four in the fucking morning just so she'll barely be able to get dressed.
As Rose crossed the street, she prayed that she would be hit by a semi-truck so she wouldn't have to do this again. But it never happens. So, she walks home for miles, crying most of the way there, her back, chest, and throat aching as she chokes on her tears and despair.
How lucky she was to have a mother.