Chapter Text
TWO WEEKS EARLIER
Rosie's name was the only one written on her cast.
She supposed it was one of the perks of being the only kid her age in her life.
It's written there in the black sharpie she usually kept reserved for autographs, a heart dotting the i. Rosie couldn't actually remember the last time she'd done that. Taken the time to write her own name out, to trace the letters from the R to the e.
Usually, it's Flora that she writes. Muscle memory almost had her doing that here too. Looping the o to the r in a practiced sweep. Quick and easy as the autographs she signed for fans. That was the truly sad thing; Rosie had almost forgotten how to write her own name. It took effort, real and genuine, to craft the uppercase R.
Rosie.
A heart over the i.
The dark sharpie ink looked good against the pink her cast. Thick, clean lines. Rosie liked the way they stood out. Liked seeing her own name on the plaster. Rosie hadn't signed her real name in years. Turns out it only took breaking her ankle to break the streak.
"I guess you'll be doing a lot more of that now," Her mother nods towards the lettering. "I heard Anthem is a low-tech school. All your stuff work should be on paper."
Rosie was quiet.
The alternative to quiet was talking to her mother- and she wasn't exactly in the mood for that.
Rosie wasn't really in the mood for much. She didn't want to do anything but stare at the heart scribbled over the i in her name. She hadn't found anything else worthwhile to look at in this room. White walls. Those plastic chairs that lined very doctor's office and waiting room she'd ever been in. Rosie could distinctly recall sitting in duplicate chairs in various audition waiting rooms as a child.
There's a logged-out computer in the corner. Dr. Harris had used it to go over her MRI. Other than the computer (and the stupid chairs), there was just Rosie, her mom, and a singular heart over a lonely name.
Rosie brushed a hand down the side of the cast. "Has my penmanship always been so terrible?"
"It's less natural when you write Rosie," Her mother remarked, examining the cast more closely. "You're a bit out of practice. It's pretty perfect when you write Flora's name though."
Out of practice. That she was.
Perfect. She was not. Not as Rosie she wasn't.
Rosie slid off the doctor's table thing to grab her crutches. "Are we done? I think I'm ready to go home now."
Home. Rosie hadn't actually been there in almost eight months. There was likely dust coating every inch of her room. Picture frames with people she didn't remember meeting. A closet bereft of clothing and door frames she hadn't walked through in forever.
Could her house still qualify as a home when she'd spent so much time away? Rosie wasn't sure.
No one but her father waited for her in the hospital lobby. This was only a checkup, though. Last week, in LA- the night her ankle had given out on stage, the lobby had been packed. There had been so many fans there to check on Flora Madison that crowd control had been needed.
For Rosie though, it was just mom and dad waiting.
Not that she really minded.
Sometimes Rosie thought it would all be so much easier if it were just the three of them. If it was just Rosie, Mom, and Dad without Flora thrown into the mix. And Rosie loved singing on stage as Flora, she really did- but sometimes it was harder than it should have been to draw the line where Flora ended and Rosie began.
That's probably why Rosie found herself so excited to go to Anthem. All she wanted was to be Rosie without also being Flora. Rosie wanted to go out in public without the shades and blonde hair, without the glitz and glamor.
She had to wonder if she even owned anything that wasn't glitzy or glamorous. If she owned anything that didn't also pair well with a blonde wig.
"You need help kiddo?"
Rosie hadn't realized she'd stopped walking.
"I'm okay, Dad," she said. "Just getting used to the crutches."
He nodded in understanding. "You know, I've broken my own ankle a few times."
Rosie did know. She'd heard him recount each ankle-breaking story again and again for the past week. She knew the first break came from a game of pickup basketball that her dad played back in college- the second snap of bone had a similar story. The third time he broke his ankle was falling off the stage at graduation. He'd laughed and said it was so embarrassing. Like Rosie didn't know the feeling.
She'd fallen on stage in front of fifteen thousand people.
Rosie had fallen so publicly, her broken ankle was on her mother's morning NPR news show. A headline segment, even.
Her parents had to help Rosie hobble to the car.
Not a single cameraman or journalist waited outside. It was nice. The moment was a stark contrast to the week before. Rosie was grateful to be back in her hometown. Not a single paparazzo knew where she was from- and she'd like to keep it that way. The less of a crowd she drew, the better. The LA emergency room had been so crowded with non-patients (fans, paparazzi) that Rosie's own parents had been forced to use the back entrance.
But here? All that awaited her in the lobby was an empty reception desk.
And a short walk to the car that took way longer than Rosie would have liked to admist.
Rosie's father opened the car door. Placed her crutches in the back as she leant on the seat. She couldn't climb in on her own, and she didn't dare try. Not with her mother eyeing her like a hawk. Rosie figured she wouldn't be allowed to do much for a while.
Upon being lifted into the back seat of the SUV, Rosie found her point to be proven true. She couldn't lean over to adjust the AC. She was absolutely banned from curling her good leg up onto her chair.
All she was really allowed to do was scroll on her phone and wait. The scrolling was harder to stomach than the waiting. But she couldn't even scroll on her personal "Rosie" account without seeing the headlines: Breaking News! Flora Madison gets injured on stage!, Diva Down- Everything you need to know about Flora Madison's big accident!!!
It wasn't really the distraction she wanted. Or needed, for that matter.
Rosie settled for staring out the window.
There wasn't much in the skyline. Office buildings. More office buildings. The occasional restaurant. Somehow even more office buildings, and then the entrance of suburbia. Or as suburban as the mansion Flora Madison's career has paid for can be.
Towering beige walls, climbing ivy, and the vintage feeling her parents had always craved. It was all stuffed into one into this house.
"Can you manage the stairs, hon?" Her mother asked.
Rosie nodded.
And she really could manage. If she took each step one at a time. Moved the crutch up, set the bad foot on the step ahead, lifted with the good leg.
She'd been practicing.
"We don't think you should sleep in your room upstairs right now, Rosie." Her father said, carrying one of her bags inside. "The climb might be a bit much."
"Guestroom then?" Rosie asked.
Her father nodded and Rosie had no choice but to follow him down the hall.
It was strange for her- to walk through a house that was technically hers and feel no ownership of it at all. None of it felt familiar. Some of the furniture she'd never seen a day in her life.
"Did you guys redecorate?" She looked to her dad.
"Your mother did," he supplied. "Wanted the house to feel more aesthetic, I think was the term she used."
It fit. The house was all smooth in that new, modern architecture way. Stagnant countertops, polished wood floors. The art on the walls is abstract and uninterpretable. The guestroom Rosie would be sleeping in was decorated the same.
And Rosie was just an empty girl in a pink cast, sitting in a room that wasn't hers.
She supposed she had all the time in the world to get used to it.