not only was Theo losing his mind, but so was she.
The back door banged. Rosemary skidded to a stop. Theo stood on the back porch, slumped against the stone, his eyes on the book in his hands. “Hey, Rosie,” he said, his voice flat, stagnant as a pond, but suddenly she felt years younger, and protected.
She slid across the rink and stumbled on the snow. “Hi.”
They stared at each other. Or, rather, Rosemary stared at Theo. He stared at his book. The silence stretched between them. Rosemary opened her mouth to say something, but Theo spoke first.
“I — I heard you were in a fight.”
Rosemary gaped. “Did Dad tell you?” How did Dad know?
“You shouldn’t ... let them get to you,” he said, still not looking at her. “They’re ... only words.”
“Theo, are you all right?”
Theo stood silent a long moment. She could see no change in his expression, but somehow Rosemary sensed that he was considering his answer very carefully.
“Of course I’m all right,” he said at last. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Theo, look at me.”
He looked at her. His eyes were glazed and unfocused, as though she were in a fog.
“Theo, I know something’s wrong. Is it — is it like high school? Are you sick?”
“No.”
She bit her lip. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Rosie, it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not!” Her voice cracked. “I hate to see you like this! I hate —” She halted. “Snap out of it!”
“Rosie, please —” And she was reminded of him in his hospital bed, unresponsive as she tried to reach him.
“It’s not fair!” Rosemary shouted. “You’re not supposed to be like this! You’re the one who protects me, gets me out of fights. You’re supposed to be strong!”
His eyes glanced down at the pages as she spoke. He closed them, in pain. “Rosie, please, I’ll handle this. I’ll be all right. Just ... stay away from the books.”
She stuttered to a stop. “What?”
“The books.” He took a deep breath. “Stay out of this.” He turned and stepped back into the house.
“Theo, wait!” She struggled through the snowdrifts after him and scrambled up the back porch. She banged her way into the kitchen and ran into the front room. It was empty. Upstairs, she heard Theo’s bedroom door click shut.
As she debated whether to follow, the lights of the station wagon pulled into the driveway. A minute later, her father entered, stomping the snow from his boots. “I drove your boyfriend home, safe and sound, dear!”
“Dad!” She stood with her hands on her hips.
“What?” Her father looked playfully blank.
“He’s not my boyfriend!”
“He’s your friend, isn’t he?”
She faltered. “Well, yes, but —”
“And he’s a boy, isn’t he? Those are the two criteria for the term, aren’t they?”
Rosemary scowled at the floor. “You know what I mean.”
Her father nudged her chin. “Yes, dearest. I do.”
“How can you be silly at a time like this?”
“It’s how I cope.”
Rosemary softened. “What do you think happened to Theo?”
Mr. Watson sighed. “I don’t know. But we’ll find out, dearest. I promise.”
Rosemary snuggled beneath the covers, smelling bacon. She could hear the clatter of plates downstairs and the sizzle of the frying pan and she remembered that it was Saturday: pancakes and bacon day. Smiling, she tossed aside the covers and jumped out of bed. She was halfway to the closet when she stopped.
She picked up a grey sweatshirt tossed carelessly over the back of her desk chair. It had a faded group photo on the front of a cast of actors in costume. “Clarksbury High” read the black bold text beneath the photo, and beneath that was a date and “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Theo was in front, dressed as Puck, mugging for the camera. She smiled at his grin, then frowned as she remembered how different he had been last night.
She crept to the door and peered out into the hallway. Theo’s door was open and his room was empty. She felt a little hope rise inside her. Was Theo better?
She listened to the voices downstairs. Trisha shouted something across the table. Her father cut her off, calling for quiet and courtesy. Her parents’ voices returned to their measured, nervous tones.
Theo’s voice didn’t come.
Not better.
She sighed and returned to her room. Dressing quickly, she shrugged the sweatshirt on over her clothes and slouched downstairs to breakfast.
Her mother set a plate of pancakes and bacon before Rosemary as she sat down. She cut off a piece with her fork and started chewing. She looked around the breakfast table.
Her mother sat down, poured herself a glass of orange juice, and looked towards the foot of the table. Trisha kicked her chair rails and looked towards the foot of the table. Her father sipped his coffee and looked towards the foot of the table. Theo sat at the foot of the table and read his book.
Her mother’s glass of orange juice overflowed, bringing her attention back. Muttering under her breath, she mopped up the spill with her napkin.
The family ate in silence for a moment. Finally, her mother said, “I talked to Doctor Abrams. I’m taking Theo to see him at eleven this morning. It’s outside his office hours and he assures me his gossipy receptionist won’t be there.”
“Why does he keep that kid?” Rosemary’s father asked.
“That kid is the only person in this town who can type,” her mother replied. “But with him at hockey practice, Theo stands a better chance of privacy. If only that McAllister child hadn’t been here to see.”
Rosemary bristled. “Peter wouldn’t tell!”
“Are you sure?”
Rosemary fought back the flush of anger. It was true that she hardly knew Peter. She should have been as uncertain as her mother.
“Theo had a difficult enough time in high school, thanks to his breakdown.” Rosemary’s mother ran her hand through Theo’s hair. “He doesn’t deserve what people will say about this.”
“Daddy?” said Trisha. “Is Theo going to be okay?”
He hoisted Trisha onto his knee. “’Course he is. Just as soon as he sees a doctor.”
“But Mommy’s a doctor,” said Trisha.
“Mommy’s a doctor of the body,” said Mr. Watson. “Dr. Abrams is a doctor of the mind. But don’t worry about that. You and I are going out. How would you like to see a movie?”
Trisha smiled. Rosemary could tell that it was for her father’s benefit.
In the front room after breakfast, Mr. Watson touched Rosemary’s shoulder. “Rose, tell Mrs. McDougall that she’s in charge of the library for the day, and help out behind the front desk. Probably won’t see another living soul, but hours of operation are hours of operation.”
“Sure, Dad,” said Rosemary, with a smile that matched Trisha’s.
Rosemary refused her father’s offer of a lift into town. She pulled her skis from