RUNAWAY ROSE
Chapter Twelve
Rose and Alice walked down the street in the
direction of a small restaurant that Alice was familiar with. Neither said much.
Alice continued to cradle her head in her hands, while Rose looked around,
taking her first close look at this part of the city.
It was different from the parts of New York
that she had visited as Rose DeWitt Bukater. The tall buildings, fancy stores,
and wide sidewalks filled with fancily dressed people strolling were missing
here, replaced by low buildings—most no more than three stories high, small
stores and street vendors, and narrow sidewalks. People shouted in several
different languages, and a grubby child raced past them, clutching a half-eaten
candy stick in one hand. Litter was scattered around the sidewalks and streets,
and a few cars and horse-drawn vehicles rumbled past, splashing through
puddles. In the distance, the rumble of the elevated train could be heard as it
pulled to a stop.
It was noisy, dirty—and vibrantly alive. The
staid, plush world of upscale New York paled in comparison to the lively
atmosphere of the theater district.
Rose took a deep breath as they passed the
cart of an Italian woman selling sausage and fresh-baked bread. It smelled
wonderful, and reminded her that she had hardly eaten since she had left home
two days earlier.
Alice finally spoke. "Just in case
you're wondering, I don't hate Robert. We just like to banter."
"Is he your beau or something?"
Rose asked, still looking at the city.
"Robert? Oh, no. No, he's not. He's
really too young for me, and he's not my type. He acts too much like my little
brother."
"How old is he?"
"He's twenty-one," Alice replied,
then stopped, realizing that she had just given away the fact that she was
older than eighteen. "Has Frances been feeding you stories about my
age?"
Rose answered reluctantly. "She said you
were really twenty-five."
"Twenty-five! I am not! I'm only twenty-three."
Rose looked at her doubtfully.
"I told Frances I was eighteen when I
first went to live in her boarding house seven years ago. She wouldn't take
boarders younger than eighteen unless they had a parent or someone with them. I
was sixteen, and my brother was eight. Our mother had died from cholera, and we
had no idea where our father was. He disappeared when Gabe was three years old.
I had a job as a chorus girl in one of the theaters, but we needed a place to
live, and I couldn't afford an apartment, even with Gabe helping by working as
a paper boy. I told Frances I was eighteen, and decided that eighteen was a
good age to be, so I never acknowledge getting any older. Frances doesn't buy
it, of course, but I don't care. The public thinks I'm eighteen, and won't
disabuse them of the notion."
"She didn't ask my age," Rose
commented, hoping Frances wouldn't throw her out if she found out Rose was only
seventeen.
"You look old enough. How old are you,
anyway?"
"I'd rather not say."
"You looking to be an actress or
something?"
"Maybe."
"That's the usual reason women around
here won't give their age. They want to remain young as long as possible, and
lying about it helps."
"I never actually thought about
it."
They had reached the restaurant, and Alice opened
the door, ushering Rose inside. They found seats in the corner farthest from
the door and waited for the waitress.
"This place has good food, good prices,
good service, and not to many screeching kids, at least not in the
morning." Alice touched her head tentatively, as if afraid that her
hangover would come back. "So, what kind of theater do you want to
do?"
"I'm not sure. I've always liked comedy.
I like motion pictures, too."
"You and every other young actress.
Start with theater. There's plenty of them around here, though just as many
casting couches."
"Casting couches?"
Alice looked at Rose and shook her head.
"You really are green."
The waitress came to take their orders. Rose
ordered a full breakfast. Alice just ordered coffee.
"I never eat much in the morning,"
she explained. When the waitress left, she explained casting couches to Rose.
"Some directors and producers don't
judge you so much for your skills on stage as for your skills in...other
areas."
Rose still didn't understand.
"Your skills in bed," Alice
elaborated, making a gesture that made the meaning of her words clear.
Rose was stunned. "But why? Don't they
care whether the actress will make people want to watch the show?"
"They do, usually. But some of these
gentlemen," Alice said the word gentlemen with a sneer, "won't even
give an actress a chance unless she pleases them in bed. Some of them will even
go so far as to have some fun with a girl, then not keep their end of the
bargain. If she complains, she's the one who gets blamed."
"How typical." Rose thought about
Cal. If she had complained about him, she would have undoubtedly taken the
blame—and a few more bruises.
"Where are you from, anyway?" Alice
asked, eyeing Rose's expensive dress.
Rose felt her heart begin to pound. She had
no cover story to explain her presence in New York, and her expensive clothes
were bound to make people curious, especially in this area.
When she got no response from Rose, Alice
went on, "You sound like one of those upper class ladies who goes shopping
in the expensive stores and promenades along those wide streets downtown."
She eyed Rose critically. "You look like one, too. That fancy dress. What
did you do? Run away from home?"
Rose could feel her palms sweating. Her mouth
had gone dry, and just as she was about to attempt an answer, the waitress
arrived with their orders. Rose nearly jumped out of her chair.
The waitress eyed her oddly, wondering what
could be making her so nervous. Alice started to laugh, then groaned, clutching
at her head again.
She looked back up at Rose, who was picking
nervously at her food.
"Don't worry about it. I'm not going to
turn you in. Whether you ran off to become an actress, or ran off for some
other reason, is no concern of mine. If it weren't for runaways, the theater
industry would go out of business."
Rose relaxed slightly. "I'm not from the
upper class," she lied.
Alice snorted. "You must be a very good
actress, then. You'd fool any of those ladies downtown."
Except it wouldn't be fooling, Rose thought.
"What's your last name, anyway?"
Alice wanted to know.
"Dawson."
Alice looked at her skeptically, but didn't
argue. "It works. It'll make a good stage name, anyway."
"I'm not even sure I'm going to go
onstage."
"You will. Give Norman two months, and
he'll drag you onstage, kicking and screaming if he has to. We are constantly
losing chorus girls, and he won't let a beauty like you get away. Just in case
you're wondering, though, he's not into casting couches. He has a girl who'd kill
him if he was."
"Who's she?"
"Me." Alice looked embarrassed and
changed the subject. "You might want to get some other clothes if you want
to pass for an aspiring actress instead of an upper class runaway. Not only
will people ask questions, but it makes you look naive. It makes you an easy
target." She paused, sipping her coffee. "There's some stores a few
streets over that sell decent clothes for not much money. I'll show you where
they are when we're done here."