She is Not Made of Roses

seven: dude, you just got a hard-on for a feminist

SEVEN: DUDE, YOU JUST GOT A HARD-ON FOR A FEMINST

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THE TWO WEEKS before the fundraiser seem to skim by, undetected. They’re a flood of flyers, e-mails, forms, and documents, but once the night finally arrives, Rosie feels confident that it’s a task she can undertake. And she’s ready.

Which is why it is less opportune that, the night of her fundraiser, Jemima has one of her specialty meltdowns.

“Mother, remember what I said a few weeks ago?! I said Amaryllis not Peach Sorbet!” She exclaims, surrounded by a flurry of color-coded index cards, which have found themselves thrown halfway across the room. Both Jessa and Ester are facing their eldest daughter, frightened, their backs against a wall like a trapped animal.

Jessa daringly reaches out to grab her daughter’s hand, “We can just cancel the order, Mimi, it’s not a big deal—”

Jemima flinches away, nearly hitting a wall, “Nota big deal?” She hisses, aghast. “My wedding is in two months, and your screw ups are not helping!”

Ester approaches her, hand held high, afraid of the debris that might scatter the room if she would explode. “Mimi, you have to calm down—”

Jemima looks away from her mothers to the remaining wedding spreadsheets and seating charts lying on the table. The stress of it all strikes her like a train, and all she can do is collapse into her chair, face buried in her hands, “Now my color scheme is ruined. My bridesmaids don’t have their dresses, my caterer bailed, my fiancé is no help, and my idiot brother cares more about the Red Cross than his little sister’s wedding!”

Ester sits right beside her, taking her hand, while Jessa does so on the opposite side. “Your color scheme is not ruined, your bridesmaids will get their dresses, we’ll find you a caterer, your fiancé has always been an idiot, and your intelligent brother cares about you to the moon and back,” she whispers to her, taking her hand in hers gently.

The moment Rosie walks in, Jessa’s started Jemima on some Taoist breathing exercises, and she’s wondering if she should just sneak out to get to the fundraiser if walking through the front door means engaging in one of their biweekly heartfelt family meetings.

But on one of her steps, Rosie figures the creak must’ve disturbed one of Jemima’s chakras, or something, because instantly, she and her mothers are staring up at her. Rosie smiles squeamishly, expecting to be yelled at; however, it’s quite the opposite when Jemima’s lips twist into a smile.

“Rosie!” She exclaims, rising from her seat. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before!”

Rosie falls silent, just as her sister walks over to her, grabbing her wrists in her hands. It’s a classic Jemima maneuver: act cruelly 99% of the time to your subject, and when you want something, charm the hell out of them. It’s usually worked quite well to Jemima’s advantage in the past, but Rosie’s had more than enough of her sister’s games for one lifetime.

“You go to Macy’s with Aurora all the time – well, I need you to go to there before they close,” she tells her. “I’ll show you what bridesmaids dresses I want online, and I’ll give you my card. I mean, the bridesmaids will pay me back later, as I’m expecting you to, but I—”

“—I can’t tonight,” Rosie interrupts, zipping up her toggle coat. She looks to her mothers at the table, “I have my fundraiser, remember? The karaoke night?”

“Oh, yeah!” Jessa exclaims, suddenly remembering. “Oh, good luck, sweetheart. I know you’ll do well.”

“Kick some ass, baby!” Ester shouts, pumping a fist in the air.