One time when we were little, we had been in the middle of playing house when she started bawling her eyes out.

“What’s wrong?” I had cried, rushing to her in a flurry.

She had hiccuped and wailed and choked out, “I-I don’t remember *hic* the, the formula!”

“Fomoola?” I’d struggled to repeat. “What’s that ?”

I remember the look she gave me then, amidst her tears, which had offended me greatly. But then she had started explaining, forcing me to focus and ignore my sudden urge to bonk her on the head. She said, through her tears, that it was “a way you memorize to get a number,” which had sounded foolish to my young ears. Why memorize? Just use your fingers!

When I’d said that much to her, though, she had glared at me, affronted, and refused to continue playing house until I finally gave in and asked, “So what fommular did you lose?”

And she’d started sniffling again, stuttering, saying after a few tries, “Ca, ca—” insert sob here—“Cavalieri’s quadrature formula!” Then she’d gone wailing again until her mom came and whisked her away, who still managed to look pretty despite the snot running down her nose.

We were five at the time.

I should have known from then on that this girl, at the very least, was not normal.

“Ah, memories,” I said, and pretended to wipe a tear from the corner of my eye.

Paul, my coworker, cast a timid glance towards me as he folded napkins next to me. One hour away from opening time, and here I was being all sentimental. “What’s up?” he asked, a little warily. He was a nice enough guy, but he hadn’t been very exposed to the weirdness that was Rosa for long enough, so he was very easily scared.

“Nothing much, just remembering,” I said, crossing my hands and pointing my chin towards a certain somebody who was scribbling things on at least fifteen leaves of precious napkins at the table farthest from the door. “Remembering a certain strange girl that has only gotten stranger and stranger as I lived on. But nothing to worry about," I added in a haste when he stared at Rosa with widening eyes. "It's just, you know. Mathematical geniuses. You know how they can be.”

“Okay,” he said slowly, and I tried to ignore how he was inching away from me. “Sure, yeah, I totally get it.”

He huddled to the other side, back turned towards me, and I chuckled dryly to myself. Oh, if only he'd had more shifts with Rose. Then he would be sticking to me, not hiding away.

I checked the clock—only fifteen minutes before six, the time we opened for dinner… that would turn shadier and shadier until it was nothing more than a common bar. I sighed.

“Rose,” I called, to no avail. “We have to start setting up soon.”

“Wait, but the margin of error!” she called back. She tucked some hair behind her ear and said, “I need to count the possible routes! I need to… oh, okay, wait…” Paul glanced her way and shrank back some more as she muttered more things under her breath. Her mad scribbling didn't seem to help his impression at all.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, well, things aren’t looking too good in this plane of existence, either,” I said. ‘Plane of existence’ was a phrase Rosa used often, which I’d mimicked back to her ironically at first but then came to use it like a regular phrase. “The tables aren't wiped, the cook needs more onions, and we’re opening in fifteen.”

“Not fifteen, it’s eighteen point two seven four,” she replied.

"No, I mean fifteen minutes."

"Minute differences, yes. I see what you mean."

"We're opening the restaurant in fifteen minutes, Rosa!"

"The restaurant event! Of course, how could I have forgotten?"

I rolled my head back and stared at the ceiling, counting to twenty in my head. Then I marched over to her and yanked the napkins from under her pen. “Enough!” I barked.

Rosa sputtered. “But Fi!”

“No ‘but’s!” I said. “You go help the cook now!”

She sulked briefly, but when I dangled the notes in front of her face, she said, "guh," and snatched them back from me to stuff them into her apron pocket. "You don't even know what you're doing," she hissed, then went straightaway to the cook.

I let out the breath I'd been holding in relief.

"Is Rose always like that?" Paul whispered to me when I got back to my station.

I smiled wryly. "Oh, you haven't seen anything," I replied, then went to find a rag for the tables.

The next day, as I was wiping down more tables, Rosa came in with a paper in her hand, an uncommonly bright and thick piece of paper that clashed with the weathered brown of our restaurant. I raised my eyebrows and asked, "What is that you're holding?"

"The official Academy testing application," she sighed, and I instantly changed my expression to one of sympathy. "Duke wants me to fill it out by tomorrow."

I looked at the squiggles on the paper as if I could actually figure out what they were saying. "So, the black lines are the words," I said, half-jokingly, and she gave me a look. "And you have a test?"

"Yeah, they have to figure out which grade they're going to send me into. In case I won't be able to follow the grade level my age is usually in."

I brightened. "Oh, that's great! You could get into the higher grades with your math scores. Then it will be less years spent at your hated--"

"Out of question," she interrupted. "I have to get admitted in as a first-year in the higher division class."

"Those are the rules?" I frowned. "Then what's the point of testing?"

"No, you can get into higher grades. One guy graduated from the Academy when he was thirteen years old. He has green hair," she added, a bit unnecessarily (in my opinion).

"But you said you have to get admitted as a first-year."

"I have to, but I'm not required to."

My frown deepened. "Um. Okay?"

"I mean," she said, leaning on the counter and rubbing her forehead, "The school doesn't require me to enter as a first-year, but if I want to succeed as a heroine I need to get in as a first-year."

Oh, that thing again. I sighed, for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last few days. "What is up with that heroine thing, Rose? What is the point?"

"Fi, there is only one point. The true and only point is," she paused here dramatically, looking dead serious, "death." I made a face, and she narrowed her eyes. "I thought I told you."

"Physically, yes, but mentally, no." I blew some of my hair from my face. Was there a guy named Death that I didn't know about? Or was that word a secret code among a secret society of villagers intent on bringing the Academy out as an evil corporation, or what? "Just get that thing done with and help me with the tables, please."

She looked at the paper mournfully but nodded all the same, and as she passed me by to put her things away I could almost swear I heard her murmuring something like 'what a waste of such delicious paper.'

Ah yes, typical Ro.

Paul, who had apparently been standing at the doorway during our little conversation, sidled up to me in a hurry and asked in a low voice, "Is Rosa okay? Should I go get the apothecary?"

I considered it for a moment-- that wouldn't be too bad, would it?-- but reluctantly shook my head. "Just leave her alone."

"But she was talking about, the thing about death and, what was she talking about again?"

Exactly, I thought, but smiled cheerfully at him instead. "Oh, those are just some code words we use to talk to each other. Childhood friends, you know, so old habits die hard?" 

"Oh," he said, and he slowly backed away, clutching the strap of his shoulder bag. "Sure, yeah, I totally get it."

And now I was the weird one again. I grimaced. Rose was pulling me down her rabbit hole with me, and I wasn't sure I was liking it one bit.

A loud, guttural sound distracted me for a second. I twisted around to look towards the kitchen, wondering if something bad was happening. "I hate the Academy!" I heard Rosa yell instead.

I turned back. Of course it would be her.

"Rosa!" roared the cook inside, "Stop flipping the utensil racks!"