The Ghosts of Rose Hill Read online

  For Jacob and Miriam, who led me out of the woods

  —R. M. R.

  Published by

  Peachtree Teen

  An imprint of PEACHTREE PUBLISHING COMPANY INC.

  1700 Chattahoochee Avenue

  Atlanta, Georgia 30318-2112

  PeachtreeBooks.com

  Text © 2022 by R. M. Romero

  Cover and interior illustrations © 2022 by Isabel Ibañez

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Edited by Ashley Hearn

  Design and composition by Adela Pons

  Cover design by Isabel Ibañez

  ISBN 9781682633380

  Ebook ISBN 9781682634462

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available from the Library of Congress.

  a_prh_6.0_139973752_c1_r1

  “She made herself stronger by fighting with the wind.”

  —Frances Hodgson Burnett

  Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  First Movement: The Golden City

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Interlude I: Wassermann

  Second Movement: The Boy on the Hill

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Interlude II: Wassermann

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Interlude III: Wassermann

  Third Movement: The Lost Children

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Interlude IV: Wassermann

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Fourth Movement: The Final Girl

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Interlude V: Wassermann

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The city I was born in

  embraces each person

  who steps off the mainland

  and onto the island

  known as Miami Beach.

  It understands

  we have nowhere else to go.

  A dozen countries

  converge here;

  languages tangle

  like bright ribbons

  in the humid air.

  Nearly everyone

  on the island is an expat,

  a survivor of a tragedy

  that swallowed their family

  and nation

  whole.

  So the last thing I expected

  was to be exiled

  by my own parents.

  When my grades

  in math and science

  slipped

  last semester,

  when my PSAT score

  was less than ideal,

  my parents blamed:

  my best friends,

  Sarah and Martina,

  the parties

  I sometimes went to,

  my obsession

  with playing the violin.

  They even asked

  if I was sneaking around

  with a boy.

  I swore I wasn’t;

  they didn’t believe me.

  Dad scowled

  as he looked over

  my report card;

  Mom raised her voice

  like a fist

  as she lectured me.

  I almost named you Marisol,

  because the sea gave me freedom—

  the freedom to do

  and say whatever I like.

  I studied hard;

  la pluma no pesa—

  the pen has no weight.

  You must do the same.

  Do not waste

  what the sea and I

  have given you!

  I’m glad

  she didn’t name me

  after the ocean—

  it’s much too powerful.

  I’m just a girl

  who dreams about magic

  and can’t wrap her mind

  around algebraic equations.

  Chapter Two

  My mother’s family,

  Lopez,

  came from Cuba.

  Lopez means:

  son of Lope,

  son of wolf.

  But it’s the Lopez women

  who have always howled the loudest.

  They had to be fierce

  and stubborn

  to survive.

  My great-grandmothers

  (may their memories

  be a blessing)

  mastered the art of escape

  seven generations

  before my mother.

  They fled the pyres

  (the flames

  fueled by hatred)

  devouring

  the street corners,

  synagogues,

  cemeteries

  of Spain,

  crossing the ocean

  with their faith

  and Shabbat candlesticks

  tucked under their skirts.

  I wonder

  if they understood

  their ancestors would leave Cuba

  with its sunset-colored buildings

  and blue skies as soft as whispers

  the same way.

  When Castro

  (and his communists)

  rose to power,

  he waved his cigar like a magic wand.

  Whenever he did,

  poets and gossips,

  friends and neighbors

  disappeared,

  taken by men who prowled

  thr
ough the night.

  Mom understood

  what happened to those who vanished,

  how their bones were planted

  in fields of rice

  and sugarcane.

  Not wanting to be among them

  (and knowing one day

  she might be)

  Mom fled her island,

  letting the water carry her

  and her little fishing boat

  away to a new life

  with nothing

  but the dress she wore to her name.

  Like a queen of Narnia

  who couldn’t go back

  through the wardrobe,

  Mom knows

  she’ll never return to Cuba again.

  She’ll be in exile

  forever.

  My parents decide

  they’ll be sending me to live

  with my aunt Žofie

  in Prague

  the golden city

  of a hundred towers

  and a thousand stories

  for the summer.

  They think

  if I’m away from Miami

  (and all its distractions)

  I’ll study more seriously

  for the college admissions exams

  looming

  in my future.

  The bargain is this:

  in the fall,

  I must earn 1300

  (or above)

  on the SAT.

  Mom and Dad

  see that score as a silver key;

  it will grant me access

  to the best colleges,

  the largest scholarships,

  the brightest future.

  But if my score is any lower,

  there will be

  no more music lessons

  or weekend outings

  until it improves.

  At first,

  my father raged

  like a September storm

  at the idea of banishing me

  to the city

  he grew up in.

  He told my mother:

  Žofie lives her life

  on top of bones!

  The communists are gone,

  but what they did with

  their tanks,

  their lies and laws,

  their secret police

  can’t be erased.

  I haven’t been back

  in almost thirty years.

  I’ll never go back again.

  Mom said: You and I

  didn’t survive

  dictators of flesh and blood

  so we could live

  in fear of ghosts.

  And you’re lucky—

  your daughter can visit

  the place you were born

  and be safe.

  She won the argument

  by virtue of being right.

  (She usually does.)

  June, July, and August

  lie ahead,

  three months

  without my friends

  or my violin.

  I’m being separated

  from everyone,

  everything,

  supposedly leading me

  down

  the wrong path

  in life.

  I tell myself:

  my friendships will survive

  a single summer away.

  Sarah, Martina, and I

  can still talk

  every day.

  But how will I live

  without

  my music?

  Chapter Three

  The night before I leave,

  I meet Sarah and Martina

  at the bus stop to say goodbye.

  Their parents send them

  to the New World School of the Arts,

  where they study

  cello, opera,

  how to transform

  strings of notes on a page

  into tales about:

  swan girls,

  queens of night,

  and wolves

  with wild intentions.

  I begged

  Mom and Dad to let me attend

  the same high school.

  I wanted nothing more

  than to study music,

  play violin,

  be with my friends.

  But they refused.

  Music,

  my parents said,

  won’t put food on the table.

  Music,

  they said,

  won’t give me the kind of life

  they so desperately want

  for me.

  They believe

  we can hold

  safety and security

  in our hands,

  building it

  one degree,

  one car,

  one house

  at a time.

  Only when our roots are stone

  will we be safe.

  My friends and I

  flee the packs of tourists

  drinking up the neon glow

  of Ocean Drive

  and race down to the beach.

  But by the time

  we reach the water,

  I’m already

  outside

  their conversation.

  Sarah and Martina

  will spend their sixteenth summers

  here in Miami Beach,

  chasing songs and kisses,

  making memories

  steeped in wondrous colors.

  But I won’t share

  any of their adventures.

  I’ll only see them captured

  in pictures and videos,

  with an ocean between us.

  I wade into the waves

  as my friends chatter away.

  All I can do

  is float—

  I’ve been left behind

  by them.

  (Again.)

  For as long as I can remember,

  I’ve written letters in sea foam

  to the mermaids

  I once believed

  swam just off the shore.

  For years, I asked them:

  Do you hide when the hurricanes come?

  Do you pray to the tides?

  Do you fight sharks with your teeth and tridents?

  What’s it like, to be you?

  They never answered.

  Mermaids

  are terrible correspondents.

  Still, I let my words

  drip

  down

  my fingers,

  bitter with salt.

  My final letter, before departure:

  Did the sea ever swallow up your songs?

  Have you ever let

  a human boy

  pluck them off your tongue

  and carry them up to the sun?

  Did your mother or father

  ever take your music away,

  like my parents took mine?

  PS

  I know I can always count

  on your silence.

  It’s my own

  I’m not used to.

  Being trapped

  inside an airplane

  (thirteen hours to Prague,

  with one transfer in London)

  allows me to sink into

  Tallis Fantasia

  (Vaughan Williams, 1910)

  on my headphones.

  I ignor
e the exam workbooks

  I should be reading;

  the curtain of stars

  we soar through

  captures my attention entirely.

  If only I could keep flying

  and never

  touch the ground

  again.

  Chapter Four

  Aunt Žofie comes to find me

  in the gray airport terminal.

  I barely recognize her;

  we’ve only met

  in person

  once before.

  (But her two-week visit to Miami

  contained a lifetime’s worth of arguments

  with my father.)

  You’ll enjoy your summer here,

  Aunt Žofie promises me,

  slinging my bag

  over her shoulder

  as if it’s no heavier

  than a dust mote.

  I know my brother

  expects you to do nothing

  but study.

  He didn’t want you to come

  in the first place.

  But Prague is a place

  where a girl your age

  can find herself.

  I’ll let you have your freedom,

  as long

  as you’re careful.

  We’re very much alike,

  you and I.

  I doubt that.

  Aunt Žofie is a storm

  who only pretends to be a woman.

  Her hair drifts above her head,

  a cloud of thoughts

  and enchantments.

  And according to my parents,

  I’m a doctor, lawyer, engineer, architect

  in waiting,

  one who hasn’t quite grown

  into a practical future

  without music.

  (Or mermaids.)

  (Or magic.)

  Aunt Žofie calls her house Růžová Chata:

  Rose Cottage.

  It sits on Růžová Kopec:

  Rose Hill.

  But if you looked on a map,

  you wouldn’t find either of them.

  She speaks

  Czech

  and English,

  Russian

  and German.

  But sometimes

  I can’t understand

  a single word

  she says.

  Her heart’s language is a mystery

  I can’t solve.

  There’s no order

  to Rose Cottage’s four rooms,

  which makes it the opposite

  of my own home.

  The walls

  are pitted and cracked.

  My aunt’s chairs bleed stuffing

  when I sit on them.

  Her computer is a relic,

  built before I was born.

  Jars of paint compete for space

  with crumpled sketches,

  oceans of dust,

  and books fattened by poetry.