Rose, One.

Upon reflection, Rose supposed she had had a rather singular childhood. Her father had taken her hunting for the first time when she was two, for example. True, it had only been as bait, but even she had to admit that such depth of hunting experience at such a young age was quite extraordinary.

And even when she stopped filling the role of tasty morsel, her childhood was still anything but ordinary. When she was seven years old, her father had stopped tucking her into the picnic basket with a small dollop of mayonnaise on her forehead, and instead had let her help set the snare traps and chase after spent arrows.

And when Rose was twelve years old, she had been given her first red riding hood. Of course, everyone knew what that meant.

* * *

– Years Later –

Rose absently pushed back the red hood of the riding cloak that had been her family’s legacy for two centuries, and sighed.

“Really Rose?” her father asked. He was trying not to look disappointed, which made her feel worse.

“I mean, I suppose…” Rose said, biting her bottom lip and staring down guiltily into the picnic basket tucked into the crook of her arm, but didn’t finish.

“You’re not as awful as you think.”

She was reasonably sure that was supposed to be comforting.

“Well, yes, you’re awful. But you’re so pessimistic.”

It wasn’t, particularly.

“How awful do you think you are?”

He was giving her a questioning look, which meant he really did expect her to answer.

“Oh, um, let’s see,” she let out a puff of air and stared up into the sky, trying to decide how exactly to answer her father’s question. Was this a test? Maybe if she told him she was fairly certain she was terrific, she wouldn’t have to continue this conversation. Or maybe it would just get longer. Truth was probably the best way to go.

“Pretty… pretty awful, I think,” she finally nodded.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“Well… pretty awful isn’t so bad,” he said awkwardly.

“It’s, um… pretty awful, actually,” she pointed out.

“That doesn’t mean you have to quit trying though! I’m sure we can find something for you to do!” His eyes darted from side to side as his mind scrambled for something, anything.

She had been wrong, lying couldn’t possibly have ended this badly.

“Remember how good you used to be with the mayonnaise?”

“Look, dad,” she said quickly before he could continue down that path any further, “some girls are meant to be Red Hoods and some girls just aren’t.”

“But your great-great-”

“Great-great-great-great-great- grandmother, yes, I know dad. I don’t think she’ll mind.” She had been dead for nearly two hundred years.

“But-” he began, and she knew the conversation wouldn’t end until she brought out the big guns.

“I’m not happy, dad.” There. She had said it. And it did make her feel better. For the brief moment between her half-mumbled confession and her father’s face crumpling.

“Oh Rose.”

She hated to see him looking at her like that, so much so that for for one perfectly deluded moment, she imagined being the Red Hood he wanted her to be; she imagined dashing through the woods, leaping from branch to branch with easy grace; she imagined hurling herself at her quarry, knives barred and gleaming in the sun; she imagined felling the biggest beast the Red Hoods had ever seen; what big eyes it has, they would say, and what big teeth!

But for better or for worse, she wasn’t really a Red Hood, and if she were going to be at all honest with herself, she had to admit that she never would be.

“I’m going to the city,” she told her father after a deep breath to steel herself. “I’m going to seek my fortune!”

“But whatever are you going to do?” her father asked, as if he didn’t think there were any vocation for a young woman outside of being a Red Hood. And, she had to admit, he probably didn’t.

“Well. I haven’t, actually, entirely, quite decided… what I’m going to do… yet.” She followed the statement with a brave smile and added, “but I’m sure I’m good at something!”

“Maybe… maybe you could work at a sandwich shop.”

He was trying to be helpful.

“Because of the mayonnaise.”

He really was.

“You were so good with the mayonnaise.”

And with that, her father started sobbing.

It was all Rose could do to wrap her arms around him and give him a tight squeeze, reminding herself that she couldn’t let this shake her confidence. There would be something she was good at, she knew it. Something, she promised herself, that had nothing to do with mayonnaise.

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