Read the story.
Mosaic
1
A throng of passengers got off at the Division Street stop, so Masha and Molly were finally able to sit.
2
"Ah, that's better," Molly said. "Now we can talk. Masha, come to the presentation tonight. Please. It's not a social thing. It's educational!"
3
The streetcar swayed, and Masha grabbed Molly's arm to steady herself. "I already told you," she said. "I can't."
4
"Can't!" Molly waved her hands as if batting away a fly. "Of course you can. No work tomorrow, remember? Relax for once! Do something fun."
"I am. Mama and I are baking rugelach." Seeing Molly's confused expression, Masha explained, "It's a dessert."
Molly waved her hand again. "Rosie can help her."
"Rosie!" Masha laughed.
"Why not? I bet you made roo-gla at her age."
"Rosie isn't interested. She's an American. And it's rugelach, not 'roo-gla.' You make it sound like a dance."
"See, now that would be fun." Molly deepened her voice. "Ladies and gentlemen! Presenting the roo-gla, the hottest dance of 1920!" She giggled. "Anyway, what are you even saying? You're American, too. You live here, don't you?"
"Yes, but Rosie is . . . of here." Masha's younger sister wore sailor-style blouses, owned a dozen ribbons for her bobbed hair, and knew all the latest songs. The heady aroma of yeast and nuts could never transport her back to their homeland, which Rosie barely remembered. As far as Rosie was concerned, America was their homeland. Whoops, Molly was talking.
"—just as American as she is. As American as apple pie! Come with me, Masha, and I'll bake an apple pie for your mama. You don't need roo-gla." Molly paused. "Ru-ge-lach."
Masha fell back against the seat, laughing. But then she sat up. "Wait a minute, Molly. Why are you so keen on this lecture?"
"I'm very interested in ancient art," Molly said. She tossed her copper curls and gazed at Masha with wide-eyed innocence. Masha stared back, eyes narrowed. Finally, Molly threw up her hands. "I overheard Stephen talking, and—"
"Aha! So Stephen will be there, will he?" Masha tossed her own hair in an imitation of Molly. "I'm very interested in ancient art," she squeaked.
They collapsed into laughter. "Okay, okay." Molly wiped her eyes. "Now will you come? Who knows, maybe you'll meet a young man!" She elbowed Masha. "Someone you can bake roo-gla for."
"Don't be silly. The last thing I want is to spend my life cooking for some old-world husband."
"See! You're more American than you think!"
It was true. If Masha ever returned to the old country, she wouldn't fit in. Nor, she realized suddenly, would she want to. And yet, she didn't want to wear a bob either. Or eat apple pie. She wanted rugelach. And borscht. And to sing the old folk songs to her children. If, that is, she remembered them by the time she had children. She rubbed her temples.
"What's wrong?" Molly asked.
"Do you remember Ireland?"
"Not much, no. Do you remember Poland?"
"Just fragments," Masha said. "I don't want to let go of them."
"Ah." There was understanding in Molly's eyes. "They're part of you, those fragments."
"Yes. Yes, exactly." Masha squeezed Molly's hand as the streetcar swayed again. Despite all their differences, Molly was the best friend Masha had ever had. Molly understood her. "Okay, Molly. I'll come with you," Masha said.
"Oh, Masha, thank you! And you know what, I bet you'll like it more than I do!"
Masha shook her head, already missing the smell of the rugelach dough. She wondered whether her mother would mind.
But Mama was thrilled. "Wonderful, Masha, you need to go out more!"
Rosie came running. "Masha, try my blue dress. And let me put some rouge on your cheeks. No, don't rub it off. Honestly!"
When Molly came by, she pretended to fall over. "Look who's modern now! Seriously, Masha, you're beautiful."
As they walked arm in arm up Unity Street, Masha did feel relaxed. Maybe it was a good thing, getting out sometimes.
When they stepped into the Alliance lobby, Masha gazed around in amazement. "Wait until you see the lecture room," Molly said, pulling her along. It was a classroom, really, but airy and beautifully lit. Masha and Molly took seats near the front, where Stephen was sitting. Molly waved to him, her eyes rounded in a perfect simulation of surprise.
"Welcome to Unity Street Alliance!" The lecturer smiled. "Tonight we'll discuss an art form called mosaic, which has flourished since ancient times." She paused. "I like to think of it as the art of fragments. Here is one of my own attempts, amateur though it may be." She held up a board on which varied bits of ceramic were arranged to form a cohesive design. Masha stared, hand on her heart.
After a few moments, the woman returned the board to her lectern. "Let's begin with the Roman Empire . . ."
Masha glanced at Molly, who was sitting up straight, cheeks flushed. Masha suspected that her own expression was similarly exuberant.
Based on the eleventh paragraph, what does Masha mean when she says that Rosie is "of" America?