by Sharpe, Elle
Mother was not going to be happy with him.
Barron took no notice of the disapproving way I eyed his wardrobe. He was too busy with a fun new game called, “Guess who Ronan’s ‘lucky lady,’ is.” As with most things in his life, he was not taking it very seriously.
“Is it her?” He pointed to a lace-clad woman in her mid-eighties.
“No,” I said dryly.
“What about her?”
“That’s our aunt Kathleen.”
“Oh, so aunts are off the table?”
I rolled my eyes, but I let him continue. The longer he blabbered, the longer I could keep him away from Norah.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t delay him forever. After all, we had a deal.
“Come on brother, you can’t keep this girl hidden forever. I’ve got my phone on hand. I can start live-streaming at any time…”
“Fine,” I grumbled, and nudged my head in Norah’s direction.
She was standing alone in front of a large black-and-gray abstract painting. She looked at it as though it was very fascinating, though, objectively, it was not. I suspected she was trying to give herself something to do to avoid making smalltalk.
Barron wasted no time. He made a B-line straight for her. I matched my pace to his, to make sure he wasn’t alone with her any longer than necessary.
I hadn’t given Barron many details about Norah’s and my “relationship.” Or lack thereof. He knew that we weren’t officially involved, or anything close to it, but he didn’t know that Norah might not even like me. That mostly what we had done together consisted of hate-fucking. Or hate-almost-fucking.
Telling Barron any of that would have just given him more ammunition in his obvious quest to embarrass me. So I’d kept all information about Norah intentionally vague. I was hoping to keep the conversation between them simple and short, and avoid too many direct references to anything sexual between us.
But then again, this was Barron we were talking about.
He tapped Norah on the shoulder, not caring how rude it was to touch a stranger.
“Excuse me,” he said, in his most mock-charming voice.
I geared myself up for some kind of horrible come-on on or off-color comment.
But then Norah turned around, and he made a noise of delighted surprise.
“Hey!” he said, “I know you! Jukebox Girl!”
A practiced smile crept onto Norah’s lips—a smile that told me people recognized her by this name often.
But then she saw me, and looked between Barron and me, and put two and two together. We looked different in many ways, but the family resemblance was striking. The smile faded. She was less used to Baylor family members addressing her by what I assumed was her semi-famous social media moniker.
Honestly, I was a bit surprised myself that Barron had heard of her. Norah had acted pretty modest about this online endeavor of hers, whatever it was. I’d assumed it was a minor, side-project sort of thing. But from Barron’s tone, you’d have thought she was a household name. Then again, Barron lived his whole life through the lens of his phone. He had a much better idea what was going on in the social media world than most people did.
“Uh, yeah, hi,” Norah said warily, extending her hand out to him. “Except, not tonight. Just Norah tonight.”
“Norah, this is my brother, Barron. Barron, this is Norah Green. Norah’s covering for Angelica, after her accident,” I explained.
I watched Norah’s eyes widen slightly, as something clicked together in her brain.
“I’m not covering for Angelica Bianchi, am I?” she asked accusingly. “As in the world-renowned soprano, well known for her love of alpine skiing, recently broke her leg in a skiing accident?”
“Yes,” I said, slowly. “I didn’t know she was world-renowned. I just knew our mom was a big fan. I don’t know a lot about opera, but mom loves it.”
“Wait, you replaced Angelica Bianchi with Jukebox Girl?” Barron asked, giggling like a stupid child. “Mom is going to Flip. Out. No offense, Norah.”
Norah looked like she might grab a painting off the wall and smash it over my head.
“None taken,” she said, steadily. Her voice was powered by a subtle undercurrent of rage. “Like I said, I’m just Norah tonight. Hopefully that won’t be too disappointing. Excuse me.”
She started walking away, but Barron followed her.
“Wait,” he said, “You mean you’re not doing your whole-” he waved his hands vaguely through the air, “-thing?”
“Definitely not,” she threw a glance back at me. “I’m not in the mood to court any more judgements from the Baylor family, thanks.”
I balked. Were we back to being enemies that fast? That was quick.
“Oh, fuck the Baylors,” Barron said. Norah gave a surprised laugh. “I am one, so I can say that. Fuck their up-tight, judgmental bullshit right in the ass.”
“Barron, please watch your language,” I said reflexively.
He grinned. I’d set myself up.
“See? That. Fuck that. Don’t let The Man tell you what to do, Norah. You do you.”
Norah looked a little shocked by Barron’s over-the-top behavior, but it also seemed to put her at ease. She’d uncrossed her arms from in front of her chest. She was smiling at him, sharing in the joke.
“Sounds like pretty great advice to me,” she said, casting a meaningful glance my way. Barron noticed. His perception could be annoyingly sharp when he actually decided to pay attention.
“Has he been given you a hard time, babe? Tell me everything. I’ll kick his Patrick-Bateman-looking business school ass.”
I smarted internally at that. I did not look like Patrick Bateman. I didn’t have a mullet, for one thing.
Norah snorted and grinned at him.
“I’ll hold you to that,” she replied.
What the fuck? Were Norah and Barron actually bonding? Over their mutual need to see me as an asshole? What a fun twist to the evening.
“Although, maybe you’d rather do it yourself?” Barron asked, raising a cheeky eyebrow at her.
“It’s often tempting,” she said, looking over at me.
The smile on her face was wicked. It might have been flirtatious, or evil, or both. I was no longer entirely sure what was happening, but I had a feeling that she was trying to draw me into some kind of game. Except I hadn’t agreed to any game, and I didn’t know the rules.
The only concrete thought I had was that if she wanted me to do something, I was going to do the opposite. If she was trying to bait me into an argument, she was going to be disappointed.
I smiled at her without malice.
“Please,” I said. “Feel free, any time. ”
Her eyebrows arched up.
“You’re giving me a free pass to kick your ass? I could get pretty abusive, you know.”
“If you did, I’m sure it would be because I deserved it. You seem to have good judgement about that sort of thing. Better than me, anyway.”
For a second she seemed baffled about how to reply to this. Ha. Point to me.
Barron looked between us with keen-eyed interest.
“Ronan, are you suggesting that this fine young lady here might know better than you about something? Goodness gracious,” he put on his “scandalized” voice, which for some reason sounded like an old southern woman. “I never did think I’d see the day.”
“Well, it’s not every day that someone like Norah comes around.”
She squinted at me. Like, What’s your game, Baylor.
I offered her another of my brightest smiles. No game, Green.
The bumping sound of a microphone coming online interrupted our silent conversation. The event organizer had taken to the stage to let everyone know that the auction portion of the evening was coming to an end, and it was time to take our seats for dinner.
“I like you,” Barron said, pointing at Norah. “You’re sitting at our table.”
“The seats are assigned, Barron,”
I reminded him.
“Eh, just switch the name cards around. No one cares.”
People definitely cared.
“I don’t have a name card,” Norah said. “I’m not a guest. I’m pretty sure there’s a place in the back for the staff to eat-”
“Screw that!” Barron said, waving his hand dismissively. “How lame. You should be allowed at the table. You’re not a peasant! Take my seat. I’ll stand.”
Norah didn’t exactly look comfortable with this offer. She’d never been particularly social at the best of times, and I imagined she wasn’t eager to hobnob with this crowd. Or to draw their judgement by breaking the rules.
“And what are you going to do then?” I asked Barron. “Hover over the table like a fly?”
“See?” he said. “Ronan hates this idea. That means you should definitely do it.”
Norah smiled. Apparently that was all the persuasion she needed.
Dinner was an awkward affair. And not just because Barron, now seatless, decided to flit from table to table, asking annoying questions and stealing food off of people’s plates.
Every time I tried to make polite, normal conversation with Norah, she shot an insult back at me. When I told her that I liked her neighborhood she told me not to patronize her. When I asked her to tell me more about her friendship with Jen, she said, “Why, are you, like, studying the concept of friendship from an anthropological perspective, to make up for your lack of real-world experience?” When I said I was looking forward to hearing her perform she looked like she wanted to spit her bite of glazed salmon into my eye.
And then she started playing with her food. A truly childish move, but it seemed obvious at that point that she was daring me to comment. First she made little animal sculptures out of her mashed sweet potato, and then she began shifting the quinoa around on her plate, until the little piles spelled out, “jerk,” complete with an arrow pointing in my direction.
She saw me read the word and looked up, half afraid and half expectant. The way a little kid looks when their parent catches them doing something bad that they were only doing for attention in the first place. I leaned in close to her, and heard her suck in a sip of breath. Her fists tightened, like she was gearing up for a fight.
“Norah,” I said, in a tone of grave concern. “Don’t be alarmed, but I think the quinoa is trying to communicate.”
She snorted, so hard that she doubled over. And then started making light choking noises.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She nodded, but then she started wheezing slightly.
“Norah, can you breath?”
She gave a half nod, but it turned into a shake of the head.
I quickly pulled her up to standing. Our table-mates turned in alarm as they realized someone was choking in their midst.
Without wasting any time I leaned Norah over the back of her chair and wrapped my arms around her middle. After two hard thrusts a pink chunk of salmon flesh shot out of her mouth, onto the table cloth.
Everyone at our table—and every surrounding table—immediately started asking Norah if she was all right, all at the same time. She slowly slid back into her chair, assuring everyone she was fine. It took several more rounds of assurances before they were satisfied that they had adequately shown concern, and could go back to their meals. In the meantime one of the waitstaff came around to discreetly carry away the salmon chunk in a napkin.
“Well,” Norah mumbled, after all the hubbub had died down. “That was embarrassing.”
“Sorry about that,” I said. “I swear I wasn’t trying to murder you with lame humor.”
She gave me a reluctant smile.
“Would have been a pretty good plan though. No physical evidence left behind. The coroner would blame the idiot girl who scarfed down her food too fast, not the devious joke-teller who sat back and watched her die.”
“The message in the quinoa might have cast some suspicion on me, though.”
“Ha. Right. They’d think I’d written it in my dying moments, and you’d have been busted. ‘Read the quinoa! The jerk did it!’”
“The straight laced cops wouldn’t believe it, but there’d be one maverick detective, determined to find the truth…”
We were actually grinning at each other now. Heads close together and laughing, like we were the only two people at the table. On a sudden whim I put my hand over hers.
“I don’t think the motive was murder, though,” I said, staring straight at her. She wasn’t laughing anymore. “I think the culprit just wanted an excuse to put his arms around you.”
I expected her to come back with something snide, or at least to her to turn away. But she didn’t.
“Ahem,” came a voice from the stage. “Hello, is this thing on?”
The event organizer had taken to the stage and started her welcoming remarks. The woman had an unfortunately high-pitched voice, which killed the mood slightly. As she started thanking everyone for coming and for their generous contributions, Norah’s hand slipped out from under mine.
“And now,” the organizer concluded, “I’m so pleased to welcome to the stage the woman who had brought us all together tonight. She’s dedicated herself tirelessly to this very important cause, and without her the Baylor Scholarship for Artistic Excellence would not exist. So please join me in welcoming Cora Baylor to the stage!”
The crowd applauded politely. One particular person applauded needlessly loudly, right above my head. He also wolf whistled. I looked up to see Barron standing above me.
Mom sent a warning glare his way as she climbed up the steps onto the stage. It was subtle— only a family member who knew her looks well would have caught it.
As usual she was a picture of elegance—long black evening gown, every one of her dark hairs in place, just the right amount of natural-looking make-up. Mom was one of those older women who wore their years with pride. The guests looked up at her with respect, and a little bit of awe. She was the queen of the gala-going set, and they were her subjects.
Looking to my side, I saw that Norah was awed too. She took a nervous swig of water as Mom took the microphone from the organizer’s hands.
“Thank you so much, Patty” Mom said, in her smooth, commanding, speech-giving voice. “And an enormous thank you to all of you, for being here tonight, and for supporting the mission of this organization.
“I began the Baylor Scholarship for Artistic Excellence ten years ago, because I held this simple belief: talent, true talent, wherever it is found, deserves to be fostered. Not only that, but we have a responsibility to foster that talent.
“No one becomes a skilled painter, a virtuosic pianist, or a graceful dancer overnight. It takes time, mentorship, and resources to develop artistry. Some of us are fortunate enough to have access to those resources, but many talented children are not so lucky. Their gifts go undeveloped, and the scope of their true potential remains unrealized. The world never gets to hear their true voices. And that is a great loss, both for themselves, and for our society.”
Next to me I felt Norah fidget.
“Art has the power to change lives, to change hearts and minds. It speaks to our time, shows us a vision of our world, holds up a mirror to our true souls. Over the past ten years, the recipients of the Baylor Scholarship for Artistic Excellence have used their artistic voices to make an impact.”
She listed several past recipients, and their impressive achievements.
“Without your generous contributions, none of these great artists would have reached the heights they have attained today, and the world would not have known their voices.
“So often we think of art as something frivolous. We equate it with mere entertainment. Our public education system reflects how little value we give to the arts, with more and more schools dropping arts programs from their curriculums. And in today’s fast-paced world of social media and constant distraction, it is easy for true artistry to fall by the cultural wayside. Art is in a battle
for its very survival. So on behalf of myself and everyone at Baylor Arts Access, I want to thank you so much for taking the arts seriously.”
She gave passionate emphasis to the last few words. The room burst into applause, everyone affirming that they did, indeed, take the arts very seriously.
Barron wolf-whistled again.
“Yeah!” he shouted. “Art!”
I contributed some standard applause. Beside me Norah remained still. She looked like she might be feeling ill.
“Are you okay?” I asked her. “Is there still some salmon stuck in there? I’m happy to Heimlich you again.”
“I think I need a drink.”
She stood abruptly and started weaving her way through the tables, making her way towards the open bar at the back of the room.
I stood and followed, catching her by the arm before she got there.
“Hey,” I said, speaking under my breath. “I thought you didn’t drink.”
“I don’t, usually,” she muttered back. And then her eyes sharpened, like she’d finally found an opportunity she’d been waiting for. “Besides, it’s none of your business.”
I released her arm.
“You’re right,” I told her, and gestured towards the bar. “Go ahead.”
She waited a beat, like she didn’t trust me not to argue. Then she turned to the bartender.
“Hello,” she said. “I’d like a drink please. An alcoholic one.”
“Sure thing,” said the bartender cheerfully. “Anything...in particular?”
“When was the last time you had a drink?” I asked Norah. “You might want to stick to beer or wine.”
“Don’t tell me what to do Ronan,” she snapped. Her eyes lit up when she said it.
“Okay,” I said. “I won’t.”
She frowned.
Turning back to the bartender, she said, “Fine, I’ll have a white wine.”
