“If I want?”
“I’ve got to go.” And then I hang up, sure I’ve done something wrong, resenting the entire situation. I didn’t make my bed; my family made it for me. I was the one who refused to lie in it; I was the one who clawed my way out and built my own empire. And now, because of circumstances beyond my control, I’m supposed to drop everything I’m doing and go back into the den of roaches? I’d rather go the other way: grab Lucy’s hand and pull her out to stand beside me. She didn’t love our father either. She simply feels obligation as if it were love.
But I’m still unsettled, staring into the darkened glass. Because I know what Lucy would say if I told her that.
What do you know about love?
I put my cell phone back on my desk. Then, because it doesn’t align perfectly with the corner, I adjust it so it does. I walk to one end of my all-white office then back. I’m at a curious impasse. I’ve already lost most of my morning, and here I am, doing nothing at all.
Eventually I pick up the phone and tap the button for my receptionist.
“Get me Dreadnought Records,” I say.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AURORA
WE’RE BOTH WEARING LITTLE BLACK dresses — Jasmine’s decidedly more scandalous than my conservative number — when she rushes up to me and grips my arm like a kid giggling to her mother.
“I have good news and better news,” she says, her green eyes like little round lanterns in the elegant room.
“It’s open bar?”
“Okay, I have good news, more good news, and even better news!”
I feel myself squint. I was kidding. This is supposed to be an official university event — an honors reception featuring the dean and stuffy agendas written in a sensible font. Why is there even a bar at all? This is a swanky place, so maybe the waiters could offer to bring us a glass of wine or something. But a bar? And not just a bar — but an open bar?
“I give up,” I tell Jasmine. She’s all giggly and has been since we got ready. Her hair is up in a beautiful red swoop, and for once her cleavage looks elegant more than salacious, though the evening is young, with alcohol flowing.
“You’ll never guess who the speaker is.”
“Dean Quincy?”
“No.”
She says nothing, just keeps staring with those Christmas-morning eyes.
“Why don’t you just tell me?”
“Guess.”
“Rip Torn.”
“Who’s that?”
“Just tell me, Jas.”
“It’s Hunter Altman.”
It takes me a minute to place the name. Then: “What, the music guy?”
She nods. “The LA producer. You know. He discovered Diamond Rough?”
“Hmm,” I say.
“What, that’s your reaction?”
“Yay,” I amend, putting zero enthusiasm into my voice.
“You’re not impressed?”
“I’m not into music like you are. Besides, what does Hunter Altman have to do with USF honors?”
“He’s an alumnus.”
“So what?”
Jasmine is rolling her eyes then sort of pouting at me. I’d better pretend to be more wowed by this misaligned non-news, or I’ll be facing a bout of sullenness about how I’m never any fun.
“Well. That’s interesting. So what’s he speaking about?”
“I don’t know.” Jasmine shrugs. “Who cares? He’s fucking hot.”
“Well, that certainly qualifies him to speak.”
“You aren’t impressed.”
“I’m super-impressed, Jasmine. Really. I’m over the moon. Look at me. But anyway, whatever. What’s the ‘better news’?”
“Ohmygod. Ohmygod, Aurora, you’re not going to believe this. Guess.”
“I don’t want to guess. Why don’t you just — ?”
“He brought Blonde Ambition with him!”
“The band? What, are they speaking, too?”
“They’re playing! At our thing! Here! Tonight!”
“You’re kidding me.” I don’t understand any of this. These events are obligatory bullshit, sufferable only because advisers like to see that students actually care about the awards we’re given for our supposed excellence, even though no student in history ever actually has. There are never any good speakers, entertainment, alcohol, or fun. And, by the way, no budget. How can the school afford this? Is this why I’m accumulating such massive student loans?
I look around. I see Dean Quincy. He’s wearing his usual bow tie, his hair straight out of a 1980s movie about jocks versus nerds.
“Someone is messing with you.”
“I saw Laura Denali in the other room, setting up!” She points. But I’m still having trouble believing any of this.