Five Parties With My Worst Enemy

by Sharpe, Elle

  “So, I’m supposed to socialize with you all night, Mom? Is that the idea? Because we so rarely get the chance to catch up?”

  Mom insisted that I call her three times a week, minimum. It was usually an hour or more of her complaining about my dad. If I ever had to miss an appointment—even for a gig—she implied it was because I didn’t have sufficient sympathy for her suffering.

  “You’ll survive being separated from your ‘friend’ for an hour or so,” Mom said crisply.

  It occurred to me to wonder whether she might be jealous of Ronan and I. She could sometimes get that way when she saw romantic couples who actually wanted to spend time together.

  Not much to be jealous of yet, mom, I thought. We’ve already been separated for weeks. And we barely get along, even when we are together.

  But, to my surprise, I did sort of miss Ronan now, even though he was only five feet away from me.

  As tradition dictated, we all held each other’s sweaty, clammy hands as we said grace. Mom even checked that Lela and Kyran were holding each other’s hands over at the kids’ table. Then we recited the same generic words of gratitude that we said at every family get-together.

  Finally the rituals came to an end, and we were allowed to eat. Though of course we were expected to pass the dishes around in a slow, controlled circle.

  As the eating finally got started I kept an eye on Ronan and my dad on the far side of the table. I dreaded to find out which level of embarrassing Dad was operating on tonight.

  Of course, I had made the conscious choice to expose Ronan to my family. To see how he would take it. After all, if he thought they were too much to deal with—and that therefore I was too much to deal with—better for him to realize now than find out several months from now. I wouldn’t want to get used to thinking of him as my boyfriend, only to have the rug pulled out from under me.

  No, I reminded myself, I wanted Ronan to see the worst. Even if he then decided that he never wanted to see me again. Even if we never kissed again, or I never felt the warm, comforting feeling of his body next to mine. If I was going to get hurt, better for it to be quick.

  Either way, it would hurt, I realized. I was really becoming invested in this idea of being with Ronan. Which sucked.

  Despite the sounds of several other conversations starting up across the table, I managed to keep one ear on what my dad was saying to Ronan.

  “So,” Dad was asking, “Who exactly are you, anyway?”

  He thought he was making a joke, of course. But it came out sounding rude rather than funny. Like, “Who are you and why is my wife forcing me to sit next to you”. But Ronan just laughed.

  “Norah brought me. She wanted me to meet everyone.”

  He leaned in a little closer to my dad, and I had to strain my ears to hear what came next.

  “I think she might be trying to vet me.”

  Dad grinned.

  “Ah, putting you through your paces, huh? She gets that from her mother. Nothing but tough women in our family. Very hard to please.”

  Dad did not follow Ronan’s lead by lowering his voice. It was far too easy for me to hear what he was saying. Nevertheless, I went on as if I was ignoring everything on that side of the table, and passed the plate of green beans on to my mother.

  “You’re not going to take any?” she asked. “Norah, you need to eat more vegetables.”

  Well, I was pretty sure she wasn’t paying attention to Dad’s conversation. Otherwise she might not have said something that so aptly proved his point. I took some beans, because I was in the mood for eavesdropping, not arguing.

  “So,” I heard Dad continue, “How did you meet Norah?”

  “In business school,” Ronan said. “But we reconnected recently at a party for some mutual friends—Chris and Jen?”

  “Hmmm,” Dad said. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  I’d been friends with Jen since middle school, but, you know, whatever.

  “So have you heard Norah sing yet?” Dad asked. “She’s got a terrific voice. Just terrific.”

  “Yes, I have actually,” Ronan said. “I think-”

  I lost the thread of the conversation after that, because Jacob and Aiden were having a loud discussion about hot up-and-coming startups. I was surprised about how annoyed this made me. I guess my pathetic little ego really wanted to hear Ronan compliment me again.

  The next words I caught were my Dad’s.

  “-prodigy. She can sing anything, learn any song-” he snapped his fingers. “-like that. I was sure she was destined for the opera, or for Broadway. Something like that. Even a pop music career would have been something. I tried to go that route, when I was younger. Yup, had a band and everything. Had to give that up. Sarah insisted you know. Said a music career couldn’t support a family. But then, I also didn’t have the kind of talent that Norah has-”

  You’d be forgiven for thinking that Dad might have slipped some gin into his sparkling red grape soda cocktail. But no. He was perfectly capable of launching into his “stolen dreams” sob story while stone-cold sober.

  “So,” Mom asked, interrupting my train of thought, “How are your applications going?”

  It took me a second to focus on what she was saying.

  “Applications?” I asked. “What applications?”

  “Surely you’re applying for something?” she asked. “Graduate school? Jobs?”

  Ah.

  “Nope. Not applying for any jobs, or any schools, or anything else.” I took a bite green bean and crunched it. “I have had a few gigs recently though.”

  “I see.”

  “Gigs,” was a dirty word in my mother’s vocabulary. Which, to be fair, was my dad’s fault. He’d gotten a lot of “gigs” when I was younger. At the local street fair. At coffee shops. Most didn’t pay very well. Some paid nothing. But he’d always seemed sure that they were stepping stones on the path to fame and fortune. Sometimes he even had to pay to play in a show, but he was positive it was worth it. “For the exposure.”

  I hated when Mom assumed that I was acting just like him. Even though sometimes I was afraid that I was.

  “I’m making okay money, you know. Between YouTube and Patreon, and the money I get paid for doing shows. I mean, it’s not a huge amount, but I’m getting by.”

  Mom looked scandalized.

  “‘Getting by?’ Is that what you aspire to? What happens if you stop getting these ‘gigs?’ Or when your little group of followers loses interest in you?”

  I groaned inwardly.

  “You always ask me that.”

  “Well, and you never have a good answer.”

  “-doesn’t understand,” I heard my dad say from across the table. “Sarah’s never understood how special Norah is. Not like I do. I’m the one who always has to encourage her to pursue her gifts. ‘Take a chance,’ I tell her. ‘You only have one life, so you better live it!’ But Sarah’s always trying to discourage her. Getting into her head about how she’ll never be successful. I bet if it wasn’t for Sarah-”

  “Norah, I know your father likes to put these delusions of grandeur into your head,” my mother’s voice next to me cut in, “But you simply have to be practical. His fantasies aren’t going to pay your bills and put a roof over your head-”

  “-she’d probably be a big star by now, if not for Sarah making her doubt every step she takes with her music. It’s like she wants to see her talent get wasted-

  “I know he thinks he can use you to make up for his shortcomings-”

  “She just wants to control Norah, the way she controls everything else-”

  My parents’ voices grew louder and louder. I was sure they must be able to hear each other now. Especially since the rest of the table had started to go quiet.

  “I doubt he even thinks about your future. About your ability to pay your rent. About saving for retirement-”

  Now it seemed like Mom was deliberately throwing her voice in Dad’s direction.

  “Yo
u see, deep down, all Sarah really cares about is money. She doesn’t understand how there can be anything more to life than that. Try to have a meaningful conversation with her and she’ll just look blankly at you. But she’s happy as long as she’s got her marble countertops, and her fancy dinner parties…”

  His voice sounded joke-y and upbeat, like he was endearingly describing a few of his beloved spouse’s wacky habits. But he couldn’t hide the vitriol of the words.

  And his voice was loud enough now that I could detect a hint of a slur in it. He was good at hiding it when he got tipsy. But I’d also gotten good at reading the signs.

  Most people at the table were now focused on the drama being tossed back and forth between Mom and Dad. Sure, they were trying not to show how intently they were listening. But their polite, murmured, fake conversations weren’t fooling anyone.

  Still, if they were going to pretend everything was fine then I could try to shut this down before it got too ugly.

  “Excuse me,” I said to my mother.

  I placed a firm hand on her shoulder. I hoped that it communicated “Chill the F out.” She glared, offended, but she did stop talking, so that was something.

  I got up from my seat and made my way over to Dad’s side of the table. He was still happily monologuing about Mom’s unlikable qualities.

  I was about to suggest that he step into the hall for a moment, take a few calming breaths. But he saw me approaching and leapt to his feet before I could speak.

  “Oh, hi honey!”

  He greeted me enthusiastically. Apparently he’d just remembered that he hadn’t actually said hello to his precious, “special” daughter since arriving home. He wrapped me in a big shaking-you-back-and-forth bear hug that knocked the air out of me.

  “Hi, Dad,” I replied, with the little oxygen left in my lungs.

  “I was just singing your praises to—sorry what was your name again?”

  “Ronan,” Ronan said. His eyes asked me a silent question. Maybe, “What the hell is up with your Dad?” or “Do you need me to do something?”

  I tried to send, “I can handle this on my own, thanks,” back to him through telekinesis.

  “Hey, Dad, why don’t we-”

  “Have a jam session! That’s a great idea! I’ll go get my guitar!”

  He was definitely drunk. Asshole. “Sparking soda cocktail” my ass.

  Mom couldn’t hold herself back at that point.

  “No guitars at the dinner table,” she said in a sing-songy voice from across the room. Her mouth wore a strained nagging-housewife smile. She was trying to be pleasant in front of the rest of the family, even as she put her foot down. “It’s not appropriate!”

  She didn’t yell, but she didn’t need to. Her voice naturally carried to every corner of the room. It sort of reminded me of Allison’s voice, now that I thought about it. Clearly it ran in the family. I just hadn’t managed to inherit it.

  Around the table, forks hovered in midair, and all conversation came to a halt. No one could pretend not to notice Mom when she was calling across the room like that.

  Barely ten minutes into dinner, and we’d already reached the tipping point.

  “Oh, no one minds!” my Dad replied jovially. “They’d love some dinnertime entertainment. Right, folks? What do you say?”

  No one said anything, which was probably the smartest move they could have made.

  “Sit down, Robert,” my mom said. Her smiling, patronizing voice made me feel secondhand embarrassment on my dad’s behalf.

  “You see, this is just what I mean,” Dad said, ignoring Mom and turning to Ronan. “No wonder Norah’s been so stuck in her career. Sarah never even lets her perform. It’s always ‘inappropriate.’” His voice turned to a high whine when he quoted my mom. “She gave Norah stage fright, you know. Made her think no one ever wanted to hear her sing-”

  “There is a time and a place, Robert,” Mom said. Her voice strained as she attempted to keep it even. “No one needs to be singing at the dinner table. And no, they don’t want to hear it. Does anyone here want to have their pleasant, peaceful dinner interrupted?” she asked the table.

  Again, silence.

  “See, despite what you may think, your precious ‘artistic expression’ is not the most important thing in the world. Now why don’t you focus on your family for once, instead of your selfish-”

  “Oh, I’m selfish now am I?” Dad asked, laughing. His smile was way too wide. “I don’t care about my family? I’m just trying to encourage my daughter. I care about her. You just want to boss her around.”

  “Guys,” I said, trying to interject, “Why don’t we save this conversation for-”

  “Oh? And what about your daughter’s future?” Mom asked. Her smile threatened to crack her face open. “What about her ability to support herself, and not end up dead in a ditch somewhere? Have you even thought to ask her how her job search is going? No, of course not. You think she can survive on melodies and rainbows.”

  Everyone at the table sat completely paralyzed as insults spoken in sickly-sweet voices flew wildly over their heads. I wondered how two people could have so little shame. Did they really think no one would notice that they were fighting as long as they weren’t shouting at each other?

  “Why don’t we ask Norah?” Dad asked. He turned his grinning face towards me, like he was telling me a funny joke. “Norah, which one of your parents has ruined your life, me or your mother?”

  This was not the first time my parents had been ridiculous to each other. It wasn’t the first time they’d done it in front of the whole family, either. But this was a lot less subtle than usual. And it had escalated very quickly. And Ronan had never been there to witness it all before. His eyes glimmered darkly with some emotion close to anger that I couldn’t quite pinpoint, and I felt deeply ashamed. A torrent of thoughts rushed through my brain.

  Well, now he definitely thinks they’re crazy. And me too, probably. If I wasn’t such a hopeless screw-up, they wouldn’t be fighting over me. He thinks I’m pathetic. Pathetic girl with a crazy family. He can’t believe that he, Ronan Baylor, has willingly put himself in contact with people like this.

  My Dad was still grinning expectantly at me, still waiting for me to answer his stupid question.

  “I...I need to go,” I said. And I walked out of the room.

  Ronan

  I could hardly blame Norah for wanting to get away from that mess. Her parents were behaving atrociously. It reminded me of more than one of the fights that I’d witnessed between my own parents, and I had half a mind to give them both a talking to.

  But I saw the way that Norah’s eyes had started to glisten as she left the room, and the way she had avoided everyone else’s curious looks. As though she was the one who was ashamed.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Mr. and Mrs. Green, treating them with far more courtesy than they deserved. I pushed my way up from my seat and followed Norah down the hall.

  I nudged open the door of her childhood bedroom and found her lying stomach-down on the small bed. Her face was a grim mask, and her eyes were shiny with moisture.

  I hesitated for a second before crossing the threshold, wondering if she wanted to be alone with her frustration. But the sight of her distressed face was too much to bear. I took a few steps inside and closed the door behind me.

  “Are you...okay?” I asked gently.

  Norah made a stifled sort of sobbing sound. And then the tears started rolling down her cheeks.

  I quickly crossed the floor to reach her. I heard her whisper, “I’m so sorry.”

  I sat down beside her on the edge of the bed. I wondered how much comfort trial-boyfriends were allowed to give to their trial-girlfriends. But then I realized that even if Norah had been nothing but a friend I still would have wanted to make her feel better.

  I patted her softly on the shoulder.

  “You?” I asked. “What are you sorry for?”

  She tried to steady her
breath, and wiped the tears from under her eyes. I began drawing careful, soothing circles on her back, like I had before when she had been freaking out at the gala. It felt good to touch her this way. To steady her.

  Her breathing grew smoother. She was calmer, because of my touch. The thought of that made my chest ache a little.

  “I didn’t think they would get...like that...so quickly,” she sniffled. “I even had hopes they could restrain themselves in front of a stranger. I’m sorry they were so rude to you.”

  “From what I could see they treated you far worse,” I told her. “But in any case you don’t need to apologize for them. They aren’t your responsibility.”

  “Aren’t they?” she asked.

  “No.” I said it emphatically.

  I sympathized with her. Far too often I felt like my entire family was my responsibility. But she shouldn’t have to cry over the way her parents were acting. That was their problem, not hers.

  “They were fighting about me.”

  “That argument wasn’t about you,” I said. I couldn’t help but be irritated on her behalf. “It’s not fair of them to put you in the middle like that.”

  “Yeah,” Norah sighed, sitting up. “They fight with each other through me a lot. My mom thinks I’m going to turn into an irresponsible loser like my dad, my dad thinks I’m going to turn into an uptight psycho like mom. It’s a whole thing.”

  I took a good look at her, still trying to smear the tears off of her face. Even when she was emotional she still had a fierceness about her.

  “I’m pretty sure my entire personality is just their two worst fears mashed together,” Norah went on. “My mom is right—my dad is a delusional deadbeat. And my mom is uptight and miserable. I live in terror of becoming either one of them.”

  I sensed that she had studied her parent’s fights pretty carefully over the years, and now knew all their nuances. And that as a result she was far more sensitive and self-aware than either of them would ever be.

  “I don’t think you need to worry about turning into either of them,” I told her. “You’re your own person.”