by Nan Lowe
“Where did you even get these?”
“Do you know how many people get fucked up in this city and leave their shit lying around? Especially IDs. Mitchell knows a guy. I asked him a while back to look out for matches for you and Van. The rest of us are already covered.”
“How much?” I relaxed onto my back and watched as he picked up his shorts and pulled them over his hips.
“Don’t worry about it.” He shrugged and leaned down to grab his shirt from the floor. “I took care of it.”
“Who else is going?” Since it appeared we were leaving the bedroom, I sat up and reached for my own clothes.
“Troya, Sonny, and Penn. We’ll probably run into some others down there. I guess we’ll see.”
I followed him down the hall, through the kitchen, and out onto the porch. He pulled me down onto his lap and reached for the bong we’d left on the table. He held it up to my face, lit the bowl, and palmed my ass as I inhaled.
Once we were stoned again, he made grilled cheese sandwiches for us. Mitchell showed up close to dinnertime and offered to give me a ride home since my dad had made it clear my family had plans, ones that included me, for the evening. Oliver rode with us and kissed me goodbye on the sidewalk in front of the gate.
“Be at Troya’s tomorrow around 3:00,” he said before they drove away.
I nodded and turned to face the house. Every light was burning on both floors. To anyone else, it’d be a welcoming beacon, but to me, it was scrutiny and discomfort.
My mother walked by at the same moment I stepped inside the front door. “Oh, good. You’re home. Get changed so we can go to dinner, okay, honey?”
“Sure,” I said. Since she was already down the hall and in my parents’ room—adding last-minute jewelry and perfume, no doubt—I continued on the stairs, mumbling to no one but myself. “My day was good. How was yours?”
I jumped and nearly fell backward when Van answered, “Not bad.”
He was dressed in khakis and a rugby. “Where are we going?”
“Dinner at the Murphys’.”
“That’s their idea of quality time for the family?” The Murphys were old school. Dinner was served in a formal dining room, on the family’s finest china, and by a staff of well-paid servants. Mr. Murphy was a big shot lawyer, and Mrs. Murphy was a calculus professor in my mother’s department at Tulane. They’d both been born into money, and dinners at their house were always boring.
“George is home for the weekend, so at least there’s that.” Van smiled at the thought of our mutual crush. The Murphys may have been tiresome as hell, but their son was amazing: handsome, kind, funny, and smart. His best quality was being the exact opposite of his parents in every way.
“This might not be so bad,” I agreed.
It took me longer than usual to get ready, because I was still a bit stoned and couldn’t decide which dress was cutest. Miss Verity called up the stairs after a half hour of indecision. “The red one, Violet. Y’all are going to be late!”
She was right. Bright red had never looked particularly attractive with my natural hair color, but it looked great with my new hairdo. I didn’t bother with makeup or a hairbrush. Freshly fucked was a good look on me.
My mother didn’t think so. “Do something with your hair, Violet. Did you ride with the windows down on your way home?”
“I did,” I lied.
She pulled a brush from her purse and handed it to me. “Fix it.”
When she finally found me acceptable, we moved through the house to the back door. Miss Verity was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping lemonade, and thumbing through a Reader’s Digest. “Y’all have fun.”
“You’re really not coming?” I asked as I walked by her.
“I have an appointment at 8:00, and it’s one I can’t cancel.”
“I’m sure you’re heartbroken.”
She caught on to my tone, and the corner of her mouth turned up in a grin. “I’ll get by.” She leaned back in her chair, tilted her head, and said, “Meanwhile, I think you’re going to be surprised. Now, go or you really will be late.”
I mulled over her words during the short drive to the Murphy residence. My father parked, and then Van walked around to open my car door. We followed our parents down the walkway, up the porch steps, and stopped behind them at the front door. Manners had been drilled into us since toddlerhood. Miss Verity was as stern as she was sweet, especially when it came to etiquette.
George Murphy was less interested in social graces. He opened the front door and waved my parents in. His dark hair looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in weeks, and he’d grown a long beard since the last time we’d seen him. It wasn’t as dramatic as ZZ Top, but it had rock-star quality. It was hot. “Hey, guys,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Nothing, man.” Van shook his hand, while I stood silent. “You know how it is.”
George nodded. He asked about our new school and waved for us to follow him down the hall. His father’s idea of a game room was a billiards table and an electric dartboard. There was a stained glass lamp hanging in the center of the room and a corner bar with two stools.
“Do you play?”
Van and I looked at each other.
“I don’t,” I said.
Van shrugged. “I can shoot.”
George found it unacceptable I was going to graduate from high school with no clue how to play pool. “We’ll show you,” he said.
There was more touching than I thought there would be. It wasn’t anything intentional or flirty, but having his skin on mine and his voice near my ear made my heart race and palms sweat. Before that night, George had never spoken to me or my brother. I was still in middle school when he’d graduated from high school and taken off to California for college. Being on his radar had been a lifelong dream.
They laughed and complimented me when I sank my first shot. After that, the coaching took place from a stool. George watched Van kick my ass, but they both lied and said I did great for a beginner. Mrs. Murphy knocked on the open door before I had a chance to die of embarrassment, but being a loser had never felt so cool.
During dinner, Mrs. Murphy paused her fork over her plate and set her sights on me. “So, Violet, have you decided on a major?”
I chewed slowly to give myself time to think about my answer. “English. Poe, Hawthorne, maybe Arthurian Legends.”
“We’re still discussing it,” Dad said.
“Huh.” George leaned back in his chair to study my father from across the table.
Miss Verity had been wrong. I’d never felt more like a child. Any cool points I’d earned in the game room vanished into thin air. I wanted to talk back and make some smartass answer, but in the end, it wasn’t worth causing a stir.
“Where are you going to school?” George asked.
My dad laughed and picked up his goblet of unsweetened tea. “Tulane, if she wants me to pay for it.”
I’d had enough. “I’ve applied to Vanderbilt, Auburn, and Southern Methodist University.”
“Methodist?” Dad asked. “Since when?”
“Are her religious choices still being discussed, too?” George crossed his arms.
“That’s enough, George.” Mr. Murphy’s voice was firm. “You’re excused.”
“It’s in Dallas,” I said to my father before George left the table.
Dad dropped his napkin on the table. “I know where it is.”
My mother and Mrs. Murphy sat stunned at the turn of events, and Van was staring at me. Thinking I was leaving and knowing it were two different things.
“Getting away is a good idea, Violet,” George said. He walked backward toward the game room. “See ya next time.”
Aside from the distant cracking of pool balls, the rest of dinner was quiet. Even though George was the one who’d spoken up, it somehow felt like I was in trouble. I still hadn’t made up my mind about leaving New Orleans. It would mean leaving Miss Verity, Van, Troya, and Oliver.
I
t was clear, though, that staying would be accepting that my life was, in fact, up for discussion and not really mine at all.
Dad surprised us by not mentioning the events from dinner during the drive home. Instead, he reminded us that Miss Verity’s client might still be at the house since we were returning earlier than expected. I thought about bringing up college again. Part of me wondered if he’d really cut me off for deciding my own path.
He’d threatened Ronnie, but in the end, he and Mom had spent a week helping her get settled in her new life and home. They’d stood beside her at the justice of the peace and even posed for pictures with her and my new brother-in-law. There had already been talk of them visiting New Orleans for Christmas.
My dad was a big talker, but he rarely walked the walk.
Miss Verity was still busy when we got home that night, so I made my way up to my room. It didn’t take long for Van to knock on the door. We spent a few minutes smoking on the balcony, and then we lost ourselves in TV and conversation until well after midnight. Spending time together with our new friends had helped bring us back together. He’d hung out with me and Oliver a time or two, but he was closer to Troya than the rest of the group.
Van was happy. I was happy. How much of it was real and not drug-induced, I’ll never know.
Miss Verity caught me at the bottom of the stairs the next morning and asked me to ride with her to the cemetery. My parents had been busy every weekend of the month, and it had been a while since my dad had taken her.
She’d already picked fresh flowers from the yard and arranged a small bouquet for the family tomb. Breakfast was hot boudin and grits. Miss Verity put some on a plate for Van and left it covered in the microwave since he was sleeping in. She handed me her car keys on the way out the back door. It was rare for anyone to let me drive, so I jumped at the opportunity to navigate her land yacht.
I found a spot on Sixth, which wasn’t far from the graveyard but was close enough that Miss Verity could make the walk. We took our time, enjoyed the warm, autumn breeze, and let the sun cut a path to the Protestant section. My grandfather’s mother had been the last practicing believer in our family, but the tomb belonged to us—to my family, anyway.
All of my grandfather’s people were in it, including him and my aunt. Someday, Miss Verity would join them in that same dank space. That idea caused a lump in my throat that was hard to breathe around. It was impossible to understand how she could visit the place, because even then, I knew I’d never be able to step through those gates again once Miss Verity became a resident—not unless I ended up buried there, too. “Buried” seemed like the wrong word, though. It was impossible to keep things buried in the City of the Dead.
Miss Verity stopped at our destination and held her hand out to trace the letters of my grandfather’s name first, then my aunt’s. I’d seen her do it a thousand times, but it still made my eyes water.
“Do you know why I come here, Violet?”
The question took me by surprise, and I had to gather my thoughts before answering. “To feel close to them?”
“They’re not here,” she said. “I know that. I come here because your grandfather came to honor his parents, week after week, with flowers after they were gone. He told me they’d done that for their parents years before.”
“Tradition?” I asked.
“No. It’s something more than that. I know it means a lot to him that I still come.”
“That’s sweet.”
“I told myself I wouldn’t do this. I try not to interfere with your lives.” Her pointer finger lingered over the V of my aunt’s name. “When I tried to… My Violet… She didn’t listen. You might not, either, but I love you and feel compelled to say this. Oliver will break your heart. How many times you allow it will be up to you.”
“No, he—”
“I want you to have a long, happy life, Violet, and that’s not something you’re going to find with Oliver.”
I swallowed and looked down at the ground between us. I’d never doubted her before, but I’d never wanted to believe her less. The truth was hard.
“He’s sweet,” I mumbled.
“He’s a very nice boy,” she agreed. “Even Satan was capable of charm when it was necessary.”
“You don’t believe in Satan.”
“Every story has a lesson.” She turned to face me. “I’m not asking you to stop seeing him. I’m asking you to be careful. Stop accepting what you think you deserve. Someday, you’ll know love—a love bigger than you can even imagine.”
Oliver came to mind immediately. I loved him. I loved the way he listened to me and made me feel beautiful. He was sweeter than Elijah in the bedroom and also more daring. In a little over a month, I’d done more with him than my previous boyfriend of over a year, but he never made fun of my lack of experience. Instead, he used it to his advantage. I was an eager learner.
It was obvious Miss Verity didn’t like Oliver, and I wanted to ask why. At the same time, I didn’t want to know. She had her reasons the same way I had mine for loving him. There were few things I hated more than arguing with my grandmother, so I let my rebuttal die on my lips.
She changed the subject, and we spent the rest of the morning talking about school and Ronnie. Miss Verity had talked to her multiple times a week. It stung that my sister hadn’t called me at all. She hadn’t contacted Van, either.
Ronnie was the only reason a religious college in Texas had ended up on my short list of schools, but I wasn’t even worth a phone call to her. On the car ride home, I decided to eliminate Dallas as a potential future home.
Van was waiting for me at the top of the stairs when we walked in the door.
“What time are we leaving?” he asked.
“Is 2:00 good?” I was ready to be out of the house, away from the rest of my family, and with a joint in my hand.
“Yeah,” he answered. “I heated up leftover jambalaya, if you’re hungry.”
I wasn’t. We’d eaten a late breakfast, but since I knew my dinner would be liquid, I forced some down my throat.
Miss Verity kissed us goodbye on the porch, waved, and stood in the sunshine until we turned the corner onto St. Charles. We made it to Troya’s before Sonny or Oliver, so she started with Van and a tube of white face paint.
It was amazing the difference two hours could make. Sonny showed up, we smoked out, and then he got busy. Oliver arrived while I was in the chair being turned into a villainess. By the time the sun set, we’d all been transformed.
Troya made an impressive Sally to Sonny’s Jack. Their makeup was impeccable. Van had gone old school and looked disgusting as Beetlejuice. Oliver’s face was a shadowed skull. Death suited him, though. He was still hot in his black shirt, pants, and combat boots.
I felt out of place as Harley Quinn. So much of my skin was on display, but the others said it helped with the age illusion. Troya had worn the same outfit the Halloween before. Jester hats were easy to find in The Quarter, and since the one she’d used had been ripped to shreds by her cat, I also found a new, black tulle skirt there.
We left Troya’s around 7:00, when darkness shrouded the neighborhood and made our aliases more believable. A few people gave us second glances on the streetcar, but most shrugged us off as party-goers. The streets in the French Quarter were already packed, smelling of piss, beer, and pot. And food. The ever-present smell of Cajun spices was hovering, despite mankind trying to fuck it up.
Our first stop of the night was a small bar on the corner of Bourbon. We split up and walked over as pairs and as individuals. Troya and Sonny went first, because their costumes and the last names on their fake IDs matched. A married couple from Ohio was an easy sell.
Oliver sent me over solo, and I tried to steady my hand when I held out Felicia’s license. After glancing at the pic and the red-and-black tights beneath my skirt, the guy working the door let me pass. Troya had pulled her man onto the dance floor, and they were too busy grinding to notice me, but I was o
n a one-way mission to the bar, anyway.
I didn’t have to wait long, and the bartender barely glanced at me when he asked what I wanted. “Hurricane!” I shouted, setting the license on the hardwood in front of me.
A hand touched my back when the guy brought back my drink. “I’m buying.” A twenty landed next to my fake ID, and George Murphy leaned in to inspect both. “Felicia,” he said to me. He grinned and turned back to our server. “I’ll have a whiskey sour.” He waited for him to walk away before continuing. “Nice earrings. You were wearing those last night.”
“You knew it was me?” I asked.
“Only because I know you.”
His drink arrived, and he lifted it in the air between us. “Cheers.”
“Yeah.” I took a long sip from my hurricane and tried to think of something interesting to say.
“If your dad gave you any shit about it, I’m sorry about last night.”
“He didn’t.”
“Good. Mine never lets up.”
“Virgil’s good at ignoring us until it’s too late,” I said, bringing the straw to my lips for another pull.
“I heard about Ronnie. How’s she doing?”
“Constipated.”
He spit out his whiskey, showering my chest with sticky backwash. “Fuck.” He reached across the bar and tried to use a handful of napkins to dry me. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I took the napkins from him to get his hands away from my cold, hard, embarrassing nipples.
“No, it’s not fucking okay,” Oliver said from behind us.
I pushed away from the bar to block his path. “Hey.” A kiss on his chin eased some of the tension in his shoulders. “This is George. Our moms work together.” George was focused on Oliver’s hand at my waist. “George, this is Oliver…”
My what?
My friend? My fuckbuddy? My drug dealer?
It’s not like I could’ve introduced him as my boyfriend.
George stood and held out a hand, but Oliver simply stared at him. Van saved the day by finally showing up. After a few minutes, it was clear Van was more George’s type. It didn’t take long for them to drift away from us and out onto the street. A few minutes later, Van texted he’d see me back at home.