I climb the ladder up to my bunk and crawl under the covers, my Philosophy of Religion book tucked under my arm. I don’t know how it’s possible to get behind on the first day of school, but somehow I’ve managed to do it. These professors don’t screw around. I need to be well-versed on the finer points of Judaism by morning. That’s what I should have been doing the past two hours instead of baking in the student kitchen. The things I do for rule-breaking and trouble-making.
“I already told you. He looked like a bridge troll with a bad attitude. I don’t know what else you want me to say.” I crack my book and prop my head on my pillows, settling in to read for the rest of the night.
Pfft. No one sneers at the smell of my baked goods. No one. So what if the chest he rammed into me with is broad and toned. Big damn deal. And who cares if he has sun-kissed freckles speckled across the bridge of his nose? That nose sits on top of his twisted, obnoxious lips. Yep, total bridge troll.
“Honestly, it’s a miracle that he’s the first jerk I’ve run into here. All the other students and professors have been so nice. There’s a weed in every garden, so whatever.”
“Trying to study here,” Charlotte says as she flips the pages with way more force than necessary. “So you dropped your stupid cake. It’s hard to believe, but the Earth will still turn.”
“No cake for you,” I grumble under my breath just as my phone rings. Delilah grabs it off my desk and tosses it up into my bunk.
It’s Evelyn.
I take in a steadying breath and tap the green button. A kaleidoscope of butterflies takes flight in my stomach at the sight of her name. I guess it feels a bit different, a little more real, to talk to my mother without the buffer of my dad. It’s just us, and that’s a little scary.
“Hi Evelyn. How are you?” I hop down and make my way to the door. I don’t want an audience for our conversation.
“Darling! Did you make it? Are you finally here?” Her voice is like velvet, deep and rich. So freaking fancy.
I shut the door behind me and sit against the wall in the hallway. “Yes, I’m here. I moved in the dorm two days ago.”
“Two days ago? I thought today was move-in day. I’m such a forgetful one, Marlo, don’t mind me. I never can keep my days straight. One runs right into the other, don’t they? The life of an artist, I guess,” she says.
I finger the cigar band ring on my index finger. Evelyn used melted down metal from Katrina rubble to fashion this particular ring. The dark gray metal and filigree design are reminiscent of cast iron balconies found throughout the Quarter. My mother is Evelyn James, New Orleans jewelry designer, married to Oliver James IV, CEO of Falcon Industries. After looking up Oliver’s company on the internet, the best I can come up with is that Falcon Industries has something to do with oil and it’s ginormous … and important, I guess. Whatever, the bottom line is Evelyn’s work is exponentially more interesting and cooler than his.
“Yes, I guess so,” I agree, but I have no clue. What do I know about Evelyn’s life, or any artist’s life, for that matter?
I rack my brain for something, anything, to say, but it’s completely void of intelligible thoughts. How convenient?
“Oliver and I want you to come for dinner Thursday night, Marlo. How does that sound? We’ll order something delicious from my favorite market, and you can tell me all about your first week at the Academy. I won’t try to poison you with my attempts at cooking.” She laughs at her own joke.
“I’d like that,” I say with a smile. “Oh, wait. You’ll have to call the front office and get permission. I can’t just leave campus.”
“Already done, darling, already done. Oliver is great friends with Jeffrey, your Headmaster. It’s all been arranged. When you’d like to visit us, you need only to alert your dorm RA. Isn’t that wonderful?”
I hear the low rumblings of other people in the background, and I assume Evelyn is at a restaurant or party of some sort. I’m sure whatever it is, it’s very glamourous. That’s how I picture everything with her.
“That’s great. I can’t wait for Thursday. What time do you want me to be there?”
I hear her muffled voice as she tells someone she’ll right there.
“What time?” The voices get louder, and it’s obvious she’s distracted by whatever she’s got going on. “Oh, whenever, darling. Wine-thirty, all right? I’ll see you then. Bye for now.”
The phone clicks before I can answer her back. Wine-thirty? What the hell does that even mean?
Day number two begins much the same as day number one. It’s a whirlwind of new faces, too many names, and a vomit-inducing amount of homework. It feels exciting and overwhelming all at the same time.
There are a few familiar faces in my classes—Charlotte in philosophy and calculus, and Delilah in American literature. Delilah and I sit together, but I don’t want to join Charlotte in the first row. Front of the class, hand raised, teacher’s pet is not my style. Jeb doesn’t seem to mind and takes the desk right behind Charlotte. He looks a little uncomfortable up there with all the digital recorders and laptops, but he braves it for his crush. I wonder if Charlotte even notices.
I walk into the cafeteria, my mind jumbled with my ever-growing to-do list. I file into the pizza line in zombie-like fashion, ticking down my list one by one, trying to reconcile the amount of homework with the minutes left in the day.
“Watch it.”
The second his voice hits my ears, I know. There’s no mistaking that menacing, ass-munch tone. His words aren’t directed at me, but that does nothing to cool my jets. He’s directly in front of me, with his back turned, leaving me at a great advantage. Oh yes, the little devil in my head is rubbing her hands together in imminent victory.
Just look at him standing there, shirt tails hanging out the back of his pants and his backpack slung over one shoulder. The damn bridge troll thinks he’s too cool to actually tuck in his shirt like everyone else or use both straps of his backpack. That shirt is definitely not Orleans Academy uniform dress code. I should turn his ass in to the … dress code monitors. Or something. It would serve him right.
I grip the sides of my tray, knuckles turning white, as he grabs a slice of pizza like the douchebag he is. Yes, it is totally possible to monitor a person’s douchebag status by the way he handles his food. He moves forward in line, and it’s my turn to load up my tray. He’s walking away, and my arms can’t help themselves. They have a mind of their own. Without consulting my brain, they shove my tray into his ass-holish ass with enough force to make him stumble. He grabs onto his plate with only a second to spare before it goes careening across the cafeteria floor.
Oops.
He turns in slow motion, and his eyes widen in surprise, but for only a second. Then they narrow.
“Oops?” he whispers menacingly.
Did I say that out loud? His single word drips with disdain and disbelief. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t believe me either. I widen my eyes and summon the angels, going for my “innocent as Sister Mary” look. I shrug, grab a slice of pizza and move along. Rule number one in war—never hang around and welcome retaliation. Move the hell on, and fast.
I find Delilah, Charlotte, and Jeb in what has become our usual spot, and I plop down next to Delilah. She steals a pepperoni off my pizza and pops it in her mouth before I have a chance to protest. Damn, she’s quick.
“Mmmmmm, I should have gotten the pizza today.” She chews slowly and closes her eyes, savoring her stolen bite. I look down at her tray and find a hamburger, fries, lasagna, and a salad.
“Where would you put it, Delilah? On your head? There isn’t an inch of room on that tray,” Charlotte says with a disapproving shake of her head.
“Do you think these babies grow on their own?” Delilah asks as she grabs her boobs. “They need proper nutrition to flourish.”
“You do whatever you need to help them live long and prosper,” Jeb says with a solemn expression and a Vulcan salute.
“I never too
k you for a Trekkie, dude.”
Jeb fist bumps the bridge troll as he approaches us. He drops his tray on the table, and then he zeroes in on me.
Oh. Hell. No.
I roll my eyes. Of course they’re friends. That’s just my luck.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the clumsiest and most ill-mannered student at Orleans Academy,” he says as he lowers himself into his chair. His mouth smiles, but his eyes glower, in direct opposition of each other.
“Ill-mannered? Ill-mannered?” I lean closer to him, my voice rising dangerously close to a screech with every syllable. “You’re two seconds away from getting a little pizza to go with your chocolate cake, bridge troll.”
“What did you just call me, you little witch?”
“Hold it right there, you two,” Jeb says as he turns to me. “Do you mean to tell me that Ever, my roommate and best bud, is the asshat who ruined my chocolate cake?”
“That’s what I’m telling you,” I say with crossed arms and a smug smile. I lean back into my chair and wait for the fireworks.
Jeb turns to Ever and glares.
“That was for you? I promise you, Jeb, you dodged a bullet. One sniff of that wretched cake, and I could tell it was sour.”
“What?” I shout as I push back my chair and stand, hands on my hips and fuming.
“You’d be handcuffed to the bathroom for days, I bet. You should be thanking me,” Ever says with a solemn nod and the hint of a smirk.
Before my brain can consult with my body, I’m launching a dinner roll at his head. By the pinging sound it makes on impact, I assume it’s a bit stale. He puts a hand to his temple and has the nerve to look shocked.
“Never, and I mean never, insult my food, bridge troll. Consider yourself cut off from any and all of my baked delights.” I dust off my hands and grab my tray. Head held high, and completely ignoring the snickers from our other table mates, I walk away and stop next to Ever. “May you rot in a dessert prison.”
“Where ya going, Low? You haven’t even eaten yet,” Delilah calls out.
“I’ve lost my appetite,” I call over my shoulder as I walk away. It may not be entirely true, but I need to leave before I pelt his smug ass with more than a dinner roll.
This battle may have ended in a stalemate, but I have every intention of winning the war.
Marlo
I CHEW MY thumb nail down to a nub as I sit perched on the edge of Evelyn’s antique chair. Honestly, if I sit any farther back, I’m afraid the spindly legs of the chair will crumble into dust. When I say antique, I’m talking Mesozoic era. Yep, some loin-clothed caveman bought this piece of crap for three rocks and a berry, and I’m betting Evelyn shelled out some serious coin. To each his own, I guess.
She sits across from me, fingering the stem of her wine glass and smiling at me. I don’t feel like myself. My “don’t care” attitude and “say anything” mouth took leave the second my feet hit her shiny parquet floors.
She has dark hair like me, but it’s straight as a needle and just as shiny. I hook a stray curl behind my ear and hope the walk over from school didn’t make me look like a chia pet. New Orleans humidity is no joke, and the three blocks to Evelyn’s house is the equivalent of a long lounge in a steam room. Evelyn, on the other hand, looks impeccable in every way—crisp linen dress, mile-high heels, and stunning jewelry she undoubtedly designed and created. I twirl my filigree ring and straighten my already wrinkled pencil skirt.
We’ve exhausted all the benign pleasantries.
“How are you settling in?”
“Do you like your professors?”
“Are you making new friends?”
Part of me, the nervous and overly anxious part, wants to conjure up a conversation about the weather, or something equally safe and boring. The only thing worse than having all these swirling questions about my mother is the possibility of not liking her answers. Maybe what I’ve conjured up in my head all these years is easier to hold on to. Too bad it isn’t the truth.
“My dad told me you are from Mississippi?” I say, sounding more like a question than a statement. I watch her expectantly, hoping she’ll take the lead.
She sips her wine and smiles. “I am, yes. That’s where your father and I met, you know? He was an Army man passing through Camp Shelby for training, and I was a two-bit country girl working at the Dairy Queen. Soldiers were always passing through town on their way to somewhere more interesting and exciting, and I never took much notice. But your daddy? I was a goner with just one look.”
Her smile widens, and, for the first time, it reaches her eyes. She shakes her head and chuckles to herself.
“I bet you were beautiful,” I say, wanting to know more.
Daddy never talks about these things. He isn’t cruel about it, but I don’t think he sees much sense on dwelling on things already said and done. In his mind, it doesn’t change anything. It all ends with Evelyn leaving, anyway.
“I was a fright, I’m sure. But he saw something in me he fancied. That man bought more Blizzards than any one person could ever eat. He was all dreamy eyes and Texas lilt … I was so smitten. It was a whirlwind,” she says, “We married after three months.”
“Wow.” They must have been so in love. If the far away look in Evelyn’s eyes is any indication, I must be right.
“Yes. I was so happy … grateful,” she says, her eyes darting from the carpet to my eyes in shame. “My father, your grandfather … he wasn’t the kindest man, Marlo.”
With that admission, the refined edges and clean lines of Evelyn blur with a muted chaos, as if time has softened the blow, but the hurt still endures. Her demeanor sharpens, snaps back into place so quickly, I question if I’d noticed any vulnerability at all.
Evelyn tips her wrist to check her watch and stands. “Would you look at the time? Oliver will be home soon. How about you and I walk to Creole Market and grab our dinner?”
I nod grudgingly, wishing we could stay here and chat more, but I have a feeling Evelyn planned the stop of our conversation perfectly for her taste.
Creole Market is a block from the Mississippi River and directly across from the French Market, a huge outdoor area full of vendors selling everything from eel skin purses to old vinyl records. The aroma of cooking onions, garlic, and seafood assault us when Evelyn opens the door, and my mouth waters.
“Evelyn! How’s my favorite customer?” The older man standing behind the deli counter shoots us a welcoming smile. “And who is this with you?”
Evelyn saunters to the counter and offers her hand, which he kisses over and over until she breaks out in laughter. She pulls away and shoos him with her other hand. His face breaks into a leathery grin, crow’s feet sitting on the edges of his eyes, and parentheses deeply grooved on each side of his mouth. If I had to guess, his age is more from sun than actual years lived, although I’m sure he’s got the upper hand on Evelyn.
“Etienne, you are such a flirt. I bet every woman who waltzes in here is your favorite customer.” Evelyn bats her eyelashes as Etienne acts shocked. “This is my … daughter, Marlo. She’s moved here from Texas to attend Orleans Academy. Isn’t that wonderful?”
I wring my hands, a little rattled by the hesitant way she introduced me. This is the first time I’ve heard her tell anyone about me, and I guess it feels a little like a brand new pair of jeans. It’s going to take a while to break in and feel comfortable. I try not to take offense, and smile, offering my hand to her friend.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Etienne. Your store is interesting,” I say as I look around.
He places a quick, single kiss to my hand and lets go. “Just Etienne, my pretty one. There are no misters here. Isn’t that right, Remy?”
“You got it.”
I hadn’t noticed the younger man standing a few feet away from Etienne, until I heard his gravelly voice. He takes a quick look over his shoulder, and then returns to packaging what I assume is our food. His man bun and five o’clock shadow catch my
attention, along with the worn leather bands wrapped around his tanned, muscled forearm.
“You should take a look around while Remy finishes packing the food, pretty one,” Etienne says, and I finally tear my eyes away from Remy to meet his laughing eyes. Busted.
I nod and give Evelyn a sheepish shrug as I make my way to the aisles. Etienne isn’t the only one to witness my eye-groping, if Evelyn’s raised eyebrows are any indication. Now seems as good a time as any to hide out.
That’s when I happen upon the baking aisle. This market is stocked full of the top of the line ingredients, melting chocolates, and extracts—everything I need to make a killer dessert.
“Evelyn, would it be all right if I made dessert tonight? I can get all of the ingredients here and I promise to clean up my mess.”
I clasp my hands in front of me and give her a pleading smile. She laughs.
“Of course, darling. I’m sure I have the baking pans and spoons you need, but make sure to get all the ingredients.”
Spoons? It’s safe to say Evelyn is clueless in the kitchen. I hope there’s a mixer, but I’ll improvise if I have to.
I collect all the ingredients I need and meet Evelyn back at the deli counter where Remy is handing her two large serving trays.
“Two large muffalettas and an order of crawfish and sausage jambalaya. A feast fit for a king … or maybe a princess.” Remy smiles at me, and the silver hoop in his eyebrow quirks up with the crinkle of his eyes.
Before I can respond, Etienne shoos him away. “I can take it from here, Remy. There’s a shipment in the back that needs to be stocked. Why don’t you woo the produce instead of my customers, eh?”
Remy shoves his hands in his pockets and shoots me a sheepish smile. He walks toward the back of the store, chuckling and shaking his head the entire way.
“A charmer, that one,” Etienne says as he rings us up.
Low Over High (The Over Duet #1) Page 4