I manage a curt jerk of my head that Marcus seems to take for agreement and head back to my room. Only to realize that I didn’t grab my keycard before I left.
Fuck me.
Chapter Ten
Viola
Marcus has officially appointed me as Mason’s babysitter. Dave and me, we’re Mason’s shadows after the shows.
Which means I’m getting even less sleep, and I’m forced to watch other women crawling all over him at every opportunity. This not only continues for the rest of our time in Boston, but persists as we make our way down the east coast. New York, Philadelphia, Charlotte.
A month in, and he still won’t call me by name. But he’s stopped calling me deliberately wrong names, at least. It’s not much, but it’s still progress. At this rate, he might call me by name in six months or so.
If I last that long.
It’s the afternoon before our second show in Charlotte, and I’m wishing I could take a nap. Instead I’m talking to both of my parents on video chat.
“You look tired, Viola. Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“Thanks, Mom,” I tell her, trying to hold back my sigh. “Touring’s busy, and the hours are long. I am tired. I’d normally catch a nap right now, but instead I’m talking to you.”
“We won’t keep you long, honey,” says my dad, putting his face so close to the camera that all I can see is his nose.
I lean away from my computer reflexively. “Thanks, Dad. I see you’ve been keeping up with the nose hair trimming.”
“Sit back,” my mom hisses in the way that long-time couples scold each other in front of people. I’m not really supposed to hear it, but I do.
“How are you guys?” I ask, wanting to turn the conversation on them. If we talk about me for too long, it’ll only devolve into Mom trying to convince me to come home and Dad lecturing me about the importance of safe sex practices. “How’s the semester going?”
That does the trick. “Oh, you know how it is,” Dad says. “The freshmen leave something to be desired, as usual, but my class on the comedies is going marvelous.” He launches into a lengthy discussion of his planned assignments and how excited he is to see what his students come up with. My mom occasionally punctuates this with statements about how he’s left out the best one—Twelfth Night—and she’s still aggrieved by the oversight.
Aggrieved is the actual word she uses.
This is why I got made fun of as a kid for using strange words. And occasionally got into trouble at school for using old words that sound like something bad today—like the time I accused a classmate of bumfiddling my drawing in elementary school. He’d leaned over and scribbled all over what I was working on for art class. I’d gotten mad and whipped out the new word my dad had taught us over the weekend, only to have the teacher turn pink and scold me for using potty language. She didn’t believe me when I told her it meant that he’d messed it up.
After that I started paying more attention to how everyone outside of my family spoke, and I never used one of Dad’s fancy words in front of a teacher again.
After another ten minutes, I wrap up the conversation. “I really do need to get a nap. We have another show tonight, which means I’ll be out late. And there are interviews in the morning, so I have to be up early.”
This time even Dad’s face pulls into a scowl. “That can’t be legal. Aren’t you required a certain amount of time off? You have to sleep, at least. It’s not healthy to be required to work late and then turn around and be back at work before normal people eat breakfast.”
I wave away his concern. “It’s fine, Dad. We’ll have a few rest days after tomorrow’s concert. I’ll catch up on sleep then.”
“That’s not how it works, you know,” says Mom, her mouth pinched. “I read an article recently—”
“I know, Mom. You emailed it to me. But this is my job now. And if you’re really worried about me sleeping, you’ll let me go so I can do that.”
“I still can’t believe you quit your job at Inglefield Insurance. And for what? To traipse all around the country after these … these witless rags who need you to chase after them at all hours of the day and night. We’ve seen the tabloids, you know. The pictures of that drummer.”
Dad leans forward again, giving me another shot up his nose. “He’s the one you should avoid. He’ll probably give you syphilis. Always use condoms. No need to get the pox.”
“He doesn’t have syphilis, Dad. And even if he did, he couldn’t give it to me.”
“Right. Because you’re a smart girl and always take prophylactic measures.”
I resist the urge to cover my face. “I am smart, and yes, I do.” I can’t believe I just said that. “But also because I’m not sleeping with Mason. He doesn’t even like me.”
Dad sits up straight, bristling at that assertion. “What? How can he not like you? He must be a gnat-brained fool.”
I bite back a smile at my dad’s penchant for strange sounding insults. “Perhaps he is. Either way, it’s time for me to go. I’ll talk to you more later.”
They grumpily chorus their goodbyes and love yous, and I finally end the call and crawl into my bed, pulling on my eye mask after setting my phone alarm.
My parents might drive me nuts, but at least they love me.
A little before five, I get the text notifying me that the cars are waiting to take us to the venue. That’s my
