Midnight Muse

I tuck that sucker’s head right down the deep cut in my roll, warm in my hands. Sandwiching it back together, I stuff a bite into my mouth, almost moaning obnoxiously when I chew on the chunk of butter and the flavor explodes on my tongue.

I’m a butter fiend. It is the elite condiment.

Swallowing, I answer, “I’m taking Life Drawing, Art History, Creative Writing, and Critical Thinking.”

“That’s nice, dear,” she compliments, and I heave a sigh of relief when she turns to talk to my grandfather, who doesn’t care about what anyone is doing in their personal lives, just about how much turkey he can consume before grandma cuts him off.

“Your mother told me that you’re the best in your drawing class,” Aunt Gemma beams, and I want to roll my eyes.

Of course mom would say something like that. She only knows what I tell her, and while I am excelling in Drawing 201, I’m not the best in class. They don’t know how I second guess every project before I turn it in, how I can’t seem to stop obsessively nitpicking my work when I’m supposed to be critiquing my classmates. They don’t know that I have the hardest time figuring out what to draw, that nothing gives me the drive to create what I want anymore, because I don’t even know what it is that I want.

“It’s hard to compare when everyone’s style is so different,” is what I go with, forcing a smile. “I have this friend, Reid, who’s in my class and he’s an architecture major. His drawings are so fun to look at because he adds little elements of things he’s learned in his own classes. And Rory is quite excellent at drawing as well.”

“Right, well, no one is as good as our little Quinnie,” she grins, pinching my cheek. It hurts just as much as it did when I was a child. I laugh nervously, eyes flitting around the table, trying to find something to distract her with. I don’t want to talk about my classes at all.

My gaze meets my brother’s, who’s laughing at something grandpa said. In a split decision, I decide that I’ll have to turn the tables on him if I want to keep the attention away from school.

“Sam, anything to add?” I ask, sending my brother a pleading look. He appears smug from his spot next to dad, and I don’t think he’s going to be jumping in and volunteering for the hot seat right now. Damn.

Thankfully—and unknowingly—mom comes to my rescue. “Yes, Sammy, why don’t you tell us about your time visiting Quinn at school?” She asks, and Sam glares at me. Sorry, I mouth, but I’m not at all. At least I didn’t have to bring it up to distract them from my failures this semester. “Or should I say when you were visiting Pipa?”

He chokes on his drink, spluttering and pounding on his chest as he looks up at mom with a look of betrayal; dad stuffs a piece of turkey into his mouth, leaning over and slamming Sam on the back to help dislodge the liquid. I don’t think that it’s his water that’s choking him, it’s that now the entire family is chatting excitedly, shooting off questions at him like some sort of game show.

“Pipa? As in Pipa Wilson?” My aunt chirps, suddenly interested. “What’s going on with you and her, Sammy? Are the two of you dating?”

“No,” he gasps, like a fish out of water. I tuck into the mashed potatoes on my plate, hiding my grin behind a large mouthful of the creamy goodness. “Not officially, anyway,” he grumbles, stabbing at his green beans.

The conversation throughout the room pitches higher with everyone asking for more details. Sam’s face is redder than the cherry pie I helped mom make for dessert, trying to dip and dodge the questions as best he can.

I would totally help him out by admitting my almost failing Art History grade or the fact that I haven’t felt any inspiration for drawing since I was a teenager, or how the neighbor I’ve been complaining about all semester is now something more, but Sam looks like he’s doing a pretty good job at deflecting the questioning all on his own.

While everyone is distracted, I slip my phone from my pocket, peering down at it in my lap as I type two quick messages.

I might’ve just outed Sam and Peep to the fam. They’re still a thing, right?

Quick. What’s the best way to deflect attention?

The answers come in just as quickly as I send them.

Ro:

I think so…Peep hasn’t wanted to talk about it but I’m about to sick Aisling on her. Then, she’ll really crack.

Aisling is Rory’s oldest sister. She and Peep have always been closer, and I remember the amount of times Rory and I snuck around to hear them gossiping about high school things like boys and cars when we were still in middle school. She’s hard-headed and confrontational, so if anyone can get information out of Peep, it’s Aisling.

The other text follows promptly.

Douchewaffle:

I don’t know, I’m sitting at the kid’s table.

Knox’s response makes me grin. I can picture him, knees up to his shoulders as he squats at a children’s table at Ace’s home in Colorado, his plate of food much more colorful than all of the kids he’s surrounded by. I wonder if Ace has also been ordered to the children’s table or if they got themselves banished there.

I’m sure it’s nothing like I’m picturing, but it’s fun to imagine. I wonder if Mandy is there as well or if she stayed in New York for break.

As I’m about to answer the messages, I’m cut off by mom, scolding me.

“Quinn, no phones at the table. Put that away.”