The Blood That Sings

(Alicia Monroe) If anyone had told me five years ago that I'd be lecturing my mother about budgeting, I would have laughed and pointed them to the nearest Hermès store—her second home, my childhood playpen, and, according to my father, the black hole swallowing the last of our old money. Instead, I stand in the kitchen, watching her tear into a new orange box as if it contains the cure to our misfortune. Scarves, key chains, small plates, and some orange jackets, I don't understand why she is still buying this stuff, knowing that she no longer has an unlimited fortune. "Mom, can we just live normally now? I am tired of all this nonsense," I sigh, nudging aside last week's receipts. "You spend $50,000 on this orange box madness, these can actually buy you groceries and pay for utilities for months." She waves me off, eyes fixed on the silk scarf she definitely doesn't need. "You don't understand, Alicia. People talk. You know how it is." "Let them talk, Mama!" I threw the receipt on the table. "Those people who talk behind your back don't keep your electricity running. Thank Dad for having funds secured for us to still live comfortably without you lifting a finger. but this shopping madness needs to stop." "But I still need to find you a husband. I will not let our ruin ruin your chance for a good prospect in society." This same excuse over and over again. I don't understand her obsession with marrying me off to an old-money society, leading people who only have tea and talk about money. I couldn't care less about marrying at this point in my life. "Mama, I am working with Aurora, so you don't have to worry about my financial state if I don't marry one of your high-society friends," I add, already bracing for the comeback. "But please stop wasting money on nonsense shopping. You're driving Dad mad." She turns, brandishing the scarf like a flag. "So please, stop this nonsense," "Alicia. I only want what's best for you, and I don't want people to really think that we are now poor-poor, for your sake at least." Here it comes again. "If you marry someone from our old social circle—or someone from your boarding school connections—it would be happily ever after. Why can't you be like Eliza? Happily married and living glamorously, with a husband who owns half of Manhattan." I stifle a groan. "Eliza married someone she loves, but she also cries over broken champagne flutes and has a spreadsheet for her houseplants. That's not exactly my idea of happiness." Her lips thin. "You have to think of your future." "My future? I am happy as it is Mom. Besides I can still buy oat milk at Erewhon without checking my bank balance every week, thanks." Before she can launch into the virtues of woman, my phone buzzes. Aurora. My lifeline. "You ready for the gallery?" she texts. "Save me," I type back. "and let me crash at your place for a while." "Yeay! u can have the guest room" her reply was too quick. I grab my jacket, mumbling something about work, and escape before Mom can guilt me into a debutante ball rerun. I left my mother to deal with the mountain of orange boxes and went to my room. I took my purse and my overnight bag, and I randomly packed some clothes into it. two pairs of pajamas, some old t-shirts, underwear, and a jeans. I like dressing casually despite my mother's constant protest to tell me to dress appropriately. However, her version of appropriate was Chanel and Dior and a mini Kelly on the side, the type of style that does not really resonate with my whole personality or persona. My mother hates my gut for always going against her. I love her, but even at 26 I just don't understand her thought process. Like how she is very much obsessed on marrying me off to some Man with trust funds or some millionaire neighbors she met while shopping at Hermes. I grab my phone and quickly text Aurora, "Are you close by? please pick me up!" In less than 10 second she already typed back "I am at the front. come out quick" I throw my phone on my overnight bag and grab my purse. I have one last look at myself and walk out. "I wont be home tonight mom. I have work with Aurora, and Please stop shopping non-sense" I can hear my mother's screaming voice but I ignore it as I walk out of the brownstone townhome. Aurora's already outside, perched on the hood of her sleek electric BMW—a silent rebellion against her family's fleet of blacked-out Bentleys. Her dark hair is pinned up with a vintage dragonfly brooch, a nod to her ongoing campaign against the soulless monotony of the finance world she was born into. She flashes me a grin, all confidence and irreverence. "You look like you just escaped a Versailles hostage situation," she teases. "You have no idea." I roll my eyes, I dropped my bag on the back seat of her car and jump into the passenger seats next to hers. the tension draining from my shoulders just being around her. Aurora Tan—she looks fairly ordinary but she is actually the heir to a Singaporean banking and tech dynasty, daughter of a legendary life coach who believes in past lives and prosperity crystals. Most people would kill for her connections. But Aurora prefers auctions and estate sales, collecting antiques and silver spoons. We've been thick as thieves since our boarding school days, survived university as roommates, and now, apparently, the slow-motion collapse of my family fortune. She is my ride or die. I would not have survived all of these year without her, and vice-versa, her life would be a havoc without me to tell her to slow down and think things through. "Remind me again why we're going to the Marnach gallery opening?" I asked casually as i buckled the seat belt. She huffs, as if she has been repeating this informations multiple times, "One of my best clients is obsessed with their vintage collection. If we find something rare, I get a bonus and you get first dibs on not thinking about your mother." "Sold," I say. Anything to avoid the minefield at home. Aurora's car hummed, barely audible in the cramped Manhattan traffic. "I swear these cars with no noise is damn scary." I watched the city skyline pass by. Aurora is driving a little fast, she is a manic driver. If she is not a friend, I would have probably reported her to the police. Sometimes I wonder why she still drives when she can have a driver take her anywhere. But predictable is not part of Aurora's character. We passed the gallery after turning on 66th street, and I looked at her with questioning eyes on why we did not stop at the valet but kept driving straight ahead. "Shouldn't we stop there?" I point out the Marnach gallery sign and the valet at the front. Aurora just casually shakes her head. "Honey we need to get you changed before walking in. You are not dressing like that." She points out at my washed-down jeans and oversized T-shirt that says Girls Who Code Rocks. "Oh yeah, sorry," She park her car a block away, popping the trunk of her BMW with a theatrical flourish. "Thank god I have these," she announces, fishing out a slim garment bag and a battered tote. "This is a gallery open, Licy. Minimum standard: incognito Hot heiress." She hands me a crimson slip dress—silky, bias-cut, bold as hell. The color glows against my skin as I step behind the car and wriggle out of my jeans, shivering in the sudden night air. Aurora drapes a soft, cropped leather jacket over my shoulders and hands me a pair of Manolo, all with the nonchalance of someone who's dressed more debutantes than she can count. "Trust me," she says, eyes sparkling, "Nobody takes you seriously at these things if you look like you just crawled out of an UberPool." Aurora is fixing up her hair and her lipstick even when she already look like hot trouble ready to take down an art gallery. I slip my dress on, the fabric cool and whispery, the jacket butter-soft. I keep my hair messy and pulled it to the side exposing one side of my neck. I check my reflections from the window of Aurora's car and For a second, I almost feel like the girl I used to be—untouchable, desired, the center of some secret, golden universe. "Gosh... girl you are hot!" Aurora gush over me as soon as I was putting a red lipstick to match the dress. I am amazed that aurora has a make up trunk at the back of her car. I added light mascara and a bit of mauve blush to match my natural blush. I put my hair up on a bun and style the front part to make it less of a hot mess that i am. I spray my own personal parfume that scented rose and jasmine and hind notes of vanilla. "Presentable enough?" I asked her one last time. She gave me a two thumbs up. We quickly walk to the gallery. We step into the gallery, all marble floors and low, golden lights. I let Aurora lead the way, trailing her as she floats between oil paintings and glass cases of antique silver. She's in her element; I'm just happy to be somewhere my last name doesn't make the room shrink. And maybe, for a few hours, I can forget that my entire life has become a very pretty house of cards—one that could tumble with a single careless purchase, or a single marriage contract. Inside, Aurora glances over, approving, then threads her arm through mine. "Remember, keep an eye on anything that has unique presence and if you want to put in an offer, you have to look like you know what you're doing. These places run on appearances." I nod, nerves and excitement tangling as we move past the velvet ropes. Every eye seems to track the red dress as we walk in—my heart beats a little faster, not sure if I'm exposed or invincible. We blend into the crowd, Aurora leading me past men in tailored suits and women glittering with old jewelry, her gaze sharp for anything rare. The air thrums with anticipation, scented with wax, fresh paint, and a ghost of gardenias. My reflection flashes in gilded mirrors, a flicker of red and black, polished and new. For once, I don't mind being noticed.