Page 8 of Omega Artist
I’m the only one whose looks take after my father. I’m the only blonde among the women in the family. I’m the only one who can’t help but speak her mind. I do admire him, and I’m glad that we have similar tastes in reading and classical music. Once upon a time, he went to Julliard to study orchestral conducting, and I was the only one in the family to play an instrument—the violin—not that I’ve played for years, but that’s what brought us so close. He met my mother, who was studying vocal arts to become an opera singer, while in the U.S. Neither of them pursued their dreams once life, etiquette, and expectations overruled them. Her wealthy Bostonian family. His aristocratic Parisian family. Their fairytale wedding and relocation to our spacious apartment in the 7tharrondissement, that feels empty without her.
Damn, I miss Mother!
Father and I may look like and have some overlapping traits and interests, but Mother and I shared a special bond. Her selflessness and righteousness made her an extraordinary person. When she died, a part of me died, too. With her gone too soon, the next best person was Catherine, my nanny. Now that she’s gone, too, I don’t really trust anyone.
Damn, I wonder what became of her…
Both women were opinionated and valued justice. They taught me well, I think, although Father might disagree. There’s a major difference, though. Mother and Catherine fought their battles silently, whereas mine are voiced aloud.
I often wonder how things would be different if Mother was still alive. Would Charles Godefroy de Briard have become such a business-driven man, or would he have remained the loving husband that he once was?
“Please accept my apology,” I concede, irritated, and help myself to a couple of watermelon and peach slices that Céline brought to the table. “It’s just that I can’t be with someone who treats me poorly. Louis betrayed me, and that’s all you’ll ever get out of me.” The asshole disclosed that he gave me a try to see if my colorful reputation held water and later broadcast some exaggerated scenes from our last disappointing encounter.
Mozart’sMarriage of Figaro—our favorite opera— playing in the background, doesn’t seem to help calm his nerves. Trust me, I know that his intentions are good, I really do. Be that as it may, I’m not a baby and can’t sit back and listen to this anymore.
“I’d like to be excused,” I conclude as politely as I can muster and find refuge in my room where my sisters can join me later.
I don’t consider myself a feminist, although most do. I hate forcing myself into a box, no matter how it’s labeled. I’m after fairness, respect, and equity—in general and especially regarding relationships and sex.
I have one hard limit: there’s no way I’ll try online dating. I’ve heard tons of creepy stories that scare me shitless. Also, I firmly believe that the genuine connection I’m after couldn’t be obtained through a virtual one. I’m a bit of an expert since I interact with strangers online on a daily basis. This alternative life enables me to fully express myself. I choose my battles wisely, not against men but for equity. In order to elevate my message, I launched my female empowerment blog and associated social media platform.
Another thing that my father doesn’t approve of. Actually, he doesn’t comprehend my career choice and believes it’s just a phase. He couldn’t be more wrong. Hypokhâgne is the phase, and pushing myself to succeed in the preparatory literary class had been a challenge. I had to prove that I could do it so that he’d be reassured for my future. If I hadn’t enrolled, he wouldn’t have entertained my desire to become an influencer. It’s been my secret life for two years now, and I’ve gained a massive following. That’s what I’m truly into. That’s how I found purpose. That’s why I allow him to give me a hard time once in a while… so he won’t suspect that this online life is far more real, important, and meaningful to me.
Most of the world knows me by my online persona. Granted, I was inspired by Sasha Baron Cohen’s character—I find him hilarious—that I first saw in Madonna’s Music video, and it’s my name after all.
Alie G.
Chapter Three
Somebody that I Used to Know
Aliénor
“Doyou think Father’s angry at me for dropping the bomb during brunch?” Sybil speculates, mere minutes after I retreated from the family table. Behind my closed door, our shoulders instantly relax, grateful for the break after another agonizing Sunday brunch. I scroll through my iPhone and select Alanis Morissette, an artist that Mother loved. “I figured I’d be his target this morning.”
I shrug. Her new dropout status came as a total shock since her broken engagement led her to set her sights on getting the Guinness World Record for the most degrees earned at record speed. The last one that tempted her was interior design. Her right hand slaps the sofa, and a few pillows tumble to the hardwood floor. We snort at that, no doubt due to our sugar high. Taking her in reminds me of how different we are. In our physical traits. In our interests. In our taste in men. Ever since her fiancé ditched her, she’s had this thing for bad boys. You know the type: wearing all black year-round, covered in tattoos, and sporting cocky smiles. I abhor them, whether they’re movie stars, rock stars, or regular Joes.
Some might see a resemblance, but I don’t. Although Sybil mostly favors our American mother, she’s what comes to mind when you think about French aristocracy: tall, lean, preppy, and well-groomed. Also, she excels in everything, like Mary Poppins. However, her obsession leans towards fashion. She’s a year older than Margot, two more than Caroline, and four more than Blanche. The seven years that separate me from Sybil are irrelevant. There’s always been a deep-seated connection between us.
“You know how Father hates surprises. I bet he would have appreciated a heads-up. Now, tell me: why did you quit?” I’ve been meaning to grill my sister ever since the drive home a few days ago. I was wary when she mentioned that she wasn’t returning to New York but wanted her to confide on her own terms.
Instinctively, my hands reach for hers. Contact is vital for us, and Mother’s death only intensified our need to touch and hug. One of her hands escapes from my reach and curls into a fist, which she coughs into lightly, and lowers again. “Actually… I put a lot of thought into this, and so far, I only applied for a transfer to Otis College of Art and Design in California. Honestly, I’m not sure that’s what I actually want.”
“I don’t understand. What prompted this sudden change of heart? Last time we talked, your life in New York was perfect. Did you have an argument with Uncle Phil? I know that he can be difficult sometimes, but—”
“Nah, they’ve been nothing but great. They have no clue that I’m not coming back yet. I needed space. I threw myself into this degree challenge for years. It came to a point where I was swamped with work, lonely, and needed excitement. And I found it…” she hesitates. “Online.”
“Wait! You met guysonline?” She cringes at my brash interruption but doesn’t voice her disapproval. “What’s gotten into you? The internet’s full of creepers and serial fuckers!”
“First of all, look who’s talking, my young and impulsive Aliénor.” Annoyance creeps into her voice. Okay, I deserved that, so I offer her an apologetic smile. “If I remember correctly, you’re not against sampling the goods, are you?” I’m about to interrupt her yet again, but she raises her hand to stop me. “Second, there are as many oddballs on there as genuinely nice guys.”
“I’d never take the risk, though. I’ve heard way too many horror stories from friends. It’s a major no-go for me!”
“Whatever floats your boat.” She reaches for the bottle of water on my nearby desk and takes a swig. “I’m not trying to convince you but explain why I won’t go back to my studies, let alone New York.” She pauses, gets up, and wanders aimlessly around the room. “Like I said, I needed a break. I was tired of being a recluse and gave dating apps a try.”
That word irks me. Dating… I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle the roar of laughter that’s threatening to burst loose. Why can’t she call it a hookup app and stop being so hypocritical?
“It was awkward at first, and I met with quite a few… specimens that you might call weirdos. Others were decent, but none really snagged my attention. After a while, I was ready to call it quits… that is, until I found…” She fidgets, lacing her fingers together in embarrassment as she trails off. “Him.” She gets a faraway look on her face and begins mouthing numbers and counting on her fingers. “We were together for thirteen days total. Oh, my God! Only thirteen… but it was…” She clears her throat. Her eyes are on mine again. “Intense.”
