Pretty Girls Don't Cry (7 page)

“You have the brochures, but do you have any further questions?” the doctor asked. He seemed nice enough, and she had no doubt he was good at his job, but Nora wanted to leave. She thanked him and went to shake his hand, but he hesitated.

He said, “I apologize, but I don't touch people with my hands, except during surgery.”

“That must be disappointing for your wife,” Nora quipped.

He laughed and gave her a real look, as though seeing her suddenly as a whole. “Afternoons with Nora,” he said. “You know, you make my whole day better.”

Nora felt that squeezing in her heart she got when someone recognized her work. “Thank you for listening,” she said.

She left the office feeling more confused than ever.

*

If she was going to afford cosmetic surgery and be able to move out of her parents' house before she turned thirty, Nora needed more cash.

During that afternoon's show, she pushed aside her planned theme topic of gardening, and asked instead for listeners to email in their stories about earning extra income from part-time ventures.

Tianne, bless her heart, immediately responded with an email about her part-time yoga practice and her mommy blog. Promoting your friends for free was generally a no-no on the air, but Nora had a feeling it was between her and her beloved listeners that afternoon, and management wasn't listening, so she plugged her best friend's website three times.

One of the morning guys, Stevey, was still around, and came into the studio to be a guest during one of Nora's live updates. He told the story of his
friend
, who had donated sperm for cash while in medical school.

Nora didn't usually play gimmicky sound effect noises during her show, but she was swept up by Stevey's animated facial expressions and story, and inspired to play some appropriate clips of music that sounded like the soundtrack of porno movies. She was definitely pushing the limits of taste for her time slot and audience, but she didn't care. Talking about sex and all things sex-related was fun. That one wild night with Bobby had woken her up below the waist.

“Stevey, didn't
you
go to medical school briefly?” she asked, poking holes in his
friend
defense.

“Come on, Nora, I'm a morning radio DJ,” he said. “You know I'm not smart enough to get into medical school.” He winked at her and twisted his lips into a sexy smile.

She figured the story was all an act. For every imaginable, embarrassing thing a man could do, Stevey always had a friend who'd done it. The truth may have been sprinkled into his on-air persona, but it was buried under many layers of comedy.

After the microphones cut off and the next song began to play, Nora thanked him for bringing a little of his morning magic to her afternoon. Like the vinyl '45s, people got a thrill out of hearing their regular DJs out of time, on each other's programs, but you didn't want to do it too often and muddy the brand.

“Any time, short stuff,” Stevey said. He didn't get up from his seat though, but looked up at the ceiling and chair-danced along with the song.

Stevey was single, as far as she knew, and he was the least disgusting—humor-wise—of the two morning guys. Actually, there was nothing objectionable about his appearance either. His biceps were a lot bigger than Nora remembered, and she daydreamed for a moment about those arms picking her up, perhaps pressing her against a wall while things got passionate.

“What?” Stevey said.

“Nothing, I didn't say anything.”

He gave her a knowing look. “You're up to something, aren't you? Did you have your review yet?”

The nice image of Stevey pulling off Nora's clothes was quickly pushed aside by the reminder of her employee review. It was scheduled for that day, Tuesday. She'd been distracted by the consultation, and now the unbidden fantasies for previously unappealing coworkers, and had forgotten.

“Good luck with that, short stuff,” Stevey said as he left the studio. “Ask for a raise. I hear ad revenue is up two percent for a change.”

*

Nora considered asking her uncle, Don, to postpone her review, but she decided today was a day for taking care of business. Maybe it was the strains of
Takin' Care of Business
now playing.

Don had taken over Murray's office, and Murray sat in one of his guest chairs, demoted in his own space. This pleased Nora.

Without the protection of his desk between them, Murray looked pale and soft, shifting nervously in his seat. He and Nora hadn't spoken since the previous week, when she'd tipped the potted plant out of his hands in disgust at his usual crude talk. She didn't know how much got back to her uncle, but Murray would be on his best behavior in his presence. Don had been semi-retired for the last year, but he still made his presence and power known from time to time. At work, Don was a completely different person from the uncle who'd given her teddy bears and dolls during every visit when Nora was a kid. In the station, Don was all business.

“Well, it's that time of year again,” Don said to his niece. “What can we do for you, to keep things exactly as they are?”

Murray silently wrote on a little notepad. He tilted the paper so Nora could see the surface, but Don couldn't. He wasn't taking notes at all, but doodling stick figures with penises.

“Are you kidding me?” Nora said to Murray. He quickly scribbled over the doodles, rendering them meaningless.

“Uncle Don,” she started. “Don. I've had some other job offers for more pay. I love the station, you know I do, but I'd like to feel the sentiment is mutual.”

He swept his hand over his smooth head. He had the same prominent nose as his brother, Nora's father, but not as hot a temper.

“It's not about love, it's about budgets,” Don said.

The two of them stared at each other in silence. If Nora was set to inherit the studio, since Uncle Don had no children of his own, all of the budgets would be hers in the end anyway. She couldn't understand why they had to play such games now.

“Everyone here thinks I benefit from nepotism, but I make less than average pay for an afternoon host.”

He tented his hands. “Is that what you want? Average pay?”

“Look at my desk. No food wrappers or piles of loose expense receipts. I do my work on time, and my numbers are consistent and stable. I deliver a high-quality product. I'm above average. Look at the facts, and family relations aside, you'll see that an increase is justifiable.”

Murray drew an enormous penis on his notepad, and Nora had the impulse to grab it from him and show her uncle, but she wanted the raise more than trouble.

“How much?” Don said.

Nora thought of a figure, doubled it, then took off a few points. “Eighteen percent more. Fifteen would bring me up to average starting rate, but I have three years' experience here, so that's one percent per year, which is less than inflation.”

Don turned to his computer and typed some numbers into a spreadsheet. Finally, he said, “Ten.”

Murray snorted.

“I'll think about it,” she said, getting up and leaving.

It felt good to walk out.

Ten wasn't bad, but it wasn't right. She wondered if her father had been in touch with his brother, telling him about Nora wanting money for
ridiculous
things like cosmetic surgery. It was nobody's business but her own. Ten percent wasn't enough, not if she wanted to move out on her own and have money for more than the basics. If she took ten, she'd live with her parents forever, then take over the station, then die, probably on air, while Lady Gaga's nine-hundredth new hit single played.

Also, there was Murray and his drawings and comments.

Hell no. Ten percent was not enough.

*

Nora was still fuming over the ten percent offer when she threw open the station's glass door, striking a man who was on his way inside. He dropped to the ground, hand over his nose.

Nora let out a torrent of apologies, nearly in tears.

“Serves me right, I was distracted,” the man said. It was Aaron, the hot musician with the short black hair, and a trickle of blood was coming out of his nostril.

“I've broken it,” she said. “But we're insured. Oh, but don't sue us. Oh, damn it. Is it broken? Really broken?”

Still kneeling at her feet, he pinched the bridge of his nose, which was in perfect proportion to his face. “Nope, all good.”

“How would you know? Have you broken your nose before?”

“I don't think so. But isn't that what people do? You squeeze it or try to wiggle it. It doesn't hurt too bad, so I guess it's not broken.”

His nose was red, and the blood was disconcerting. “You're in shock. We should take you to the hospital.” She extended a hand and helped him to his feet.

He looked both ways, to the door and to the parking lot, as though contemplating. “Yes, good idea. I think it might be broken.”

She walked him to her car and opened the door on his side for him.

“It's my nose, not my arms that are broken,” he joked.

She got in her side, started the engine, and cranked on the air conditioning. It was the first hot day of the year, and the air vents let out a stale, awful smell. Aaron didn't seem to mind, and peered around the interior of the car, checking out her assortment of keepsakes.

Because Nora kept a clear desk at work, many of the trinkets and souvenirs she'd collected over the years ended up in her car. Her dashboard sported an eclectic assortment of promotional stickers, miniature trophies, and rubber-limbed action figures.

Aaron swatted at the white kitten—a stuffed toy who looked like her cat Razzles—hanging from the rear-view mirror. “This is a safety hazard. A driving obstruction,” he said.

Nora put the car in gear and carefully backed out of the parking space. “The kitty was a gift from a studio visitor. Well, actually, it was a kid I mentored about a year ago. He was in a program through his high school, sort of a Big Brother thing, and he really wanted to work with a radio DJ.”

“You're a Big Brother?” Aaron asked.

“It's not called that, and obviously not, but ... kinda. Why not? I'd make a great brother. I can throw a baseball.”

“I remember,” he said with a chuckle.

Nora pulled out of the lot and turned right. She didn't know where she was going.

“What do you mean, you
remember
?”

“You don't know who I am, do you?”

“Sorry. I'm sure you're very famous within your music circles. I just play the songs that are set up for me and yabber away in between. Traffic and weather on the hour.”

“I lived next door to you.”

Nora became aware of her breathing and her heart rate. The front of her throat felt very hot.

“Eddie?” she said, her voice a tiny squeak.

“Aaron Edward, yes, though I go by Aaron now. Eddie sounds like someone who sells stereos out of a van.”

She took another look at him. There he was, with his arm resting comfortably on the door of her little car, drying blood under his nostril, and that big, charming grin. Eddie. Her Eddie.

The vehicle behind her honked. The traffic light had been green for ages.

She said, “Wow, you certainly are all grown up.”

“So are you. Nice to see your hair down, out of those pigtails and braids you used to wear.”

She took another look. “Your nose isn't broken, is it?”

“Not at all. Want to get some dinner?”

She took another right turn, circled back to the radio station, and pulled back into the parking lot.

He hadn't brought up the accident, and she hadn't either. She didn't want to have that dinner and the inevitable conversation, she just wanted him out of the car. How dare he come back here, all charismatic and successful?

“I've done my due diligence,” she said. “I presume you won't be filing a lawsuit against the station. It's my Uncle Don's business, you know.”

“I wouldn't sue
you
,” he said, his voice wavering.

“Here we are,” she said, stopping at the door. Murray came out and gave her an overly-friendly wave.

“That guy is the worst,” Aaron said. “How do you put up with him?”

“Life is full of challenges,” she said. “Is that door handle working okay? It gets sticky sometimes.”

He opened the door, climbed out, paused as though he wanted to say something, then shut the door and strode into the station. Nora realized, too late, she was staring at his bum.

*

After the accident, there had been talk of Nora's family suing Aaron Edward's family to cover the costs of rehabilitation and a lifetime of prostheses. They had to be replaced every year when she was growing, and then every few years after that, forever, or until science created materials that never broke down.

Aaron's family didn't have much, though, and Nora's family decided that between the lawyer fees and court costs, it wouldn't be worth it to bankrupt one family to save the other from costs they could afford to bear. Besides, as Nora's father never ceased to point out, it had been
her
decision to get on the back of the motorbike.

Nora's therapist felt that Nora's father was misplacing his feelings of powerlessness as anger at Aaron. Many fathers were protective of their daughters, but Nora's father had taken it to the extreme after the accident. She hadn't been allowed to leave the house on dates until she was seventeen—not that she had many offers.

When she got to college and lived on her own, the floodgates opened. A weekend didn't go by those first few months without what would technically be called binge drinking. Drinking was fun, and it made everyone better looking, including Nora.

When she got home, she helped herself to a glass of refreshment from her mom's box of white wine in the fridge.

Aaron Edward.

Back in Eugene, and back in her life.

The wine was good, so she had another.

*

On Wednesday, Nora kept a low profile at work and thought about the ten percent offer. After her show prep was done, she had a look at apartment rentals online. The listings were disappointing.

She checked her drawer for sugary treats, but it was empty except for the bag of black jelly beans—black because she'd eaten all the other colors, but didn't care for the licorice ones. She loved licorice candies, but not licorice-flavored jelly beans, because they were too sweet.