And on the other side, I write:
Dear Mama,
I have gained some knowledge, but I do not think it has given me power. Duke Templeton can lie and does lie, and I cannot and do not, so I do not know why he is CEO of a company and I have to take classes to learn what facial expressions mean. I am sorry I was not able to help you.
Your librarian and daughter,
Monday
Three
Saturday evenings at the bar are my favorites. They’re most crowded so I’m most forgotten. They’re most normal, like what I imagine regular bars in regular towns look like on regular Saturday nights—drinking that seems more fun than depressed, laughter that seems more genuine than sarcastic—what’s supposed to be rather than what is.
All the way over, Nora’s reassuring herself while pretending she’s reassuring me. “There’s no way, Mir. None. No way. He’s wrong. He’s just a kid. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. A company that size is never going to tell its secrets to a sixteen-year-old, even if he is the CEO’s grandson. Besides, Omar would never let it happen again. It’s got to be that the lawsuit’s got everyone panicked. That has to be it, don’t you think? I know you do. You’re so smart, Mir-Mir. Don’t you worry. Everything’s going to be just fine, Mirabel, my belle.”
Her nicknames get more inane the more manic she gets. It’s good Mab’s still out and Monday has a job to do. Otherwise Nora would have left me home, and clearly she needs a chaperone tonight. My plan for the evening had been biochemistry homework. I realize that doesn’t sound Saturday-night exciting, but pickings are slim as splinters around here, and anyway I’ve started a project on vertical farming （no soil, little water, perfect for Bourne） that’s at least as thrilling as most teenagers’ weekend plans. The wifi at the bar is no worse than the wifi anywhere else in town, so I’m happy to den-mother my mother while I work.
But when we arrive, I see my presence won’t be enough to keep her sane because there, at the end of the bar, is Omar. Norma’s is already as crowded as it gets, even though it’s only just five, and, we can hear from the back entrance, loud, but as Nora emerges behind the bar, a hush falls over the whole place. Everyone’s eyes dance back and forth between Nora and Omar, Nora and Omar. Frank passes behind her, rests his hands lightly on her shoulders for a few beats before moving on. I’m on your side, his hands promise. Don’t start a scene in my bar, they add. Everyone waits to see what Nora’s got in store for Omar tonight—this is what passes for entertainment in Bourne—but everyone （except Omar） is disappointed.
“Omar!” She forces a smile. “Just the man I was hoping to see.” She pours him a beer, even though he has a nearly full one in front of him already. He looks at it nervously.
“You were?”
“I was.”
“To yell at me?”
“No!” She laughs. “Well, maybe. Depends what you say. But probably not. I hope not.” She’s grinning now, but even she doesn’t quite look like she’s buying it.
“Me too.”
“You too what?”
“I hope not.” Then he turns to me. “Whatcha think, Mirabel? Is she going to yell at me?”
“Signs point to yes,” my Voice pronounces, a saved joke because my Voice sounds kind of like how you imagine a Magic 8 Ball would if it could talk. Omar throws his head back and laughs, a real laugh. “You’re a funny, funny girl. And probably a correct one.”
People are turning back to their own drinks and conversations but much quieter than before, one eye on their beers, one on Omar and Nora, so they won’t miss it if fisticuffs break out.
“I heard an appalling, ridiculous rumor this afternoon,” Nora begins lightly, like she’s going to tell a joke or a story.
“From whom?” Omar goes back to looking nervous.
“A little birdie.”
Omar raises his eyebrows to mime Who? but the rest of his face falls. He knows.
“What little birdie?” Hobart asks.
“Well, see, that’s an interesting story itself.” Nora nods. “You’ll never guess who stopped by my house this afternoon.” She takes a breath, maybe to build suspense, maybe just to give everyone one more moment before she delivers the bad news. “River Templeton.”
A pause.
“Who the hell is River Templeton?” Zacharias says.
“Well, wouldn’t you know it”—no one is buying, but everyone is made edgy by, Nora’s extreme good cheer—“Duke Templeton has a grandson.”