Who Wants to Marry A Billionaire?(2)
Reuben’s voice swelled with pride. “There’s a professor in the art department who thinks I should be a performance artist.”
It was not the news Nina was hoping to hear. “Oh, that’s interesting.” She wasn’t quite sure what a performance artist actually did. “But you’re still going to be a history major, right?” Nina always thought Rueben would be a great schoolteacher, if he could just settle down. In his six years at college, he had declared majors in psychology, anthropology, music, and then history. Each time he changed his major, it meant he had to take more credits to get closer to a degree. The tuition fees were ridiculous—and he always had a reason why he couldn’t get a job.
“Oh no, I’m going to the office to declare Art as my major tomorrow.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea, bro?”
“Mom said she loves the idea of having a an artist in the family.”
Nina fumed silently to herself. Their mom was a sweetheart, but not very practical, and seemingly incapable of keeping any kind of real job. Nina knew their mom had been traumatized watching their father die behind the wheel of a racecar, but that had been twenty years ago. It was time she got on with things.
“If you change majors again, that means another year of tuition and I’m barely keeping things together now.”
“Oh, it’ll be okay, isn’t it time those billionaire DeVeres gave you a raise? Okay, gotta go sis. I’ve got to get ready for my performance tonight—I’m coating myself in mustard and standing in a gallery surrounded by five hundred packages of hotdog buns. Bye!”
Nina clicked her phone off. So that was what a performance artist did. Nina had a feeling that she was going to see a charge for five hundred packages of hotdog buns on her credit card. Worse, Reuben didn’t even give her a chance to tell him that her witch of a boss, Elsa, had turned her down for a raise the previous week.
After putting her few groceries away, Nina sorted through her mail. The usual unrelenting bills were there: phone, utilities, mortgage, student loan repayment—at least in Boston she didn’t have to have the expense of a car—and a notice from the university that tuition payments were due in six weeks for the next semester. She was grateful that her sister Rita had a scholarship that paid for a good portion of her fees, and she also had a job at a local copy shop on weekends to cover her pocket money.
In between some junk mail, though, was another, fatter envelope. It looked mysterious and foreboding, and when Nina read it, she wanted to throw up. Somehow, according to the letter and a ream of enclosed computer printouts, she owed the Internal Revenue Service ten thousand dollars in back taxes. She read it again; none of it made sense, but there it was in black and white. If she didn’t come up with ten percent of the money in thirty days, they would put a lien on her home, and if she didn’t pay the full amount thirty days after that, they would seize her property.
Nina looked around her home, it was the one thing that was really her own. So what if it was a ninety-year old, third floor walk-up, in a drafty triple-decker? She was right on the bus line that took her to the subway to go to work in downtown Boston, and the neighbors were sweet, and in the summer, she had window boxes with flowers, and a little patch in the backyard where she grew tomatoes and peppers. She refinished the hardwood floors herself, and repainted every room. There was a lovely old round window at the end of the hall that still had antique bullet glass in it, and the kitchen had a built in ironing board and china cabinet from the 1920s. The floors creaked, and the windows were leaky, but it was hers—well, hers and the bank’s—and she loved it. It was her refuge.
Trying to absorb the reality of her situation, Nina went through the motions of making dinner, realizing that her sister was due to arrive any moment. She put water on to boil pasta, and took some of her homemade spaghetti sauce out of the freezer, and absently cut up a salad. How was it possible that she owed the IRS ten thousand dollars? And how was she ever going to find the money?
A tap at her door, and then her sister’s voice, interrupted Nina’s gloomy train of thought. She tried to put on a smile, as her sister rounded the corner into the kitchen. Rita came and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and then started rummaging through the fridge.
“Don’t you have any avocados to put in the salad? They’re really good for you.”
Nina tried to joke about it, “I would have to kill you and sell your body to science to afford avocados out of season.”
Rita pulled her head out of the fridge and straightened up, looking over to the stove where the spaghetti sauce was starting to bubble. Nina thought it smelled wonderful, but Rita wrinkled up her nose, “You’re making spaghetti again?”
She tried to ignore the fact she was feeling unappreciated. “I got some nice baby spinach for the salad.”
“Just baby spinach? No arugula?”
Just then Nina noticed that Rita hadn’t taken off her rain boots, and had tracked all over the kitchen floor. It was taking all of Nina’s willpower to not smack her sister at that moment. Rita was a good kid; just clueless about what Nina had to do to keep everyone in the family afloat. It would be nice if their mom pitched in once in a while and took some pressure off, but Nina realized, half the time, she had to take care of their mother too. Nina swallowed her frustration and tried to change the subject.
“So what’s new at school?’ She channeled her anger into a vigorous stirring of her sauce.