The Aristobrats
Authors: Jennifer Solow
Copyright © 2010 by Jennifer Solow
Cover and internal design © 2010 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Dawn Pope/Sourcebooks
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systemsâexcept in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviewsâwithout permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and eve
nts portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
Source of Production: Versa Press, East Peoria, Illinois, USA
Date of Production: August 2010
Run Number: 13086
For Tommy, Griffin, and Tallulah
Ex
squeeze
-ay moi? Some people are getting dressed in here⦔
Parker Bell's mother, Ellen, had an unfortunate habit of opening her daughter's door without knocking. Parker was still in her pajamas and her room was a mess. Clothing rejects were all over the floor, draped over the antique chaise and dangling from the mahogany Darcy chair. The desk looked like something had exploded on it, and maybe it hadâParker seriously couldn't remember.
Ellen, a neat freak who'd have a hairy nip fit if the Egyptian cotton bath towels weren't folded in thirds, frowned at the unrecognizable floor and the searing beauty tools on the furniture. She looked like she might crack in half.
“I may need a search party the next time I come in here, Park.”
Parker offered a morsel of wisdom she'd read once in
CosmoGirl
. “They say a messy room is the sign of a brilliant mind, Mom.” She tossed a feather-light pashmina into the air and watched it float gracefully onto the ground.
Ellen ignored her compulsion to pick up and fold. “Then you must be a very smart girl,” she said.
“Thank you.” Parker grinned. Another mother-daughter point: scored.
“I just came in to tell you,” Ellen said calmly, “that Armada will be driving you to school tomorrow because I have a meeting at Siddie's in the morning.”
Siddie
was Sir Sidmund Stryker, aka Sid Stryker, the front man of the legendary band, the Rebels. And Ellen was his architect. Sid hadn't made a public appearance in nearly a decade, ever since his mother published her tell-all memoir,
Rebel Without a Cause: My Life with Sid Stryker
. He'd begun renovating the old mansion he bought in Wallingford around the same time and now it was nearly finished. There were only a few people in the world the rock star trusted and Ellen was one of them. She had the alarm code to his house, the floor plans for his bedroom, swatches of fabric for his curtains, and her own schnuggly name for him. Parker found it all a little embarrassing.
“Why tomorrow?” Parker asked. She shouldn't have cared either way; it wasn't like she
needed
her mother to drive her to school. It was the first day of eighth grade, not kindergarten.
“I can move my meeting, sweetheart⦔ Ellen softened her tone. “If you want me to?” She seemed almost hopeful.
“You don't need to move your meeting.” Parker tried to sound convincing. Sid was her mother's only clientâParker knew she had to make accommodations. “It's just school, Mom. No biggie.”
She collapsed onto her bed and kicked off the furry slippers, looking up through the sheer drapery panels of her canopy bed toward the cottage chandelier that hung from the middle of the ceiling. The polished crystals sparkled in the morning sun. She tried to channel her inner-hypnotist:
I am Parker Bell. I am confident
, c
ool, and on top of things.
Ellen cleared a space for herself on the corner of the bed next to Parker's school uniform. The black watch plaid kilt was made from fine merino wool instead of the cheap polyblend you get now, and the knife pleats were sharper and narrower than the newer ones. It was completely impossible to come by the pure wool version of the Wallingford Academy uniform, unless of course it had been handed down to you.
Parker was a third-generation Wallyâone of just a handful of legacy students at the school: an Aristobrat, as most non-legacies called them, usually behind their backs. The title had its advantages but also came with responsibilitiesâbeing a legacy wasn't always as easy as it seemed.
“Who do you think you'll have for homeroom this year?” Ellen asked. “Death Breath? Barn Yard?” Ellen knew all of the teachers' nicknamesâthey hadn't changed much since
she
was a Wally.
“That's as easy to answer as who'll win the award for Best Liplock.” Parker couldn't begin to worry about teachersâthere was enough to stress out about already. “I mean, you can make an educated guess but you don't know for sure until your name is called.”
Ellen rolled her eyes at the remark.
“Did you see my note?” Ellen nodded at Parker's laptop, an ultra-slim, 17-inch, top-of-the-line Orion notebook in a hot pink protective case. “I sent it last week.”
“I'mâ¦not sure.” Parker lied on the grounds that the truth may incriminate her. “I'm so backblogged it's not even funny.”
Ellen rested her hand on her hip and raised a suspicious eyebrow. She took a deep breath, surveyed the messy room once more, then puffed out her cheeks like she was about to deliver some earth-shattering news.
“Eighth grade is a tough year, Park,” Ellen warned for about the hundredth time in a month.
Like I need to be reminded
.
At Wallingford Academy, eighth grade was the most important year of school (understatement), and very possibly of your whole life (seriously). When you thought about it (which Parker did several dozen times a day for the last three years), it was the last time in your life you didn't have to stress about the big stuff: directed study proposals, application deadlines, dieting for prom, dieting for college, dieting for glamorous fund-raisersâ¦
adulthood
. On the other hand, it was the year when who you
were
âand who you ever
would be
âwas pretty much set in stone. Success or failure hinged on the tiniest moments, the smallest details. Long story short? If you ruled eighth grade, the rest of your future was pretty much golden.
“And I know the possibility of leaving isn't something you really want to talk about, sweetheart,” Ellen said gently. “But we have to talk about it eventually.”
Parker closed her eyes tightly and tried to push the painful thought away. It was easy to pretend they were just like everybody else, but they weren't. The big house, and everything in it, was all they'd inherited from Parker's grandmother when she'd died. And an antique chair or a crystal wall sconce didn't pay the tuition at Wallingford; Ellen did. They weren't poor, but compared to Parker's friends, they might as well have been. Parker had always known that Siddie's remodeling gig would be over one of these daysâand one of these days was getting closer and closer.
“We're okay on taxes for now. That should take us through the fall,” Ellen said. “So at least we have that.”
The fall?
Parker tried to picture where that would get her.
“You could sell my furniture on eBay,” Parker suggested. “I don't really need it.” She tried to look sincere but it was hard sitting there on her canopy bed leaning against her goose down pillows. Frankly, she looked like someone who needed furniture.
“I hate the idea of leaving as much as you do. I know how hard it will be.” Ellen smiled. It was a sympathetic-mom smile, the kind moms give you when your goldfish dies. “I just want things to be perfect for you, Parker.”
“Things
are
perfect,” Parker assured her. “Absolutely, totally, unbelievably perfect.” She thought about school and her friends and the bottom nearly dropped out of her stomach. “I
need
this year, Mom. I've been waiting forever for it.”
Ellen smiled again. This time it was the I-was-your-age-once smile. “You just promise me you'll make the best of whatever time you have left at Wallingford. There are great opportunities there for you,” she said. “And you shouldn't waste a second of it on things that don't matter. You hear that, Park?”
Parker resisted the temptation to pull out an enormous pair of aviator sunglasses and hide behind them until the next century. “I wasn't planning on wasting anything,” she reminded her mother.
It's me, remember?
Ellen stood up from the bed and buttoned her suit jacket in Parker's mirror. “And who knowsâ¦maybe Siddie will want to rip everything out and start over.”
With any luck.
Ellen reached over and kissed her daughter's forehead. “You're sure you don't need me to move my meeting?” she asked.
Parker shook her head. “I'm fine.”
She could smell the lingering gardenia of her mother's perfume. The sweet and familiar scent always made her feel happy and sad at the same timeâlike looking at an old photo album or winding up the music box beside her bed.
“Everything will work out, sweetheart.” Ellen folded the pashmina back into a proper square and placed it back on the shelf in the closet where it belonged. “I know it will.”
“Me too,” Parker said as her mother walked out. She called out in a clear voice, confident, cool, and on top of things, “Say hi to Siddie for me!”