The Aristobrats (2 page)

Parker stood at the foot of her bed and studied the clothes she'd laid out for the next day. After the exhausting morning of work, the look was finally coming together.

A uniform could say a lot more about you than most people understood. If the kilt was just a few inches too long, for instance, you might as well eat lunch in the social donut hole of the East Alcove. Or if your button-down shirt was too silky and tight then everyone assumed you went to Our Lady of Fatima Catholic School because that's how they wore them there. And if you got your blucher mocs from Value City Shoes…
hello,
people could tell.

Image counted if you wanted to be the best, and Parker got that, maybe more than anyone at Wallingford Academy. She wasn't the prettiest girl in class, or the smartest, and certainly not the richest, but there was no doubt about it—this was eighth grade; she could finally be as high up the populadder as she wanted to be.

The secret was pretty simple—wearing the right clothes wasn't as important as how you felt in them. Being beautiful was about what you did with what you had. Popularity was like that too—it was all about attitude. You had to picture who you wanted to be and then just imagine that's who you already were.

Parker opened her jewelry box and placed her Tiff's locket at the spot where her neck would be then added a delicate pair of silver earrings she'd gotten in Vineyard Haven over the summer. The cashmere pullover she'd decided on was new and oversized just enough to hang flawlessly down her back, but not so big to scream XXL. The button-down shirt she'd picked out was crisp cotton, white as teeth, and so starched it could have stood up and gone to school by itself.

She held the sweater up to her chest and put her hand lightly on her hip. It was her magazine cover pose (or Academy Award acceptance pose, whichever came first). Her skin was tan from a summer at the beach and her hair was loosely curled under from the morning's blow-dry with a thermal boars-head round brush. An extra swipe of bronzer powder along the bridge of her nose made it look smaller than it was. And the classic, regulation colors of the Wallingford uniform went well with her coloring (that was just luck, not work). Altogether, the look said confident but not stuck-up, pretty but not self-obsessed, excited but not super-anxious about it.
Although would staring at myself in the mirror for twenty minutes make me stuck-up or merely demonstrate my commitment to excellence?

Parker set the pullover back down on the bed and opened her laptop.

It didn't take an Einstein to know that the care and maintenance of one's Facebook profile was essential to assuring a top position on the populadder. And it wasn't the
quantity
of time that mattered; it was the
quality.
There were new albums to add, Friends to confirm, photos to tag, groups to join, and countless invitations to RSVP to. Good manners were crucial—especially online.

And then there was the time-gobbling task of sorting through the people you may know section, which changed daily. (This was always the creepiest part, Parker thought. How did Facebook know that she knew them?) It was a necessity to continuously update and polish her profile—how else could people ever get to know the continuously updated and polished Parker Bell?

Parker tagged a few photos and sorted through the last of the morning's Friend requests, confirming seven new ones and ignoring some guy who lived in Paraguay. She looked at the final thumbnail photograph for the third time this week and the only hopeful Friend still waiting for an answer. She clicked open the pending request for the third time this week.

Ellen Bell—
0 mutual friends

Her own mother! It was mortifying.

Why do they let mothers have their own profiles?
Parker shook her head. It was something she would never understand. (Facebook should have a mandatory retirement age, she thought.) She left the pending request hanging out there in Facebook limbo and clicked back to the home page and to the toughest assignment of the day.

What's your status right now?

Parker twirled the silver friendship ring on her finger and wiggled her toes, now freshly pedicured a pale ballet pink. She only had a few minutes left before she needed to run out to meet her friends but she had to let the answer come to her. Thinking too hard ruined it. Not thinking hard
enough
and you were cheating yourself and your Friends. But it was more difficult today for obvious reasons. Updating her status didn't usually make her this nervous. Parker bit her lip and tried to concentrate.

What's your status right now?

Parker
is…

She looked at her reflection in the screen, flipped her silky hair over one shoulder and put her fingers to the keyboard.

Parker
is…ready.

Yes. One word. Powerful. True. Telling. Plus, she felt proud of herself for resisting the temptation to add:

…sort of.

The five rules of La Coppa Coffee Tuesday:

1. It must be Tuesday.
   
2. It must be at La Coppa Coffee.
   
3. You must bagsy the comfy couch even if it means resorting to ugliness.
   
4. 24-hour cancellation policy. No exceptions.
   
5. What's said at La Coppa Coffee stays at La Coppa Coffee.
   

Parker couldn't believe it was
finally
the day before school started: the first La Coppa Coffee Tuesday of the school year. After seven years of waiting, eight if you count kindergarten, the moment had arrived. She was only minutes away from seeing her three best friends for the first time as
official
eighth graders. Parker walked quickly past World of Beauty, Baby Cakes Bakery, and Hemingway's Books. Wallingford Towne Centre was filled with so many Wallingford students that you could smell the new leather of everyone's shoes.

Her phone buzzed as she walked past the Orion Computers Retail Store and through the courtyard toward the coffee shop on the other side. The texts from her friends had been building up all morning. Her message box was in need of a serious purge.

Wher R U?!

M$ULkeCRz

5 mins L8

And they all signed off the same way. Always.

LYLAS

Love you like a sister.

Initially it was just the simplest way for the four best friends to text good-bye, and then, one of them, Parker didn't remember who first, said it aloud—like a word:

“…Talk to you later.
Lylas
.”

After that, it became part of their vocabulary.

“…See you then.
Lylas
.”

“…I'm sooo excited!
Lylas
.”

It was easy to forget it was an acronym because it sounded more like a name. Singular: Lyla. Plural: Lylas. Together, they were a unit. Parker never screened their calls and they never screened hers. If you created a group, they joined it. If you sent them Links, they clicked them. When your wall was blank, they filled it. It was who they were and how they signed off. Sometimes they added a :-) or a ;-)) or a ~:->, depending on their mood, but Lylas always came first. In email. In everything.

Parker pushed open the door of La Coppa Coffee. The engraving on her new friendship ring glittered for a moment in the morning sun:
Friends Forever
. The silver band was more fitting, Parker thought, than the macramé bracelets they'd all worn since Pinecliff Summer Camp two years ago. (Plus the colorful string always broke off in the shower.) Her throat tightened. It hurt too much to think about leaving the Lylas but she was determined not to let any of it show. At least the rings would last forever.

The smoky smell of espresso beans filled the air.

“Lyla!” Ikea Bentley, the most punctual member of the group, got up from the comfy couch with Parker's half-caf venti mocha macchiato at the ready.

“Lyla!” Parker wrapped her hand around the hot cup and they exchanged a double-air kiss. Their ample layers of sheer Lipglass, sticky enough to conjoin them at the lips forever, kept them from avoiding contact. “
So
needed this,” Parker thanked Ikea for the much-needed fix and quickly took a sip from the frothy top.

“No probs,” Ikea said licking her upper lip (actually the secret signal that Parker had a foam mustache). She handed Parker a napkin and nodded once the 'stache was clear.

Ikea was pronounced I-
kay-
a, like the exotic African lodge where she was conceived,
not
I-
kee
-ya, like the unexotic Swedish furniture store.

Like Parker, Ikea was an Aristobrat. Her father, a former Yalie and the senior partner at Bentley & English LLP, was a Wally from way back. Mr. Bentley was the kind of attorney who got calls in the middle of the night from the crown prince of Dubai, the secretary of state, or billionaire computer mogul J. Fitzgerald Orion himself.

Mr. Bentley's goal in life (as in the only thing he ever talked about, as in the blank application taped to the refrigerator, as in the bumper sticker he stuck to the mirror in his daughter's bathroom) was for Ikea to go to Yale. Just like he did.

It wasn't much of a stretch—Ikea was one of the smartest girls at Wallingford (the smartest girl on the
populadder,
defs) and she already looked old enough to be on Court TV. She was also the only African American girl in the class, which was good for college applications, but also could be really annoying because people were always trying to match her up with Brooks Jenkins, the only African American boy. Brooksie was totally beneath Ikea in every way, which no one understood—Wallys could be so blind.

“We're loving the tote.” Parker admired Ikea's new bag—a pink and lime patterned canvas with a teaberry bottom.
Lavishly complimenting the other person's new thing
, whatever it was, was one of the many Lylas Rules. “Très cute.”

Even the tote bag itself was part of the Rules:
Designer handbags were out. Designer totes were in.
Of course, the Rules were ever-changing, constantly amended, reversed, and modified. And there were always exceptions.

“Your tote is très cuter,” Ikea gushed. (Another Rule:
You have to say the other person's new thing is better than yours, even if you didn't really think so
.)

Ikea sat down in the leather club chair beside the comfy couch and fixed her glossy straight hair behind her ears. Today's outfit was sunny, and perfectly complimented her hazel eyes. Ikea loved sunny colors. Usually they were printed on canvas or cotton, embroidered with flowers and combined with some form of pink. She was preppy. Seriously preppy. And not in a fakester way, like an Abercrombie Zombie or a Polo-poser. If it had a croc, a duck, or a Black Dog on it, Ikea owned it. If it could be made out of ribbon, monogrammed, or engraved—she bought it. And she never shopped in malls, or even fancy stores like Langdon's. She bought oodles from Maax in Nantucket, the Lilly's in East Hampton, and CJ Laing's in Palm Beach. Ikea was a purist. A total prepsicle. It was impossible not to admire her focus.

Parker untied her belt and slipped out of her trim, voile trench jacket. She hunkered down on the end of the couch and kicked off her ballet flats.

“You are so super-tan, Park,” Ikea said, kicking off her own Eliza B. Horse & Rider flip-flops. “Hawaiian Trops. Totally.”

“You think?” Parker looked down at her impeccably bronzed arms. “I don't understand why…I wore fifty the whole time in the Vineyard.” Or maybe it wasn't
exactly
fifty, Parker thought; maybe it was more like a family-sized bottle of baby oil, some lemon juice, and a Fritz Bandeau tankini for weeks on end. Parker kept that to herself though—she didn't want Ikea to think she had tanorexia.

“Tribb is going to go crazy
when he sees you,” Ikea told her.

Parker tried to contain her excitement. It was important to keep a level head about these things.
Tribb
was Tribble Manning Reese III, the Wallingford Tigers star forward and team captain. Tribb was the kind of guy who put his hands in his pockets, locked his knees and looked really good, you know, just
standing
there. Total front cover of Hottery Barn.

Ever since Tribb and Parker fox-trotted together in Miss Portia's cotillion class last year, it was obvious that he would be her EGB (Eighth Grade Boyfriend). It was all planned out: she would go to his practices, they'd flirt by the lockers before first period, IM for hours, and have their first kiss after the Tigers game against the Fox Chapel Acorns, the first major social event of the season. He'd even get the lowdown on the dress she was wearing to Fall Social so they could coordinate perfectly (he was pretty metro that way). He'd give her a gardenia wrist corsage. A single but fragrant flower. Always a classic.

No one was more perfect for Parker—everyone thought so.

Parker counted out the weeks until Fall Social—she'd definitely be at Wallingford until then.
“I don't need to impress Tribb Reese,” she maintained. “Plus, Tribb should love…he should love…what's on the
inside
.” Parker nearly choked on her words. For the first time, eighth grade felt so
real
.

“Absolutely,” Ikea agreed. “The inside is so important.”

Parker took a deep breath—the kind that sucks the tears right back into your head before they have a chance to come out. She settled into the couch and sipped on the mocha mach, pointing to the visible spot of skin above Ikea's capris. “You should totally get a tattoo back there,” she said. “Like a little fairy. Or the Japanese symbol for peace or something.”

Ikea twisted her head around and tried to get a glimpse of her own backside. It wasn't hard to miss—everyone else at La Coppa Coffee saw it clear as day.

“I heard Brie Channing got a butterfly tattoo on her ankle,” Parker relayed. “Her mother doesn't even know about it.” She sipped. “Now she has to always wear knee socks. Even for tennis.”

Ikea's jaw dropped.

“A tattoo? Can I do it?” Plum Petrovsky called, leaving the barista counter with a coffee as big as she was.

“Lyla!!” They all traded another round of air-kisses, carefully avoiding any tragic coffee or Lipglass mishaps.

“All we really need to do a tattoo is a needle and some India ink,” Plum said.

And she would know—Plum nearly got expelled last year for piercing Missy Foxcroft's ears in the girls' bathroom. Even though Plum was a Legacy too, she'd faced expulsion from Wallingford a total of four times. Most were grievous misunderstandings, false representations, and one possible case of extortion (which couldn't exactly be proven, but couldn't exactly
not
be proven either).

Plum took a seat at the other end of the comfy couch, took the top off her cup and blew on the dark, steamy liquid. She pulled her tiny legs up to her chest and wrapped her arm around her knees. The top part of her scribble-print Chuck Taylors were folded down and held together by double laces.

Parker blinked at the engraving on Plum's new friendship ring:
Friends Forever
.

Plum's skin was smooth as porcelain, her short, glazed haircut had one sharp streak of Cherry Bomb red (well,
today
it was Cherry Bomb red) embedded in the bangs, and her brows were nothing short of red carpet ready. She was heir to the Out of This World cosmetics empire and the company guinea pig. She was always getting Milky Way facials, Sea of Tranquility paraffin masks, and Close Encounters of the Botanical Kind splashes. Plum always looked great and usually smelled pretty fruity. It more than made up for the fact that she still hadn't grown into her training bra.

But as much as Plum obsessed over an eyebrow, she thought that boys were entirely overrated. Thanks primarily to her younger brother Nico, Plum maintained that the male species were all smelly, splashed water on their toothbrushes instead of actually
brushing
their teeth, drew bloody skulls on everything they owned, never flushed the toilet (no matter what was in there), and recited the lyrics of rap songs instead of having real conversations. Boys, Plum felt, needed brat bribes just to act human. And Parker had to admit, she wasn't always wrong about this.

“But BTdubs, no way are we doing a butterfly tattoo,” Plum told everyone. “Butterflies are way played out,” she said.

Parker and Ikea both nodded;
Butterflies are way played out
.

A new rule was born.

“Ike…” Plum sipped from her drink. “…you think your parental unit can keep me out of detention this year?” She phrased the question casually, like it was no biggie to ask Mr. Bentley something like that. “My grandmother is
so
making my mother send me to Our Lady of Fatima if I get another detention.”

“…I don't know if he can do that,” Ikea said nervously.

Mr. Bentley had recently been named Wallingford Academy's new Board President, a job that would require an untold amount of time nosing around in Ikea's bizness. It would take the pressure she usually felt about getting an A+ in just about everything in her life (which apparently was required to get into Yale), put a lid on it, and turn the temperature up to scalding. But leave it to Plum to see the potential in Mr. Bentley's appointment.

Ikea bit at the end of her grosgrain watch band and then moved on to her thumbnail. Parker found herself biting at her thumbnail too. She could feel Ikea's pain.

“Hello, darls!” Katherine “Kiki” Allen, the very first-of-all-time member of the Lylas (and
third
generation Wally),
burst into the crowded coffee shop with an armful of shopping bags, a stack of British fashion magazines, and hugsies for everyone. “I am
so
knackered,” Kiki puffed. “I had the most
beastly
time getting out of the house.”

Kiki had just returned from a summer in London with a brand new faux-English accent and gi-normous credit card bills from Harvey Nichols and Patrick Cox. Kiki was a Euro-chameleon—instantly influenced by whatever country she'd just been visiting. It was like the time she came back from Paris and had to put a “
la
,” “
le
,” or “
les
” in front of everything.

On the other hand, Kiki looked fabulouz
as only Kiki could
.
She wore a pair of metallic flats, humongous Cavanna sunglasses, and Studio D'Artisan jeans that looked like they'd been painted on her. Celebrity hairstylist, Adee Phelan, had given her wide, blunt bangs that reached down to the tips of her eyelashes (so soon every Wally would rush to the salon for the same). And ignoring the Designer Tote Decree entirely, she carried all her junk in a Lariat handbag the size of a Volkswagen. It was the British “It Bag,” Kiki had said. Everyone in London had one.