When I was in third grade, the nanny was sick and I needed help with math. The word problem included a negative bank balance. Mum thought the minus symbol was a decorative embellishment and replaced it with a little star.
What’s more, she dismisses the calamities I experience, claiming that I’m “Pippa, her perfect little plum.” It was only a couple of years ago that I got her to stop gently pinching me on the cheeks when she’d say that.
But Marlow lingering nearby makes me think my luck won’t turn around anytime soon.
“Melissa? Madelyn?” Mum says, fumbling for her name or feigning forgetfulness. Libby is a professional hobnobber. I wouldn’t be surprised if she senses the mean girl’s intentions and is leveraging a power move—Marlow has mean girl from high school written all over her. Mum has a soft spot for underdogs. In this case, that’s me.
She simpers. “I’mMarlow Dwight.It’s such a surprise to see your daughter here.”
“And why is that?” Libby asks, as lovely as can be.
Elizabeth Trenton Harrington, now Thompson, had once been a student at Blancbourg Academy, where I teach, and is skilled at pleasantries, even if underneath, she recognizes mean and fake when she sees it.
“You’d think after all these years, Pippa would learn to stay home where she’s safe from herself.” Marlow laughs genially like we’re all in on the Pippa joke together.
“Yes, well, she has learned to look before she sits.” Libby smiles thinly at the reference to the sauce incident. Second to Phoebe, my mother is my biggest champion, even if she wants me to marry one of the pale and pompous sons of her friends.
Marlow sniffs and then waves at someone across the room, using it as an excuse to whisk away.
Mum smooths my hair and lifts my chin. “I agree with Phoebe. That girl is no good. I thought so when you were in school and I know so now.”
My sister was convinced Marlow had purposely put the plate of spaghetti and sauce on the dark wooden chair in the dimly lit dining hall where I always sat—it had been a cloudy day and for some reason, the school didn’t turn up the overhead lights. I didn’t want to believe it, because Marlow and I were best friends up until I gave the report on Queen Elizabeth. We even had those interlocking BFF heart bracelets. However, she soon distanced herself and slid into the cool crowd. Looking back, it was uncanny how often Marlow was at the scene of the calamity.
I want to see the best in people and always give second chances. Anyway, why would Marlow have it in for me? I never did anything to her other than cheer her on during soccer, be a reliable shoulder to cry on when she and her first boyfriend broke up, and when she was failing Mr. Halverson’s chemistry class, I studied with her until she passed.
“Come now, I’m going to introduce you to someone worth knowing.” Mum loops her arm through mine and strides across the room.
I brace myself. According to my mother, someone worth knowing is often male, wealthy, and has the personality of a wet noodle.
Even though Libby has my back when it comes to unfortunate spills and undesirable people from high school, she’s determined to get me married...little does she know, she’s well acquainted withThe Crush.
6
CHASE
Dad reams me out from top to bottom. Inside and out. I haven’t heard him speak this much in years. Usually, I get the silent treatment.
The assumption, at least among families with strong football ties, is an intense joy when they have a son. Especially a son with speed and an arm like mine. But nope. Seems Dad would’ve preferred a fourth daughter to add to the Rhiannon, April, and Erica tea party.
Instead, he’s spent my entire life trying to chase me away.
“I cannot fathom what would possess you to?—”
I cut in, “It was a harmless joke. A prank. In the team lounge, there’s a no-photos rule. Everyone knows that.”
As my father ignores what I said and continues to berate me, it makes me wonder who took the photo. Definitely not Starkowsky. Could’ve been Elyse. After all, she’s a reporter, but more than likely, she would’ve wanted her name attached to a story like that. That leaves the officials. They’re not named in the article, which I’ve now read, but they know the rules, and it’s in their best interest that we not get into hot water with the press, the commissioner, or the coach.
Or it could be subterfuge if we have a traitor on our hands. I’ve heard of stories of guys infiltrating a team, getting inside scoops, and then leaking them to the press. No one comes to mind, though.
That leaves Brandon, but he’s the new kid on the block and should know to be on his best behavior, unless we’re dealing with a professional prankster who beat us to the punch.
My father barks in my ear about an upcoming event in London at the home of a Lord or some such.
“But I have to report to Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette in Concordia the next morning.” From what I’ve gathered, Concordia is an English-speaking country, just north of the United Kingdom, and has both French and Swiss influence.
“I don’t give a flying?—”
“So, you want me to go to some swanky party as a punishment?”
