by Piper Banks
“Is it really so hard to check with me before you make plans to be out of town?” Peyton asked.
“I didn’t have a choice in the matter. It was the only weekend the client could meet with me,” Dad replied. He was an architect, and frequently traveled to meet with clients or visit a building site. In fact, he and Peyton had met through his work, when she hired him to design the beach house. The Demon was the heiress to a mouthwash fortune.
“So your clients are more important to you than I am?” Peyton asked, her voice shrill with anger.
“Some of us have to work for a living,” Dad replied in a cold, cutting tone.
The sliding glass door opened behind me, and I turned to see my stepsister, Hannah, walk out onto the deck. The voices of our fighting parents became momentarily louder—“Thoughtless!” “Selfish!”—before Hannah firmly slid the door shut behind her. She was holding her white Persian cat, Madonna. The cat took one look at Willow and hissed evilly.
“Hey,” Hannah said.
“Hi,” I said.
“Is it just me or are they getting worse?” Hannah asked.
“It’s not just you,” I said. Richard and Peyton had been fighting a lot lately. And I knew all too well what they were fighting about: me. Peyton hadn’t wanted me to move into the beach house with them the previous year. My continued presence had been a source of conflict.
“I’m sick of it. And it’s stressing Madonna out. She keeps getting hair balls,” Hannah said, collapsing into the chair next to mine. Madonna didn’t look particularly stressed out. Her flat, malevolent eyes were still fixed on Willow. Willow—who was terrified of the cat, despite being larger, equipped with fangs and bred for hunting—shrank back and skulked behind my chair.
“Coward,” I said, patting Willow reassuringly. “Are you all packed and ready to go?”
Hannah’s investment banker father and stepmother lived in Manhattan. She flew up to see them several times a year, and was leaving the next day for a weeklong visit.
“No, but I can finish tonight,” Hannah said.
“I thought you were going out with Emmett,” I said.
Emmett Dutch was Hannah’s boyfriend, and a year ahead of me at Geek High. I’d had a crush on him for years, and was heartbroken when he and Hannah first started dating the previous year. Thankfully, I was over that now. I had Dex, and besides, Emmett and Hannah made a really cute couple.
“He canceled,” Hannah said moodily. She crossed her arms and stared out at the ocean. “He has to work.”
“Where’s he working this summer?”
“At the Sno-Freeze,” she said.
“That’s where he worked last summer, too,” I remarked, then flushed when Hannah looked at me, surprised. I’d never told her about my former feelings for Emmett, so she had no reason to know that I’d spent two years of my life gathering every nugget of information about him that I could find. “Geek High is small. Everyone knows everything about everyone,” I said quickly.
Hannah nodded, accepting this explanation. “He was promoted to assistant manager. Emmett was really excited about it because he got a raise, but basically it means that when anyone calls in sick, he gets stuck working their shift. It’s so incredibly lame. He’s worked every night this week, and now I’m not going to get to see him before I leave on my trip.”
“That’s too bad,” I commiserated. I pushed the pizza box in Hannah’s direction. “Want some pizza?”
Hannah’s nose wrinkled. “Do you know how many fat grams are in one slice of pizza?”
“No idea,” I said.
“A lot,” Hannah said ominously. “I have to lose ten pounds.”
“Are you insane? You don’t need to lose weight.”
“I do if I’m going to be a model! Do you know how tiny those girls are?” Hannah said.
“I didn’t know you wanted to model,” I said. I thought my stepsister was certainly pretty enough to model. In fact, she was annoyingly pretty. While I was stuck with a tall and gangly body, frizzy hair and a too-big nose, Hannah looked like a princess straight from a Disney fairy tale. She had long, platinum blond hair, large blue eyes, a tiny button of a nose, and perfect rosebud lips. It was no wonder that Emmett Dutch, god of Geek High, had taken one look at Hannah and fallen madly in love with her. “I thought models were really tall, though.”
“Kate Moss isn’t,” Hannah said defensively. “She’s five-foot-six, my height exactly. Well, minus an inch or so.”
“Oh. Well. Good for you,” I said, trying to be supportive.
Hannah nodded. “Can you keep a secret?” she asked.
“That depends,” I said. “How juicy is it?”
Hannah leaned forward, her blue eyes now bright with excitement. “Jackie has arranged for a photographer she knows to do a photo shoot with me. He’s going to put together a portfolio for me so I can start auditioning for modeling jobs.”
I’d never met Hannah’s stepmother, but even so, I’d always been a bit jealous of her relationship with Hannah. Jackie seemed to truly adore Hannah, and treated her like the daughter she’d never had. It was a stark contrast to how the Demon barely tolerated my presence in the beach house.
“That’s nice of her. Why is it a secret?” I asked.
“My mom.” Hannah made a face. “She’s totally against the idea of my modeling. Did you know that she changed the terms of my trust fund so that I only get the money if I go to college first? So lame. Although I guess if I’m a really famous model, I won’t need a trust fund.”
Surprisingly enough, I actually agreed with the Demon on this. What were the chances that Hannah would make it in modeling? I certainly wasn’t an expert in the field, but I had to imagine there were thousands of girls competing for such a high-paying, glamorous job. It made a lot more sense for Hannah to go on to college. Even if she did pursue modeling, she’d have her education to fall back on if it didn’t work out.
“What time is your flight out tomorrow?” I asked.
“Ten,” Hannah said. She rolled her eyes. “It means I’m going to have to get up at, like, dawn in order to get to the airport in time.”
“It’ll be good practice for when you’re a model and having to get up early for photo shoots,” I said.
I was just teasing, but Hannah nodded seriously. “That’s true. Although you know what Linda Evangelista said.”
“Linda who?” I asked.
“You don’t know who Linda Evangelista is?” Hannah asked, her mouth dropping open.
This happened a lot with Hannah. She and her friends studied fashion magazines the way archaeologists examine ancient ruins. I rarely knew what they were talking about when they started discussing designers and models.
“She’s, like, only one of the most famous models ever. She was one of the original supermodels,” Hannah said.
“Oh,” I said, nodding. Even I had heard of supermodels.
“Anyway, Linda Evangelista once said that she wouldn’t get out of bed for less than ten thousand dollars a day,” Hannah said. She flipped her blond hair back over her shoulders. “I bet she didn’t have to get up at dawn for photo shoots. They probably waited for her. That’s the kind of model I want to be.”
“You mean rich, phenomenally successful, and discourteous?” I asked.
“Exactly,” Hannah said. She stood suddenly. “I think I’d better pack a few more outfits. Just in case.”
“Just in case what?” Peyton asked, appearing at the back door.
Peyton was very pale and thin, and had very short, spiky blond hair. Her personality was so chilly, I could swear that whenever she walked into a room, the temperature would dip by fifteen degrees.
Hannah and I both looked up, startled. Neither one of us had heard the sliding glass door open. I wondered how much of our conversation she’d overheard. I glanced quickly at Hannah and could tell from her uneasy expression that she was wondering the same thing.
“I thought you were finished with your packing,” Peyton con
tinued.
“Mostly,” Hannah said. “But I think I want to bring my Tocca dress. And maybe my high-heeled Mary Janes. Oh! And my white jeans.” She stood. Madonna fell to the ground, hissing with displeasure, and stalked back into the house, fluffy white tail twitching. “Maybe I should just bring another suitcase.”
Hannah hurried off to deal with her packing crisis. This, unfortunately, left Peyton and me alone. I tried very hard never to be alone with my stepmother. When she stared at me with her cold gray eyes, nostrils flaring and lips pressed into a thin line, it gave me the heebie-jeebies.
“Miranda,” Peyton said. She extended one arm, pointing an accusatory finger in Willow’s direction. “Your dog.”
“What about her?” I asked, bracing myself for another anti-Willow tirade. Peyton hated Willow even more than she hated me. She was constantly making nasty comments about how Willow smelled—which she didn’t at all—or how loudly she breathed. But then I glanced over at Willow and saw that she was busily wolfing down the rest of the pizza straight from the cardboard box. I yelped and lunged for her. “Willow! Don’t eat that! Dairy always upsets your stomach.”
Willow managed to suck down a few last bites of pizza before I could grab it away from her.
“If that dog can’t behave itself, it can’t be in the house,” Peyton hissed.
Peyton had been on a one-woman mission to have Willow banned from the beach house ever since we moved in the previous year. So far, my dad had overruled her attempts. But the more Peyton and my dad fought, the more time he spent at his office. He hadn’t been home in time for dinner in over a week. So without him around to run interference, I worried that it would only be a matter of time before Peyton succeeded in banishing Willow to the garage.
“She’s not in the house,” I pointed out. “We’re on the back deck.”
Peyton stared malevolently at me for a long moment, before turning on one four-inch stiletto heel and marching back into the house.
“Richard!” I heard her screech. “Where are you? Please come here right this instant, and do something about that animal.”
I sighed and rubbed Willow’s head. Every moment spent in Peyton’s presence made the prospect of moving to London even more attractive.
Chapter Three
Until I passed my driving test, my ten-speed was the only form of independent transportation I had, so the next morning I biked over to the Fishers’ house. They lived about two miles away, in a quiet neighborhood full of modest-sized homes set back from the road with well-tended lawns and flower beds. The Fishers’ house, the third on the right, was yellow with white shutters and a glossy black door. Someone inside was playing the piano, a methodical recitation of scales. I rang the doorbell, feeling a flutter of nerves. This was it—my first day of work at my first real job.
The door opened almost immediately, and a woman smiled down at me. She was thin with dark curly hair cut in an angled bob. Black-framed glasses were perched on her nose, and she wore a long orange silk tunic with a mandarin collar over matching wide-legged pants.
“Hi, Miranda?”
I smiled back at her and nodded, feeling suddenly shy.
“I’m Elise Fisher. Please come in.”
I stepped into the front foyer of the Fishers’ house, and as I did, the sound of the piano scales grew louder. Through a pair of closed French doors just to the left of the hallway, I could see a girl with long dark hair seated at a black grand piano, her back to me. She sat erect on the bench, her posture perfect, and her hands traveled gracefully up and down the ivory keyboard. I could tell from the set of her shoulders that she was concentrating deeply.
“Why don’t we go sit down and talk, and then I’ll introduce you to Amelia?” Mrs. Fisher suggested.
I followed Mrs. Fisher back to the kitchen, which had gray walls and a slate gray countertop. It felt like I’d stepped into a rain cloud. Only the light blond wood of the cupboards and kitchen table broke up the gloomy darkness of the room.
“Go ahead and sit down,” Mrs. Fisher said, gesturing toward the rectangular table. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” I said, sitting in one of the high-backed chairs. The sound of the scales continued to drone on in the background.
Mrs. Fisher poured herself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the countertop, and then sat across the table from me. She smiled warmly.
“You came highly recommended. Headmaster Hughes said that you are an excellent student and a valued member of the Notting Hill Independent School community.”
I managed to suppress a snort of indignation. The previous school year, Headmaster Hughes had basically blackmailed me into organizing the annual Snowflake Gala. Then he coerced me into staying on the Mu Alpha Theta math competition team.
Mrs. Fisher continued. “I think this will be an excellent opportunity for Amelia. She’s very gifted—not only does she have a genius-level IQ, but she’s well on her way to becoming one of the top pianists of her generation. Spending time with you—someone who’s grown up gifted and knows what it’s like, what challenges gifted children face—will be enormously helpful for Amelia.”
“You know I don’t play the piano, right?” I said worriedly. “I’m not at all musical.”
Mrs. Fisher smiled. “That’s fine. Amelia already has a music teacher. She just needs to be exposed to what it’s like to be a normal kid. Well. A normal gifted kid. You don’t have to do anything special. Just spend some time with Amelia. Talk to her. Tell her about your experiences.”
My experiences? I felt a twinge of apprehension. I wasn’t sure what Mrs. Fisher wanted me to talk to Amelia about. Being gifted had caused me some problems, especially while I was still enrolled in a normal school. I learned the hard way that most teachers don’t appreciate being corrected in front of the class, even when they’re dead wrong. In fact, they tend to put you in detention for it.
But since Amelia was already attending Geek Middle, she would never have to face that particular problem. All of the faculty at Notting Hill was specially trained in how to teach high-IQ kids.
The same thing went for making friends. Genius kids tend to stand out at normal schools. And usually not in a good way. But when all of your classmates are just as geeky as you are, it’s a lot easier to fit in.
The scales suddenly stopped.
“Amelia!” Mrs. Fisher called out. “Come here and meet Miranda.”
Either Amelia didn’t hear her mother, or she simply chose to ignore her, because a moment later, the music started up again. At least Amelia had moved on from the scales and was now playing something classical and complicated.
Mrs. Fisher didn’t seem angry. She took another sip of her coffee.
“Amelia’s a very dedicated musician. She practices for hours every day.” She hesitated, setting her coffee mug on the table. “In fact, I should warn you: Amelia’s not very pleased that I’ve hired you.”
“She probably thinks she’s too old for a babysitter,” I said sympathetically. I remembered feeling the same way when I was her age.
“No, that’s not it. I think she’s more concerned that this arrangement will interfere with her practice time,” Mrs. Fisher said. “I’ve assured her that you won’t bother her while she’s playing.”
“Oh.” I was momentarily taken aback. “When does she practice?”
“During the school year, she practices for an hour before school, an hour during school, and then two hours after. In the summer, she plays a bit more—usually for a few hours in the morning, and then a longer session in the afternoon.”
I was stunned. Amelia was only ten years old. How could she be so dedicated at so young an age? And what could Mrs. Fisher possibly expect me to teach her? Sure, I could solve math theorems in my head, but that wasn’t something I worked at. I’d never spent hours at a time studying math.
“I thought you could plan on coming every weekday from around nine to three or so. You can hang out while Amelia practices—fe
el free to bring a book or your laptop or whatever—and then the two of you can have lunch and spend some time together,” Mrs. Fisher said. “I work nearby—I’m an interior designer, and my office is on Shoreline Avenue—so I’ll be close if you need me.”
The idea of spending all day, every day, just sitting at the Fishers’ house and listening to Amelia play the piano didn’t sound like much fun. On the other hand, Mrs. Fisher had already agreed to pay me ten dollars an hour. And sitting around reading while Amelia practiced certainly sounded a lot easier than a summer job bagging groceries.
And, on the bright side, I’d have plenty of time to write. I was currently working on a short story about a girl who no one ever notices, until one day she actually becomes invisible. I’d brought my notebook with me to the Fishers’ house, tucked away in my backpack, just in case I had some time to work on it.
“Sounds great,” I said. “What does Amelia like to do? Other than playing the piano, I mean.”
My question seemed to confuse Mrs. Fisher. “What does she like to do?” she repeated. She shrugged. “I suppose what any other gifted ten-year-old likes to do. What did you do at her age?”
I tried to remember. “I liked arts and crafts. Biking. Going to the playground. The beach.”
“Not the beach,” Mrs. Fisher said. “Amelia doesn’t swim.”
“She doesn’t?” I asked, surprised.
While my mother, Sadie, had never exactly been a role model of maternal responsibility, she had enrolled me in swimming lessons before I could walk. After all, we lived in Florida, and were never far away from the water. Besides the beach, there were swimming pools and rivers. When I was Amelia’s age, I’d practically lived in the water. How could Amelia live here and never have learned how to swim?
Mrs. Fox stood and headed for the living room. “I’ll go get Amelia,” she called back over her shoulder to me. “It’s time for her break anyway.”
From the other room, I could hear the piano stop abruptly and then the sound of muffled voices. It sounded like they were arguing, although I couldn’t hear what the source of the conflict was. Maybe Amelia didn’t want to stop practicing. Or maybe she just didn’t want to meet me.
