The Daughters

  “Lizzie, stop,” Hudson said in a cautious voice. Lizzie’s looks were well-covered territory among the three of them and she knew that her friends were tired of talking about it.

  “No, you guys know I don’t care, I just wish she saw it,” Lizzie said. “Anyway, Carina. How was Outward Bound?”

  “So, so, so incredible,” Carina said, shaking her head as she wolfed down her yogurt. “Colorado is the most perfect place on earth. But I didn’t take a shower for almost a month. You guys shoulda seen me. I was covered in dirt. It was awesome.”

  “What’d your dad say when he saw you covered in dirt?” Hudson asked.

  Carina grinned. “That I’d wasted a summer. What’d you think?”

  Carina’s father, Karl Jurgensen, was a workaholic. He was also one of the richest men in the world. Metronome Media, his empire of fat glossy lifestyle and fashion magazines, newspapers, cable news channels, and social-networking sites spanned continents and employed thousands of people. He was building what he hoped would be the biggest streamed-entertainment site in the world, with every television series, reality show, or movie available on one user-friendly website. Karl had so much money that he’d also become one of the country’s biggest philanthropists, donating millions to fight poverty and world hunger. With his charismatic personality and dashing looks, Karl was one of the most eligible bachelors in New York, if not the world. He’d divorced Carina’s mother when Carina was in the fifth grade and since then Carina had lived alone with him in a palatial penthouse on Fifty-Seventh Street.

  Most of the time the two of them managed to get along. But Karl’s impatience with his free-spirited daughter could set off a violent explosion between the two of them, and by the end of the school year, Carina and the Jurg, as she called her dad, usually weren’t speaking. Which was why she spent every summer as far from him and New York as possible, climbing mountains in Colorado or learning how to scuba dive.

  “How was your dad’s party this year?” Hudson asked.

  Carina shrugged. “Pretty good, I guess,” she said. “He thinks he raised two million.” Every year around Labor Day, Karl, or the Jurg, turned his Montauk estate into an amusement park to raise money for charity. There were roller coasters, spinning teacups, fireworks displays, and even an underwater submarine ride in one of his lakes. A ticket to “Jurgensenland” cost a thousand dollars and a dinner table for the ball at the end of the evening cost ten thousand.

  “And how was the end of the tour?” Lizzie asked Hudson.

  “Crazy,” Hudson sighed. “Thirty cities in forty-five days. I don’t know how my mom does it. By the ninth day I was exhausted.”

  “Any Holla drama?” Carina asked, getting right to the point.

  Hudson rolled her eyes. “There was this guy from Rolling Stone on the tour with us, doing the usual article on ‘Holla Jones and her Unstoppable Career,’ and he asked me how old my mom was. I was so jet-lagged, I told him the truth: thirty-seven. And when it got back to my mom, she freaked out. As if three extra years were that big a deal.” Hudson stood up and placed her half-empty carton into the trash can. “Moral of the story? Don’t ever talk to the press. Even when they’re, like, living with you day and night.”

  Hudson’s mother, Holla Jones, was a pop star. Her multi-octave voice and radio-friendly hits had made her a star at nineteen, and now she was an icon. Year after year, through a combination of touring, cutting-edge album production, and an iron will, she reached the top of the Billboard charts. But the iron will had lately become a problem. It related to everything: her daily, three-hour workouts with a personal trainer; her strictly organic vegetarian diet; and her relationships, which were usually over before they began. Hudson’s dad was a case in point. He’d been a backup dancer on one of Holla’s first tours—and then promptly disappeared the moment the tour ended, scared off by Holla’s fearsome discipline.

  Hudson and Holla’s bond was fierce, almost sisterly, and Lizzie often admired it. But it also made her a little nervous. Hudson had inherited her mother’s voice, her looks, and her presence, and now was about to record her own album. But where Holla was all fast beats, flashy costumes, and high-energy pop, Hudson was soulful, slow, and a smoky torch. Unfortunately, Holla wasn’t so aware of the distinction.

  “Any cute dancers?” Carina asked as they walked out onto the street.

  “Uh, no,” Hudson said. “They were all on the other team.”

  “Too bad,” Carina said, making a beeline for a jewelry stand set up on the street. “I was too stinky to even think of hooking up with anyone on that mountain, even though this one guy was really hot,” she said, holding up a pair of dangly coin earrings to her ears. “What do you guys think? Cheap or cool?”

  “Cheap,” Lizzie said.

  “And do you really need them?” asked Hudson.

  “Whatever, they’re ten bucks,” Carina said, producing a bill from the back pocket of her shorts and handing it to the man in the Rastafarian cap behind the table. Despite her granola tendencies, Carina liked to spend money. And her dad gave her plenty.

  “Speaking of hot guys,” Hudson murmured, staring at something up the street. “Look at him.”

  Lizzie turned and followed Hudson’s gaze. Walking out of the southern end of Washington Square Park, fists in the pockets of his jeans, white iPod wires trailing from his ears, was a very hot guy. An alarmingly hot guy. He was so cute that Lizzie could only look at him in small, bite-sized glimpses. Large blue eyes. Chiseled face. Straight brown hair that was a little shaggy over his forehead. Full, pink lips.

  “Wow,” Carina muttered. “Now that is a hot college guy.”

  But Lizzie could tell he was younger than that. And then she realized there was something familiar about his walk. It was a loping, easy stroll, as if he was totally in his own world and in absolutely no hurry. “Oh my God,” Lizzie said when it hit her. “That’s Todd Piedmont.”

  “What?” Carina asked, awestruck. “The guy from your building?”

  “Didn’t he move to London?” Hudson asked. “Like, three years ago?”

  “Maybe he’s back for a visit,” Lizzie replied.

  “Is that what happens when people move to London?” Carina wondered. “They become total hotties?”

  “Go say hi.” Hudson grabbed Lizzie’s arm and gave her a nudge.

  “Yeah,” Carina seconded. “Before he gets back on a plane and never comes back.”

  “Wait—by myself?”

  “You guys were BFF,” Hudson pointed out.

  “Yeah, when we were six.”

  As she watched her old neighbor reach the curb, she tried to wrap her brain around the fact that this was the same boy she’d bossed around, played with, and once made cry. But whoever it was, she was just happy to be wearing a pretty dress and peep-toe heels, even if they did kill her feet.

  As two kids the same age living three floors apart, she and Todd Piedmont had trick-or-treated together, sledded in Central Park, ran around the lobby on rainy days, or just rode the elevators for hours, pushing buttons for their tolerant neighbors. Todd’s parents, Jack and Julia, were almost as glamorous as her parents. Jack was the head of an investment bank and did triathlons on the weekends, and had a rugged self-confidence that made women giggly and other men very quiet. Julia was an elegant, dark-haired beauty who worked as a contributing editor at Vogue. They seemed completely in love.

  But Todd could be a little moody. Sometimes he’d disappear into his room with a book for hours, even when Lizzie was at his house. He could also get his feelings hurt easily, like when Lizzie poured his favorite kind of grape juice down the garbage disposal and he burst into tears. (It didn’t help that she was at least half a foot taller than him.) In fifth grade Todd went to an all-boys school, St. Brendan’s, and started hanging out more with the boys in his class. And when he did see her, Todd acted weird. He’d ignore her in the lobby, or barely mumble a hello if she ran into him on the street.

  “Todd!” his mother woul
d say, in front of Lizzie and her mom. “What’s happened to your manners?” “Hi,” he’d sullenly say, and then make a beeline for the elevator.

  The next year, when Lizzie and Todd were almost twelve, his family decided to move to London. Lizzie was relieved. No more awkward moments in the elevator. No more Todd weirdness.

  But then Todd did something really strange.

  It was at the Piedmonts’ going-away party. Todd and Lizzie were hanging out by themselves, as usual, in the kitchen, while the grown-ups mingled in the living room. They stood in the kitchen in awkward silence, eating red velvet cupcakes. Suddenly Todd grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to him. She felt his damp lips press against her mouth for an instant, and when it was over, her cupcake was on the tile floor, frosting-side down. Then her parents came in to say they were leaving, and that was the last time she ever saw him. His parting gift to her had been that quick, sloppy first kiss.

  Now as she watched Todd come toward her, she wondered if that kiss had been so sloppy after all.

  “Come on, you’re gonna miss him!” Hudson said, giving her a slight push. “Go!”

  Lizzie took a wobbly step forward on her Louboutins. The good thing about looking like a Sesame Street character, she thought, was that people usually remembered you. She limped toward him, and was just a few feet away when Todd yanked the iPod wires out of his ears.

  “Lizzie?” he asked, a smile curling around the edges of his mouth. “Lizzie Summers?”

  She took a step and wobbled on a crack in the pavement. “Oh!” she cried, and before she knew it, tumbled right into his chest.

  “Whoa, you okay?” he asked, catching her in his arms. With her nose pressed into his T-shirt, she got a whiff of Downy, Ivory soap, and boy-sweat. His arms felt strong around her, as if they had finally developed real muscles. “Here you go,” he said, propping her back on her feet. “You all right?”

  “So, um, what’s up?” she asked breezily, trying to pretend that she had not just tripped and almost fallen on her face.

  “Not much, how are you?” he asked, a faint English accent tweaking his r’s. He was taller than her now, and standing this close to him she was eye-level with his lips. They were definitely on the full side—had he had these before?

  “Um, what are you doing here?” Her right leg started to shake like it did whenever she was nervous. “I thought you were in London.”

  “We moved back,” he said. “Just a couple weeks ago.”

  “You moved back?” she practically yelled.

  “Yeah. My dad wanted to. And then my brother got into NYU,” he said, gesturing behind him toward the park, “so it seemed like the right time. And we’re actually back in the old building. You guys moved away, right?”

  Lizzie had sensed a year ago that moving had been a terrible idea. Now she knew why. “Yeah, last year. To the west side. I think the building got annoyed, you know, with all the photographers.”

  Todd smiled. “I’m sure I’ll still see you, though. Every day, probably.”

  “You will?”

  He flicked a piece of hair out of his eyes. “I’m going to Chadwick.”

  Lizzie blinked. For a moment, she thought she might lose her balance again. Todd Piedmont was going to go to her school? He’d been gone for three years, become alarmingly hot, and now she was going to be seeing him again every day—all day long?

  “That’s great,” she said casually, hoping that her pounding chest wasn’t a dead giveaway.

  “Hey, you guys,” Todd said to her friends. Lizzie had been too distracted to notice that they had come to stand on either side of her.

  “How’s merry old England?” Carina asked playfully.

  “And how long are you here?” inquired Hudson.

  “Todd’s moved back,” Lizzie announced. “And he’s going to Chadwick.” She looked over her shoulder to see their reaction. Carina looked flabbergasted, and Hudson was blushing.

  “Actually, I gotta go,” he said to Lizzie, oblivious to her friends’ reactions. “I’m meeting my brother at his dorm. But maybe you can be my tour guide tomorrow?” he asked, smiling, as he stepped past her.

  Lizzie nodded dumbly. “Sure.”

  “Well, see ya.” He waved to Carina and Hudson, stuck the wires back in his ears, and set off down the street.

  All three of them stared after him in silence.

  “Holy mother of God,” Carina breathed when he was halfway down the block.

  “He’s going to our school?” Hudson sputtered.

  “Apparently.”

  “You guys are gonna fall in love,” Hudson blurted.

  “What?”

  “He asked you to be his tour guide,” Hudson said meaningfully.

  “Because he doesn’t know anyone else.”

  “Still. There were sparks. C, did you see the sparks?” Hudson asked.

  “I almost caught on fire,” Carina said.

  “This is fate,” Hudson announced.

  “Oh my God, stop,” Lizzie groaned.

  “It is,” Hudson argued. “Don’t you think, C? Don’t you think this is fate?” Hudson was way into astrology and destiny stuff. Way into it.

  “Okay, let’s break it down,” Carina said, turning to face Lizzie. “He was your first kiss, he’s hotter than Christian Bale, and he’s going to school with you,” she said, counting out her points on her slender fingers. “Yep. I’d say a higher power could be involved.”

  As Lizzie watched Todd turn the corner, she wondered whether Hudson was right. Unlike her best friend, she didn’t breathlessly check her horoscope every day, or take quiz after quiz on the Internet to learn the name of her soul mate, but maybe this was all happening for a reason. It all seemed too weird. Too… well… destined.

  “When’s his birthday?” Hudson asked.

  “November.”

  “Hmmm,” Hudson said, nodding. “Scorpio. That’s good with Taurus. A little intense, though. You might want to be careful.”

  “You guys, nothing has even happened yet, ” she reminded them.

  “Oh, but it will,” Carina said knowingly as she slipped on a pair of silver Oakleys. “It totally will.” Then she led the way down the street.

  chapter 2

  “His name’s Todd Piedmont. He starts today. He just transferred from London. He’s tall with brown hair. Really blue eyes. ”

  Mr. Barlow leaned back in his swivel chair, studying her, and cradled his white-haired head in his hands. “And what did he have for breakfast?” he asked dryly.

  “He asked me to show him around,” Lizzie pointed out, trying not to blush. “I’m just trying to be helpful. Isn’t that the Chadwick way?” She knew she was being totally obvious, but she couldn’t even pretend to be casual about this.

  “Is there any chance your interest in Mr. Piedmont is of the less… altruistic variety?” Mr. Barlow asked, raising one white eyebrow. Thirty years as the head of the Upper School had made him a little skeptical of teenage Good Samaritans. And his five years as a Marine before that made him a little scary.

  “No…,” Lizzie hedged.

  “Then far be it from me to deny your need to help people,” Mr. Barlow said, snapping forward in his chair and reaching for the cabinet below his desk. He pulled out two folders and dropped them on his desk. “All right, Miss Summers. Let’s see if your schedules match up.”

  As he bent his lanky frame over the files, Lizzie took a moment to glance around his office. Nothing had changed over the summer. The mantel above the fireplace was still crammed with old Christmas cards and photos from students who’d graduated, and the taupe chenille couch was still worn at the arms. The acid green carpet from the eighties still hadn’t been replaced. Chadwick was one of the most expensive schools on the Upper East Side, but clearly none of the tuition was going toward Mr. B’s office, she thought.

  “You both have the same homeroom, same English, same world history…” Mr. Barlow said, slapping the file closed. “He’s all yours.”
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  “Thanks, Mr. Barlow,” she said, about to leave.

  “Hold on there, Summers.”

  Slowly, Lizzie turned around.

  “I heard very impressive things from the director at Barnstable,” he said, taking a sip from a cup of takeout coffee. “He said that you won a special prize.”

  “Just for being the youngest one there.”

  “For Most Promising,” he said with a smile. “And for that reason I hope you’ll submit something to the fiction contest this year. I think you’ve got a good shot at winning, Lizzie. Even as a freshman. You’re one of the best writers we have here.” He smiled gently. “No pressure, of course.”

  Of all the teachers at Chadwick, Mr. Barlow was her most fervent supporter, ever since her eighth-grade English teacher, Miss Hardwick, had shown him a story Lizzie had written for the literary magazine. This year, Mr. Barlow would also be her English teacher. Lizzie wasn’t sure if that was going to be good or bad.

  “I can show you something this week if you want,” she offered. “Maybe get your feedback?”

  Mr. Barlow nodded. “I look forward to it. Now go show the illustrious Mr. Piedmont around.”

  As she stepped out of his office into the crowded hall, her heart pounded, but whether it was from Mr. Barlow’s pep talk about the fiction contest or Todd Piedmont’s imminent appearance, she wasn’t sure. Sometimes it was hard to believe that someone like Mr. Barlow, who had actually known real writers, and some famous ones, thought that she really had talent. Maybe she should submit something to the contest.

  In the hall, people waved hello and stopped her for first-day welcome-back hugs. But she tried to keep moving. She’d gotten up an hour early to straighten her hair with her mother’s state-of-the art ionic blow dryer, and she had only a small window of time until her long, straight, red locks sprang back into a Ronald McDonald–worthy ’fro.

  She checked the ninth-grade homeroom: no sign of Todd. He wasn’t in the lounge. She was on her way to check the lockers when she saw a guy standing in front of the main bulletin board, scanning the schedules. Over one shoulder he wore a schoolbag with some weird, vaguely European insignia she didn’t recognize. His uniform pants were that new-looking, inky black. His white oxford shirt still had crinkles in it from being folded. His hair was shaggy over his collar. It was him.