Page 16 of Penelope in Retrograde

If I wasn’t completely in love with Smith Mackenzie, I would hate his guts. His family is so ridiculously cool and easy to get along with. They always have the best parties. His parents invite over the most amazing and interesting people, and they do it for the simple pleasure of enjoying their company, not as a way to negotiate a deal or further benefit some aspect of their lives. Once, they spent eight hours locked in a game of Dungeons and Dragons with the guys from U2. They got so caught up in the game that they didn’t have time to record a track for their next album together. But they didn’t care. Jasper and Fiona never care about business more than people or family or fun. They’re the polar opposite of my parents in every way imaginable. My parents never miss an opportunity for business.

Take today for example. Thanksgiving is supposed to be about family and friends and food. It’s supposed to be about enjoying each other’s company and being thankful for all that you have. It’s the one day a year where you don’t look at what your life is missing, because as long as you have the people that matter the most to you gathered around your table, you have everything you need. But that’s not true for Carter Banks. For my dad, every day is a business day. Every day is an opportunity for a deal to be made, and every person a pawn to be used to further his own goals.

“He knows I’m not smart enough to go to Princeton,” I mutter under my breath. “I’m not like Phoebe. I will never get grades like Phoebe.”

“Huh? Are we still talking about Cobain?”

Smith is crouched over on his hands and knees. A tiny bead of sweat paints a trail from his gelled hairline to his smooth jaw. He’s paler than I remember him being a few hours ago. Slightly green too, if I’m not mistaken, which I could be, seeing as how I’m pretty sure I’m drunk.

“I said my father knows I’m not smart. Phoebe is the smart one. I’m the creative one. Basically, Phoebe is the good daughter, and I’m the one that needs to be fixed.”

Smith covers his ears like I’ve just blown an air horn in his face. “Why are you screaming at me?”

“I’m not.”

“I can hear your voice in my eyeballs.”

“Stop being so dramatic. Oh god. I sound like him now.”

“Like who?”

“My father. I sound like my father.”

Smith moves his hands from covering his ears to covering his mouth instead. “Your girl Vermouth is not settling well.”

I pull myself up, grab a dusty plastic tub filled with a forgotten stash of CDs, and drop it next to Smith. “Puke in this.”

“Penelope Banks!” My mother’s voice echoes in my head like the voice of God. “Penelope, I know you’re out there!”

I peek out the spy hole again just as my mother bends over to examine the remaining ash from Marie’s cigarette on the patio.

“Shit.” I brush off the dust and cobwebs from my jeans. “Looks like it’s too late for me to make the séance.”

Smith holds up one of my CDs from the tub. “Jessica Simpson? You seriously bought Jessica Simpson’s debut?”

“She’s highly underrated.” I reach for the CD and miss it. The tree house is now swaying like a boat on ocean waves. “Plus, her vocals are angelic.”

“You’re uninvited from the—”

“Penelope, I see you up there!” My mother’s voice grates like nails on a chalkboard. “Your father’s friend has been waiting patiently for half an hour for you to make an appearance. Get your butt down here this instant.” She pauses, and I swear I can hear her sniffing the air like a hound on the trail of a missing person. “Have you been drinking up there? Is that Smith’s boot I see?”

“Yes, and I don’t know.” I grab the mostly empty green bottle and toss it in the CD tub with Jessica and the other late-nineties goddesses of pop. “Watch out. We’re coming down.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” she huffs. “You can’t not know if you’ve been drinking, Penelope.”

“I know, Mom. I have been drinking. I don’t know if you can see Smith’s boots or mine.” I point to the rope ladder. Or at least, I think I’m pointing at the rope ladder. Everything is a little fuzzy. “You want to go down first, or should I? If you’re still worried about falling to your death, my mother’s down there now. She’ll break your fall.”

He lifts his gaze to meet mine. A big dopey grin takes shape across his lips for a moment, but it quickly fades. He grabs the CD tub and retches into it. Looks like any hope I had of a goddesses-of-pop karaoke night is long gone. He retches twice more before calling it quits and rolling to his side.

“You go down first,” he groans. “I’ll wait until after this tree house stops spinning.”

I stumble my way down the rope ladder, using the pounding in my head as a guide. When I make it onto solid ground, it’s as if the sun has suddenly decided to turn on its brights and point straight at me. I’m starting to think my girl Vermouth is actually out to get me.

“What are you wearing?” My mother tugs at the sleeve of my hoodie. “Where’s the dress from Saks that I laid out for you?”

“I’m seventeen, Mom. I think I’m a little too old to be wearing the dresses my mommy lays out for me.”

“You picked the dress out, Penelope!” She pulls something that resembles a tiny bird’s nest from the topknot of curls piled on my head. “You look like you just crawled out of a gutter.”

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