The Duke of Bannerman Prep Read online

  Copyright © 2017 by Katie A. Nelson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are from the author’s imagination, and used fictitiously.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available on file.

  Jacket image by iStock

  Jacket design by Sammy Yuen

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-5107-1040-5

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-1043-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  For J.R.

  You will always be my Superman.

  What win I, if I gain the thing I seek?

  A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy:

  Who buys a minute’s mirth to wail a week?

  Or sells eternity to get a toy?

  —Shakespeare,

  The Rape of Lucrece

  CHAPTER ONE

  WE’D BEEN AT THE BARBECUE for less than two minutes, but several things were clear:

  1. I was underdressed.

  2. I had no idea how to pronounce several of the items on the menu.

  3. I had completely underestimated the length of time a group of moderately intelligent, narcissistic rich kids could hold a grudge.

  “Where are the hot dogs?” I said. “And the salmonella-infested potato salad? I thought this was a barbecue.”

  Neither Abby nor my mom replied. They stared at the huge white tent set up on the soccer field, at the banks of solar panels just past the grass, at the tablecloths and crystal glasses and real silverware on the tables, at the waiters and the glowing LED lamps and the jazz band.

  Then Sam ran into one of the display tables with his cane, scattering picture frames and flowers all over the ground. His face was red, and his shirt was only partially tucked into his pants. He started muttering to himself. Heads turned as his voice got louder, and the conversations around us stopped. The spell was broken.

  Mom tried to steady him and prevent a meltdown while Abby and I collected the stray flowers and shoved them back into the vases. Some of the stems were broken, and the flowers poked out at weird angles—probably not the look they were going for. I stayed crouched down, trying to hide for just one second more.

  So much for blending in.

  A waiter rushed over to put everything back, and Abby and I moved out of the way. She laughed, but when she saw how irritated I was, she tried to stifle it with a cough. “Let’s get some food,” she said, elbowing me. “What kind of theme are they going for? Luau? Mardi Gras?”

  “Money,” my mom answered, brushing crumbs off Sam’s shirt.

  The invitation had said the dress was casual, but clearly that meant something different at Bannerman Prep School. The women wore sundresses and heels that kept sinking into the grass; the men were in khakis and starched shirts. Even the guys I’d passed earlier when I was moving into the dorm had exchanged their T-shirts for polos. I looked down at my flip-flops and thought about running back up to my room to change, but before I could decide, a tan middle-aged man approached.

  “You must be Tanner.” He extended his hand, and I shook it. It was sweaty. “The defending California state champion in Policy Debate. I should get your autograph.” The guy laughed. None of the rest of us did. He didn’t seem to notice. “We expect great things from you. I have to tell you, none of the alumni were too thrilled with that loss at state finals last spring. When Watterson suggested we recruit the guy who’d humiliated us, we were all on board. Glad to have the tiger on our side.”

  Abby looked at me, eyebrows raised, and mouthed the word tiger? I looked away so I wouldn’t laugh.

  The man turned to my mom, who pretended to be interested while gripping Sam’s arm with one hand. “My daughter, Peyton, is on the team. I’ll have to introduce them. She spent the summer in Prague—”

  “We’re going to take Sam and get some food,” I said and nudged Abby. She looped her arm through Sam’s, and we made our way toward the buffet table.

  “Harsh,” Abby said as she grabbed a plate. “Leaving your mom on her own.”

  “I’ll throw you under the bus, too, if I have to.”

  I stared at the spread of food in front of us, and it hit me for the seventeenth time that day that I did not belong here. There was a sign behind the buffet boasting that the vegetables and herbs were all grown on-site in the school’s organic garden. I’d grown up eating pizza pockets and macaroni and cheese. Somehow, I doubted I’d find any of that under the silver lids arranged on the long table. I shook my head at the pile of greens the server tried to put on my plate. That was supposed to be a salad? It looked like dandelions. Maybe it was. Gourmet dandelions.

  I carried Sam’s plate and my own, hoping the food being served tasted better than it looked, while Abby helped Sam navigate the tight space between the buffet and the groups of tables. Plates fully loaded, we surveyed the tent, looking for a place to sit. It seemed that all two hundred students—and their parents—were already seated.

  “You pick,” Abby said. “All I see are a bunch of dillholes with trust funds.”

  Sam pointed his cane at a table full of girls. “Check out the babes,” he said, way too loudly. His deep voice, nurtured in speech therapy for years, was another of the contradictions that made up his life. Sure, he loved playing with trucks and ardently believed in Santa Claus, but get him around a group of pretty girls and he turned into a total horndog, like the thirteen-year-old he was.

  Abby elbowed him. “Sam, you don’t want one of these babes. Way too high maintenance.”

  We found a half-empty table a few feet away. I was about to set our plates down when one of the girls jumped up. “You can’t sit there. These are reserved.”

  As we turned and looked around, her friend asked, “Is that him?”

  “Yeah. He thinks he can just take anybody’s seat. Could he be any cockier?”

  A guy bumped into my shoulder as he walked by, and I almost dropped our dinner. He sat down with the gossipy girls, his back to me. “He’ll be kicked out by Thanksgiving,” the guy said, loud enough so I’d be sure to hear. “The only reason he won at State was because he cheated.”

  I recognized the voice. My old team had defeated him in finals. His name was Tran, but my partner and I had called him Mr. Irons-His-Underwear. It still fit.

  I turned, still holding our plates. “I’m not a cheater. But go ahead and tell yourself that if it makes you feel better.”

  Tran didn’t turn around, but one of the girls rolled her eyes. “Whatever. We’re trying to eat.”

  Abby pulled at my sleeve and pointed to a table in the back. “How about there?”

  I recognized someone seated alone. He was watching something on his phone. I couldn’t remember his name, but I remembered his Afro. It looked different—shorter, maybe—than the
last time I’d seen him. He probably hated me, too, but the other tables were filling up and we were running out of options.

  “Anyone sitting here?” Afro-guy shook his head, so I set our plates down. “I’m Tanner and this is my cousin, Abby, and my brother, Sam.”

  He nodded. “Jason.”

  He didn’t say a lot, but as we ate, we found out that Jason was from Berkeley, also a junior, and, tragically, a vegetarian—thereby forced to eat the salad made from yard waste.

  “Berkeley,” Abby said. “That’s not that far. Do you live at home?”

  Jason shook his head. “No. Commuting is a pain. Some people do it, but I don’t have a car.”

  “Berkeley is a cool city,” I said.

  He shrugged, then went back to his salad. I couldn’t tell if he was just quiet or still pissed off about losing to me. I told myself it didn’t matter. I tried not to think about Tran and what he was telling everyone. I tried to pretend I didn’t hear my name. I ate, just to have something to do, but I didn’t taste the food.

  Sam nearly spilled his water and he dropped his fork three times. I wiped his face as discreetly as possible, but he still ended up with sauce all over his shirt.

  When the waiters brought dessert trays around, we were joined at the table by two other guys. One looked like the evil blond dude from Harry Potter. The other looked like a young Enrique Iglesias.

  I didn’t even have time to take a bite of my gluten-free chocolate zucchini cake before Enrique started hitting on Abby. “You must be new. I know I’d remember your face.”

  “I’m sure I’d forget yours,” Abby said, and kicked me under the table.

  Sam laughed. Even he could appreciate a good burn.

  All eyes were on Sam, in that it’s-rude-to-look-but-I-just-can’t-help-myself way, and I knew what they were thinking. They wanted to know what was wrong with him.

  Abby, who’d shared the job of looking out for Sam since we were kids, turned her attention on Jason. Running her finger around the rim of her crystal glass, she asked, “So, smooth jazz and chicken kebabs? You Bannerman boys really know how to party.”

  The blond guy had a huge grin on his face. “Oh, we know how to party. This is for the parents. Let them believe what they want to believe. Once the Duke gets back, he’ll throw a real party. The Duke’s parties are epic. The stuff of legends. Life-changing.”

  “The what?” I asked.

  “Andrew Tate,” said the Enrique look-alike. “Everyone calls him the Duke. His stepdad is some kind of billionaire, like thirty-second-in-line for the British throne.”

  A skinny blonde girl from the table next to us chimed in. “That’s not why he’s rich. The Duke was a soap-opera star in Brazil when he was twelve. He made all kinds of money. He was already loaded before his mom got remarried.”

  Jason rolled his eyes. “That’s a rumor. But he is some kind of statistics whiz or something. Makes a lot of money at the casinos, if you know what I mean.”

  They all started talking at once, each with a more outlandish story. The Duke was friends with Bill Gates. He’d invested in that indie movie that won all the Oscars. He’d saved the governor’s life when he was on vacation with his family. I elbowed Abby, and when she looked at me, she was wearing the same expression of disbelief I knew was on my face. The blond guy must have seen it, too.

  “He has this house out on the coast, and his parents are never there. The parties are legendary. You’ll see.”

  There was a screech from the speakers, and conversations stopped abruptly as a short, balding man stepped onto the platform next to the jazz band: Dean Kramer. Projectors hanging from the ceiling beamed images onto the sides of the tent. Pictures flashed by, set to music, and the crowd laughed as they recognized the faces: students dressed in white coats and safety glasses, conducting lab experiments; students in hiking gear at the top of a hill, looking through telescopes; a group picking up trash on the beach with the Golden Gate Bridge framed in the background. And in the final shot: last year’s debate team, holding their second place trophy.

  The dean began speaking into a tiny microphone clipped to his lapel. “It’s my privilege to welcome you to another year at Bannerman. I suspect you’ve all already seen the article in last week’s Forbes, calling us the premier preparatory school in Northern California, the perfect blend of tradition and innovation….”

  He droned on about how great Bannerman was, equipped with the latest technology, brand new tablets for faculty and students, the fastest on-site network, and an amazing new cyber-security system. Ironically, instead of listening, most people were fixated on their phones. The students tried to hide them, but the parents were openly checking email and sending messages throughout the entire speech, stopping only to clap half-heartedly during an awkward pause.

  When the dean finally finished, everyone stood to go. Parents hugged their kids, reminding them not to stay up too late, and the place cleared out really quickly. I’d expected more tearful goodbyes, but I remembered that, with the exception of the freshmen—and maybe a handful of transfer students, like me—everyone else was used to this.

  We found my mom as we were leaving the tent. “That was really something,” she said, under her breath.

  A tall, dark-haired woman with at least twenty bracelets on her arm stopped and handed Mom her card. “Here. Email me your information. I’m sure we can get some services set up.”

  “Thank you.” Mom smiled. “That would be wonderful.”

  “Happy to do it. I can’t wait to see what Tanner does this year.”

  The woman walked away, bracelets jingling.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  “She’s an attorney. Her firm does pro bono work with special-education litigation. She thinks she can get some occupational therapy for Sam, maybe even a living-skills aide. I think if you’d asked for a kidney tonight, one of the many surgeons in attendance would have harvested you one before dessert.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  Mom put her arm around me. “You don’t have to prove anything. And if you’re not happy, you can come home. No questions asked, okay?”

  Great plan. In theory. But I hadn’t learned how to turn off the part of my brain that worried. The part that made plans for my future. The part that didn’t want to juggle classes at the junior college and a night shift at Wendy’s until it all got to be too much and I dropped one class, then two, then dropped out completely so I could be a shift supervisor and, maybe one day, make assistant manager. I’d watched it happen to guys I knew back home. I needed this. Bannerman Prep was my ticket to a good college. And debate was my only hope of a scholarship. I couldn’t let my mom see how stressed I was. So I smiled and nodded.

  “Sam!” Abby shouted, and we all turned. He was popping M&M’s into his mouth, eating them one color at a time like always, as blood ran from his nose. With efficiency honed in a trauma center, Mom grabbed a cloth napkin from a table that hadn’t been bussed yet, dipped it in a pitcher of water, and started cleaning him up.

  “Sam, what happened?” Mom asked. My brother was silent. “Did you take your vitamin C this morning?” No response. “I’m going to try and get some ice. Tanner, come take over for me.”

  I took her place, pinching the bridge of Sam’s nose while I held the napkin to his face. As I looked at his fingerprint-smudged glasses, I couldn’t help but think, I won’t have to do this 24/7 anymore. And then I immediately felt guilty.

  There it is. I’m not a saint. I’m a selfish jerk like everyone else.

  It was only my family and the catering staff in the tent, and for that, I was grateful. By the time Mom got the bleeding stopped, and cleaned up Sam as best she could, the campus had become pretty quiet. Along the walkways the streetlights had come on, sleek black paddles glowing with light so bright it looked almost alien.

  “We’d better head home,” Mom said. “We’ve got a long drive.”

  “I’ll walk you to the car.”

  “Tann
er?” Sam said. “Giddyup?” Blood was crusted around his nostrils and chocolate was smeared all over his mouth. But it was there in his eyes—that look of anticipation and trust and belief that I wasn’t some sixteen-year-old kid, but the greatest man who’d ever lived. It hit me. I was going to miss this; I was going to miss him, maybe more than anyone else.

  I hoisted Sam onto my back. He held his cane in one hand, the other wrapped around my neck shouting woo-hoo as we galloped across the lawn. We passed the classroom buildings, all smooth stucco and huge dark windows, and Sam swatted at the towering palm trees that lined the walkway. We reached the parking lot and I set him down in front of the Honda. I caught my breath while we waited for my mom and Abby to catch up.

  The girls’ and boys’ dorms were at the edge of campus, separated by a parking lot the size of a football field, complete with charging stations where a dozen electric cars were plugged in. There was a loud rumble, like somebody had fired up a jet engine, then the iron gate slid open and a small silver convertible turned into the lot.

  Sam stared, his mouth open in disbelief. The car rolled to a stop under one of the solar panel–covered awnings. At least thirty people rushed out of the dorms, hurrying to greet the driver. With the engine still running, he grinned and nodded, like he was the Pope or something—minus the pointy hat.

  “Who do you think that is?” Abby asked.

  “Some kind of rebel. I’m guessing he doesn’t have a cause,” Mom said.

  “What?” Abby asked.

  “Look at that car,” I said. “That’s a Porsche 550 Spyder.”

  Abby was unimpressed. “It looks old.”

  “It is,” Mom said. “It’s a ’55.”

  “Since when do you care about cars?” I asked.

  Mom shrugged. “I don’t. But that’s the kind of car James Dean died in. And that guy looks like he’s trying awfully hard.”

  I tried to see past the crowd to the guy in the driver’s seat. “He even looks like James Dean,” my mom said. “Same dirty-blond hair that’s way too long on top. He needs a haircut.”

  He opened the door and three different girls were all over him before he could get a foot on the asphalt.