The Shadow Prince
Page 15
During the drive, I’d noticed that most of the homes resemble an interesting mixture of modern architecture meets ancient Greece. “I guess they take the Olympus part of Olympus Hills seriously around here?” I say when we get out of the limo.
“You could say that,” Joe slurs. They’re the first words he’s said directly to me since leaving Utah.
Marta unlocks the front door and then ushers us inside a grand entryway, the likes of which I have seen only in the movies at Ellis’s single-screen cinema on Main Street. White marble floors lead to a pair of twisting staircases that fill the foyer, which is big enough alone to hold my mother’s two-bedroom bungalow. A crystal chandelier drips from the center of the high vaulted ceiling. Little rainbows from the prisms reflect onto the tall white walls.
“Wow,” I say.
“This place is smaller than Joe’s homes in Malibu and Paris, but it’ll do for now,” Marta says. “Real estate in the area is hard to come by. I had to twist a few arms, didn’t I, Joe?”
Joe grunts. He drops his leather jacket on the white marble floor and then disappears into one of the rooms off the west wing.
“Never mind him. Joe always needs a little alone time after we travel,” Marta says. She checks her watch. “I have a few minutes to spare, if you would like a tour?”
I nod.
Marta explains, as we tour the house, that the first floor of the west wing is the main living quarters, with the kitchen, family room, a movie theatre—which includes what she claims will be a “fully operational concessions stand” once the house is completely unpacked and stocked—a “playroom,” filled with Joe’s collection of retro arcade games, and a ballroom for throwing parties.
She also informs me that the east wing of the first floor is her private living area, with its own smaller kitchen and a few guest bedrooms … but I don’t get a tour of that. The second floor of the west wing holds Joe’s master bedroom—a master bathroom that could put any spa to shame—a private rehearsal studio that seems especially lived in, considering Joe has been here for only a week, and a private office that looks like it’s never been touched.
It strikes me how white everything is here. White walls, white marble columns and floors, white furniture, white carpet in the bedrooms, and even a painting taller than I am that is a canvas filled with globs of white paint. With the amount of dust that gets tracked into our bungalow back in Ellis, we’d never owned anything remotely white. Because it wouldn’t have stayed white for very long.
“Does Joe have, like, a staff of thirty people to keep this place clean and running?”
“Your father employs a full live-in staff at his two other homes, but besides myself, Joe has insisted that he doesn’t want any other live-ins here. A cleaning staff will come in once a week, but I am hoping he will reconsider bringing in his personal chef from the Malibu house, as cooking is not in my job description. I don’t suppose you know how?”
“I make a mean bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch,” I say, even though my repertoire is a little more advanced than that. No way am I going to spend my time cooking for Joe.
It’s after midnight, and my legs are feeling fatigued by the time Marta leads me to the second floor of the east wing.
“This is your private area of the house,” Marta says. “You’ll have your own family room with a television, and there are three bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, but we thought you might like this one best, as it looks out on the pool.” She opens a door and flips on the light of my new bedroom. It’s also decorated in mostly white furniture, with pops of teal in the plethora of throw pillows on the plush, tufted duvet of the canopy bed. More teal pillows crowd the white, tufted sofa. I even have my own crystal chandelier. A gilded mirror hangs over a glossy vanity table, and a floating white shelf, which spans the length of one of the walls, is jam-packed with stuffed animals with various shades of white fur.
“Joe had his designer do this room up just for you.”
“It’s … um … nice.” I frown at the white teddy bears staring down at me. “Joe realizes I’m not a six-year-old, right?”
Marta makes a noise that almost sounds like a laugh. “Joe does have a tendency to go a little overboard.”
A MacBook computer sits on a white desk in front of a large window. I pull back the gauzy drapes and look into the backyard. Where this house has an advantage over my mother’s bungalow in hugeness, it pales in comparison when it comes to yard. We have almost an acre of land in Ellis behind the shop, where my mom can fit her greenhouse and a barn for taking care of the various animals she brings home. Here, the yard comprises a stone patio, a long, skinny lap pool, and a narrow strip of grass. The almost equally ginormous house behind Joe’s feels like it’s only a few yards away.
I yawn. The fatigue of what must be the longest day of my life pulls me toward the very girly—yet admittedly comfy-looking—bed. I sink into the mountain of pillows.
“I’ll let you rest now,” Marta says curtly. “I would give you a tour of the community tomorrow, but I have another pressing matter that will take me away for the day. I will leave a map and a detailed itinerary outside your door by six a.m. Your audition is at three thirty p.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
I sit up fast. “My audition?”
“For the music program at Olympus Hills High. Joe was able to pull a few strings to get you into the school, but if you want to be on the music track, you must audition for the program. You are scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.”
“So soon?” The tiredness I’d felt only seconds ago is gone. I should have realized that there would be an audition right away, but I am wholly unprepared. I didn’t pack any of my sheet music, leaving it behind for Jonathan to send later. I haven’t done any research on what kind of music the director of the program prefers. I don’t know if any of my three outfits are fit for auditioning at a private school.
I take two deep breaths and tell myself not to freak out. I’d already prepared a song for the Teen Talent Competition that I had planned on attending this evening. I am ready for this.…
“The other students in the program auditioned at the end of last year, and school has been in session for almost three weeks. If it hadn’t been for a sudden opening in the program, you wouldn’t be getting the chance at all. Mr. Morgan is holding preliminary auditions for this year’s musical tomorrow. He said he would allow you to audition for the program and the play at the same time. You are supposed to prepare three songs.”
“You could say that,” Joe slurs. They’re the first words he’s said directly to me since leaving Utah.
Marta unlocks the front door and then ushers us inside a grand entryway, the likes of which I have seen only in the movies at Ellis’s single-screen cinema on Main Street. White marble floors lead to a pair of twisting staircases that fill the foyer, which is big enough alone to hold my mother’s two-bedroom bungalow. A crystal chandelier drips from the center of the high vaulted ceiling. Little rainbows from the prisms reflect onto the tall white walls.
“Wow,” I say.
“This place is smaller than Joe’s homes in Malibu and Paris, but it’ll do for now,” Marta says. “Real estate in the area is hard to come by. I had to twist a few arms, didn’t I, Joe?”
Joe grunts. He drops his leather jacket on the white marble floor and then disappears into one of the rooms off the west wing.
“Never mind him. Joe always needs a little alone time after we travel,” Marta says. She checks her watch. “I have a few minutes to spare, if you would like a tour?”
I nod.
Marta explains, as we tour the house, that the first floor of the west wing is the main living quarters, with the kitchen, family room, a movie theatre—which includes what she claims will be a “fully operational concessions stand” once the house is completely unpacked and stocked—a “playroom,” filled with Joe’s collection of retro arcade games, and a ballroom for throwing parties.
She also informs me that the east wing of the first floor is her private living area, with its own smaller kitchen and a few guest bedrooms … but I don’t get a tour of that. The second floor of the west wing holds Joe’s master bedroom—a master bathroom that could put any spa to shame—a private rehearsal studio that seems especially lived in, considering Joe has been here for only a week, and a private office that looks like it’s never been touched.
It strikes me how white everything is here. White walls, white marble columns and floors, white furniture, white carpet in the bedrooms, and even a painting taller than I am that is a canvas filled with globs of white paint. With the amount of dust that gets tracked into our bungalow back in Ellis, we’d never owned anything remotely white. Because it wouldn’t have stayed white for very long.
“Does Joe have, like, a staff of thirty people to keep this place clean and running?”
“Your father employs a full live-in staff at his two other homes, but besides myself, Joe has insisted that he doesn’t want any other live-ins here. A cleaning staff will come in once a week, but I am hoping he will reconsider bringing in his personal chef from the Malibu house, as cooking is not in my job description. I don’t suppose you know how?”
“I make a mean bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch,” I say, even though my repertoire is a little more advanced than that. No way am I going to spend my time cooking for Joe.
It’s after midnight, and my legs are feeling fatigued by the time Marta leads me to the second floor of the east wing.
“This is your private area of the house,” Marta says. “You’ll have your own family room with a television, and there are three bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, but we thought you might like this one best, as it looks out on the pool.” She opens a door and flips on the light of my new bedroom. It’s also decorated in mostly white furniture, with pops of teal in the plethora of throw pillows on the plush, tufted duvet of the canopy bed. More teal pillows crowd the white, tufted sofa. I even have my own crystal chandelier. A gilded mirror hangs over a glossy vanity table, and a floating white shelf, which spans the length of one of the walls, is jam-packed with stuffed animals with various shades of white fur.
“Joe had his designer do this room up just for you.”
“It’s … um … nice.” I frown at the white teddy bears staring down at me. “Joe realizes I’m not a six-year-old, right?”
Marta makes a noise that almost sounds like a laugh. “Joe does have a tendency to go a little overboard.”
A MacBook computer sits on a white desk in front of a large window. I pull back the gauzy drapes and look into the backyard. Where this house has an advantage over my mother’s bungalow in hugeness, it pales in comparison when it comes to yard. We have almost an acre of land in Ellis behind the shop, where my mom can fit her greenhouse and a barn for taking care of the various animals she brings home. Here, the yard comprises a stone patio, a long, skinny lap pool, and a narrow strip of grass. The almost equally ginormous house behind Joe’s feels like it’s only a few yards away.
I yawn. The fatigue of what must be the longest day of my life pulls me toward the very girly—yet admittedly comfy-looking—bed. I sink into the mountain of pillows.
“I’ll let you rest now,” Marta says curtly. “I would give you a tour of the community tomorrow, but I have another pressing matter that will take me away for the day. I will leave a map and a detailed itinerary outside your door by six a.m. Your audition is at three thirty p.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
I sit up fast. “My audition?”
“For the music program at Olympus Hills High. Joe was able to pull a few strings to get you into the school, but if you want to be on the music track, you must audition for the program. You are scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.”
“So soon?” The tiredness I’d felt only seconds ago is gone. I should have realized that there would be an audition right away, but I am wholly unprepared. I didn’t pack any of my sheet music, leaving it behind for Jonathan to send later. I haven’t done any research on what kind of music the director of the program prefers. I don’t know if any of my three outfits are fit for auditioning at a private school.
I take two deep breaths and tell myself not to freak out. I’d already prepared a song for the Teen Talent Competition that I had planned on attending this evening. I am ready for this.…
“The other students in the program auditioned at the end of last year, and school has been in session for almost three weeks. If it hadn’t been for a sudden opening in the program, you wouldn’t be getting the chance at all. Mr. Morgan is holding preliminary auditions for this year’s musical tomorrow. He said he would allow you to audition for the program and the play at the same time. You are supposed to prepare three songs.”
