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1
PENELOPE
THREE AND A HALF YEARS AGO
Bland beige walls, boring furniture, and a snooty looking lady sitting behind the reception desk. This is the first time I’ve ever been in a lawyer’s office, and so far, it’s kind of underwhelming. I’ve heard Dad talk about lawyers with my mom and their friends when they come to our house, but I’ve never been interested enough to really pay attention to what they were saying. A part of me figured it must be pretty interesting for them to be talking about it so much, but now that I’m here, experiencing it firsthand, I’m glad I didn’t waste my time listening.
It’s weird for all of us to be here like this. My parents travel a lot, and when they come home, if we go out as a family, it’s usually somewhere that we can be seen. Mom likes fancy restaurants, and Dad likes to take us to meet people he works with. But it’s rare that we go anywhere without an audience, and we’ve certainly never been to a lawyer’s office before.
I love my parents, but I don’t know them that well. When I was a kid, I thought parents were supposed to be like the ones you see on TV, but then I realized that’s what poor people’s parents are like, and we’re not poor.
My family is rich, and that means that my dad has a really important job. I don’t actually know what he does, but when I asked my mom, she said it wasn’t something I needed to worry about and that when I got married, my job would be to support my husband, like she supports Dad.
When I was younger, I asked them why they didn’t take me and my sister with them when they went away, and Mom said it was because they were too busy to take care of us. At the time, I thought that what she said made sense, but in the last few years, it’s started to seem like more and more of an excuse. Izabella and I aren’t little kids anymore, we don’t need to be looked after. Sometimes I wonder if the reason they leave us behind is because they ended up with two kids and not just the one they wanted. It makes me feel like a bad person, but sometimes I wonder if I wasn’t a twin and if it was just me if they’d take me with them.
When Izabella and I were little, people would get so excited when they saw us. I didn’t realize being an identical twin was such a big thing, but when Mom took us anywhere, she’d dress us in the same poofy dresses so that people would notice us, and sometimes they’d even ask to take pictures of us. It was weird.
Now that we’re older, we don’t dress the same unless Mom forces us to. I like to look perfect, like Mom does, but Izabella doesn’t care, she’s happy to look like a slob in sweatpants and baggy T-shirts.
We started a new high school a few weeks ago, and Green Acres Academy has a uniform, so for the first time in years, my sister and I leave the house five days a week in the exact same clothes.
This is the first time either of us has ever attended school. The moment we were old enough, Izabella and I were homeschooled by a series of tutors and nannies, and I think we both expected things to stay that way until we went to college.
Actually, going to school is harder than I expected. GAA is small and crazy exclusive. I Googled the place the moment Mom told us we’d be starting there, and the waiting list to get in is insane. You have to be really, really rich and have family who are alumni to even be considered. Luckily, GAA is where Dad went to high school, so we were a shoo-in.
Our freshman class is small, and apart from me and my sister, everyone else is already in a clique. They all know each other, and I don’t know anyone except for my annoying reflection. What’s worse is that because we’re identical and wearing the same exact clothes, I’m not sure if anyone even realizes that there are two of us.
I don’t hate my sister, but I don’t like being a twin. When you have someone who is literally identical to you, it’s really hard to have anything that’s just yours, and that’s how it is with me and Izabella.
My sister has always thought that because we share the same face, it should make us instant besties, but I’ve never wanted that. I want my own friends. I want something she doesn’t have. I want to be Penelope Rhodes, the individual, not one of the Rhodes twins.
The seat I’m sitting on is hard and uncomfortable. You’d think that they’d make chairs in waiting rooms really soft and nice because they know you’re going to be sitting and waiting in them, but apparently not.
Mom and Dad are talking quietly to each other, but even though I try to eavesdrop, I can’t hear what they’re saying. They’ve been home for nearly a month now because my great-grandfather died three weeks ago. Mom made me and Izabella wear matching black dresses and shoes to the funeral. I didn’t really want to go because when I see people crying, I kind of want to tell them to stop because the sound is annoying. But no one cried. It was weird. I thought funerals were supposed to be sad, but I didn’t see anyone crying or even upset.
There were a lot of people there—hundreds of people, a sea of black suits, and huge sunglasses—but no one really seemed upset. There wasn’t anyone sobbing over the casket like you see on TV. My granddad was there, but he just looked kind of bored, and Mom kept talking about some house somewhere that she was hoping my dad would be left in the will.
I wasn’t sad either, and a part of me feels a little bit guilty about that. He was my great-grandfather, but truthfully, I didn’t really know him. I know he lived in the city, not too far from our house, but apart from once or twice at Christmas when I was little, I don’t actually remember spending any time with him. He sent Izabella and I checks on our birthday and Christmas, but other than that, he’s never been a part of our lives.
The door to the right of where we’re sitting opens, and an overweight man wearing a boring brown suit, his graying hair styled into a comb-over that does nothing to disguise his bald head, steps into the waiting room. “Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes, Miss Penelope, please come and join me in my office,” he says, his tone grim.
Mom and Dad stand up, and Mom turns and glares at me, flapping her hand and motioning for me to stand too. Sliding out of the seat, my legs feel wobbly the moment my heeled pumps hit the carpeted floor.
I don’t know why I’m here, and I don’t think Mom and Dad know either, and it’s making me nervous. When she came in and woke me up this morning, Mom brought me a dress bag with a black fitted dress and a matching wool jacket and told me to wear them with pantyhose and the uncomfortable heeled pumps that are currently wobbling beneath my shaky legs.
Something about the dress and the fancy hair style she had her stylist twist mine into, and the way Mom and Dad are behaving, is freaking me out, and nervous butterflies have been jumping around in my stomach all morning. When Mom starts to move, I shuffle after her, glancing back at Izabella, who is oblivious to all the tension while she plays games on her cell phone. She’s dressed up too, but for once, Mom hasn’t forced us into the same outfit. Her hair is loose, and her dress is navy blue. For once, Mom has played up the differences between us, and for the first time, I wish she hadn’t, because I want my twin to be coming into this office with me. I want her to be as nervous and scared as I am.
When we enter the office, the lawyer motions for Mom and Dad to sit down, but there are only two chairs in front of his big wooden desk. Spotting a chair against the wall, I quickly walk over to it and sit down, smoothing down the back of my skirt before I lower myself into the cool leather chair. No one’s paying me any attention, but I still place my hands demurely in my lap, just like my etiquette coach taught me. I’m not sure why any of this stuff matters, but Miss Phillips is constantly telling me that a young lady should always behave appropriately, and Mom gets mad if she sees us slouching or sitting with our legs uncrossed.
“Thank you so much for coming in today. First, please accept my sincere condolences. Reginald and I were associates for many years, and he will be sorely missed,” the lawyer says, his voice low and gruff.
“Thank you, Roger, I appreciate that. Grandfather spoke fondly of you,” Dad says, then clears his throat. “Has the formal reading of the will already happened?”
Roger, the lawyer, glances in my direction for the first time. His lips purse, and he sighs both visibly and audibly. “Reginald left very specific instructions for how his estate was to be handled after his death. In due course, his last wishes will become public record, but he requested this meeting be done privately.”
First Mom, then Dad, then Roger, all glance in my direction. Roger looks away first, unsealing a brown envelope, then sliding the contents free.
“Barnaby, as I’m sure you’re aware, your grandfather’s estate is currently valued at a little over twenty billion dollars. This includes his many businesses and properties. I have his last will and testament here, and if you’re happy for me to proceed, I’ll go ahead and read it for you,” the lawyer says.
