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Lifting my free hand to my mouth, I use it to cover the smirk that’s fighting to break free. “No,” I gasp, shaking my head and clamping my teeth down on my tongue, until tears pool in the corners of my eyes and I can taste blood in my mouth.
“Penelope, Izabella, I’m so incredibly sorry,” the principal says, standing from behind her desk and moving as if she’s planning to come and hug us or something.
“I think it might be best if we take the girls home, that way they can process all of this in privacy before the media storm begins,” Gulliver says calmly, moving to Izabella’s side and helping her to her feet. Hawthorn does the same for me, and I curl into his chest, muffling my face against his blazer as laughter bubbles from me and my body shakes with the need to repress the noise.
“Of course,” Principal Smith says. “Would you like Green Acres Academy to give a statement to any press outlets that approach us?”
“I think that might be for the best,” Hawthorn says. “Perhaps you could inform them that Penelope and Izabella are still hopeful that their parents will be returned to them safe and well, but that in the meantime they will be processing their grief at this tragic situation in the privacy of their family home.”
“I’ll be praying for your family, girls,” Principal Smith says as Hawthorn guides me out of the office and down the corridor.
No one says a word as we traverse the hallways and make our way out of the main school entrance. When we pause on the steps in front of the school, I pull away from Hawthorn and move to my sister, pulling her to me and hugging her tightly, burying my face in her neck to hide my expression from the cameras I know are pointed at us right now.
She wraps her arms tightly around me, and we just stand there hugging, framed by the impressive school buildings behind us and the guys at our side, offering their inconsolable women their silent support. The image is picture-perfect.
“Do you think that’s long enough?” Izabella whispers.
“I think so. Let’s go back to the guys and get out of here,” I whisper back. Pulling away from her, I move straight back into Hawthorn’s arms as Gulliver scoops Izabella off the steps and cradles her to his chest.
Hawthorn holds me to him, hurrying me down the steps and across the lot to Gulliver’s Range Rover. Izabella and I climb into the back seat, while Gulliver gets into the driver’s seat and Hawthorn gets into the passenger seat. Scooting next to my sister, I rest my head dramatically against her shoulder, keeping my expression heartbroken as Gulliver pulls out of the lot and onto the street.
I stay silent for almost a mile, until I just can’t hold the laughter in anymore. “Oh my god,” I cry, my body shaking as the giggles I’ve managed to hold back until now burst free.
The others all follow suit, and in moments, the car is full of laughter. “Jesus Pen, I had no idea you were such a good actress, your face was a fucking picture,” Gulliver cries.
“And when you guys reached out and held hands, that was fucking perfect, like an after-school special,” Hawthorn says, slapping his thigh and turning in his seat to beam at us.
“Are we going straight to the house?” I ask, anticipation flowing through me.
“We need to give it a couple of hours for our guy to circulate the photographs, then we’ll go over there,” Gulliver says, amusement still lacing his voice as he turns the car toward his house.
* * *
“Devastated twins, Penelope and Izabella Rhodes, console one another after receiving the news that their parents, Trudy and Barnaby Rhodes, are missing and presumed dead, after the yacht they were sailing around the Caribbean fails to arrive at its scheduled stop.”
“Boom,” Kip says loudly, miming a drop-the-mic action as he points at the news article that shows Izabella and I hugging each other tightly on the steps of the school while the guys look on, worry etched across both of their faces.
“Seven hours is how long it took us to convince the world that your parents are dead. I don’t know if there’s a world record for this kind of thing, but if there is, I reckon we just smashed it,” Davis crows, holding his hand up for Kip to high-five.
“I can’t believe it really worked,” I say, feeling shock settle in as I stare at the screen. When I suggested we do this, I think a part of me assumed no one would believe us, but it worked, and I’m looking at an article on a real news site that says they’re dead. Of course, I know they’re absolutely fine, that they’re sunning themselves in a palatial mansion in Marrakesh, but still, they’re gone, essentially dead to me and Izabella, and they did it without a thought to the children they walked away from.
“Are we going then?” my sister asks excitedly. “I can’t wait to get into that godforsaken place.”
“Are you ready?” Hawthorn whispers against my ear, only loud enough for me to hear.
I nod tentatively.
“We don’t have to do this. You never have to set foot in that place again if you don’t want to.”
“No, I’m fine. I want to, there are things there that I want, if they’re still there anyway.”
“Then let’s go,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me up from the sofa.
The car journey seems to fly by in the blink of an eye, and before I can really prepare myself, we’re approaching the gates that guard my family home from outsiders. We’re all in Kip’s family’s limo, and as the driver reaches the intercom, he rolls down the window and presses the buzzer.
“Hello,” a fuzzy-sounding female voice answers.
“Could you open the gates, please? I have Miss Penelope and Miss Izabella Rhodes with me,” the driver confidently announces.
