by A. E. Snow
Table of Contents
MEADOW PERKINS, TRUSTY SIDEKICK
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
MEADOW PERKINS, TRUSTY SIDEKICK
A.E. SNOW
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
MEADOW PERKINS, TRUSTY SIDEKICK
Copyright©2016
A.E. SNOW
Cover Design by Melody A. Pond
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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To my little Grandma B.
I miss you every single day.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my parents. You’ve never heard a single one of my crazy ideas and said “that’s crazy.” Instead, you’ve been supportive of everything I’ve ever done. Many thanks to Lauren for loving Meadow as much as I do. Thank you to my incredible husband. None of this would have been possible without your love and support. Thank you to my children. I love you guys so much it hurts! And finally, a big thanks to my cat. Sam was the inspiration for Hank and he is the sweetest cat in the whole world.
Chapter 1
Being a sidekick blows. I would know, I’ve been one most of my life.
I’m Meadow Hobart-Perkins, student, painter, and professional wallflower. I go to Hobart School of the Arts, a prestigious high school that has produced several students that have gone on to be renowned artists in the years since my grandfather founded it. I have always known I would attend because it is an unspoken requirement that everyone in my family be an artist and go to art school. I’m no exception. HSA is a family tradition. My mother and my older sister, Twist, are both distinguished alumni.
The lead to my sidekick is Emilia Harding, my best friend of about a million years. She’s kind of the bitch that everyone loves, or pretends to, because she is so talented. As an actress who sings and dances, she gets the lead in everything ever, including “group of girls sitting at lunch room table, making fun of others,” “group of girls goes thrift shopping at cute little vintage boutique,” and every play or musical the school puts on. The theatre girls hate her, but love her at the same time. We have been friends since we were children, but sometimes lately childhood seems to be the only thing holding us together. Or maybe it’s habit.
My last day of junior year started out fine. We’d done all the usual last day of school things and packed up our portfolios. Senior year was three months away, and all that stood in the way of me and summer vacation was an appointment with my advisor and the final assembly.
I had big summer plans including sleeping in all day, every day. The most exciting thing was that I would be getting a nice long break from Emilia, a.k.a. “Dr. Jekyll” or “Ms. Hyde.” She was headed to theatre camp in NYC. Maybe when she got back, things would be better.
I walked down the hallway in the visual arts building where all of the art teachers had offices. Light spilled in from the skylights lining the ceiling. The whole visual arts building was deserted. Everyone had already cleaned up and cleared out.
Mr. Egan’s door stood open. I knocked on it lightly and peered inside. He sat at his desk surrounded by piles of books, boxes, and final projects.
“Come on in, Meadow.” Mr. Egan waved me in furrowing his brow and pushing his glasses up on top of his head.
I sat down across from him and blew the hair out of my eyes while I juggled my backpack, portfolio folder, and a buttload of art supplies. “Hi,” I said, a little breathless between struggling with all my stuff and being late to everything all day. I crammed a few more things into my bag after I sat down.
“Meadow,” Mr. Egan began and then he stopped and cleared his throat. “I’d like to talk to you about a few concerns I have.”
I stopped struggling to zip my back and looked up at him. Anxiety washed over me. That was not what I’d expected to hear.
“What are you concerned about?” I asked with a shaky voice. I racked my brain. I’d done well in academics, except math, and who cares about my math grades except my mom?
“Your final project, your last few projects really, they aren’t of the same caliber I’ve come to expect from you.”
His words hit me like a punch to the stomach. “What?” I croaked.
“What?” I croaked.
“I’ve been watching you closely this semester, and I’m afraid I’m not seeing any improvement. You have no emotional connection with your subject matter, and your technique seems stagnant. There hasn’t been much progress this year.”
“I . . .” I began and then realized I had no response. Tears pricked at my eyes. I blinked rapidly to keep them at bay.
“I’m just concerned that you’ve gone as far as you can in this department.” Mr. Egan rubbed the bridge of his nose with his paint-stained fingers. “I don’t want that to be true.”
“Me either,” I whispered. Thoughts barreled through my mind like a freight train. What is Mom going to say? Everyone is going to be so disappointed in me.
“I had very high hopes for what you would do with final projects this year. But they aren’t up to snuff. Your landscapes are fine but they are sloppy, a bit too easy. Frankly, I expected much more.”
I sat, stunned, staring at the blank wall behind Mr. Egan’s head.
“I’m not trying to upset you, Meadow, and you are talented, but you aren’t trying,” he said. “We need to look seriously at how this program can serve you next year.”
Unable to hold the waterworks at bay any longer, I stood up, grabbed my stuff, and ran down the hall to the bathroom. I could hear Mr. Egan calling my name from his office. Thankfully, the bathroom was empty. Everyone was on the other side of campus for lunch. I would have to join them soon, but first I hunkered down in a stall and cried. My chest hurt like I’d fallen from the monkey bars and landed flat on my back. I struggled for air. I wanted to go home and pretend none of this ever hap
pened.
I felt the familiar vibration of my phone in my pocket. Sniffing, I pulled it out of my pocket.
Happy last day of school! Soon you’ll be a senior. Your granddad would be so proud. Love mom.
A fresh batch of tears poured out of my eyes. I never wanted to see HSA again but I didn’t have that choice. My chest hurt when I thought about the conversation Mr. Egan would inevitably have with my mom. My favorite teacher, my entire family, and my dead grandpa would be all be disappointed in me.
I sat on the floor and tried not to think about how gross the floor was. I dabbed my eyes and wiped my nose on some toilet paper. I just had to make it through one more hour and I could go home and hide under the bed for the rest of my life.
Finally, I emerged from the stall and checked the mirror. I was still a tall, not-skinny girl and now I looked sad. I checked my clunky silver watch. It had belonged to my grandfather and I’d been wearing it since he died. The weight of the watch on my arm made my heart ache. There were fifteen minutes left of lunch. I wasn’t terribly hungry, but I knew that Emilia would ask too many questions if I didn’t show up. I didn’t want to tell her, or anyone, what had just happened. Acting normal would be best. I wet a paper towel with cold water and held it over my eyes.
The concealer in my backpack was almost impossible to find. I sniffed more and willed myself not to cry while I dug it out. I dabbed a tiny bit around my eyes and blended it in. “Ugh,” I said to my reflection. “You look like crap.”
I gathered my stuff and trudged across campus. When I got to the lunch room, there was no one in line. I got a grilled cheese sandwich. It wasn’t just any old grilled cheese, it was fancy local cheese on sprouted bread. The food at HSA was organic, sustainable, locally sourced, and mostly delicious.
I kept my head down and slid into my usual seat next to Emilia at the corner table by the window where we always sat. I hoped no one could tell I’d been crying.
Emilia held court like a queen, surrounded by her new posse of admirers. No one looked at me at all. Technically, none of them were my friends. They had certainly made it clear that they didn’t like me. Emilia had been collecting minions over the past few months, and since her turn as the star of the spring musical, she was in position to be the most popular actress in the department during senior year. She knew, and we all knew, that in the fall she would be the queen bee. She would get the lead in everything and that knowledge had gone to her head months ago. We didn’t really hang out with our old friends anymore. I’d tried to stay friends but they seemed to hate us. Or maybe they just hated her.
I sighed. What was I without her anyway? I don’t really have other friends except my sister. I had a few school friends in visual arts but Emilia was the kind of friend that took up all of one’s time.
“Oh my God,” Emilia giggled. “Just look at her.” The “her” she was mocking was Margo Friedman, a girl from the creative writing program and one of my sort-of friends. Everyone at the table turned to look.
Margot sat by herself surrounded by her books and her big frizzy hair. The buttons on her shirt weren’t buttoned into the right holes and a big ink stain bled out from her pocket.
Emilia laughed, and everyone followed suit.
Anger started at my toes and rose up until I felt the steam coming out of my ears. “What about her?” I asked defiantly.
Emilia looked at me, surprised for a moment, and then her eyes narrowed. “She’s a freak, obviously.”
I crumbled a little under her icy stare. “I think she’s nice,” I said with a shrug.
Emilia rolled her eyes. People did not usually challenge her. I’d never challenged her out loud and I was starting to regret it.
“Sure. You know, you guys have a lot in common,” Emilia said. She didn’t mean it as a compliment.
I pretended that I didn’t mind having lots in common with Margo. She was more of an acquaintance than a good friend, but I was so tired of Emilia and her rules about who was cool and who wasn’t. “She is really smart and a great writer, so thank you!”
“Wow, Meadow. Aren’t you the hero! Standing up for the class loser like that.” Emilia smirked, and I took it she didn’t mean that as a compliment.
I got the feeling I was about to go to the slaughter. Like Emilia was a Roman emperor sending a bear to fight me. “I’m not being a hero,” I muttered. I braced myself. I’d seen Emilia turn on other people but never on me. All because I’d called her out in front of her fan club.
“I mean, after the day you’ve had? And you still have all that energy to stand up for another underdog.” Emilia’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“What are you talking about?” I asked having a moment of sheer stupidity. I should have left the table right then, but I didn’t.
“I know you must be devastated about your meeting with Mr. Egan. It must have been really embarrassing to find out that you aren’t good enough to be a student in your own grandfather’s school. If someone told me I had no future, I’d be incredibly upset.” Emilia spoke loud enough to attract the attention of people at the surrounding tables.
Heads turned in our direction while several members of her posse tittered. My heart began to pound.
The blood rushed to my face. “You are such a bitch,” I hissed.
Emilia looked shocked at first, but her acting skills kicked in and she wiped the surprise off of her face and replaced it with a look that was pure evil.
“Why even bother to come back in the fall?” she said with a sneer. “You wouldn’t have to try so hard to fit in at public school. Or hey! Maybe you can get into Mountain Day Academy.”
I stood up and gathered my things with shaking hands. I blinked back the flood of tears threatening to blind me and pushed past the crowd of people standing in front of the doors. School was over. Everyone was going to the final assembly after lunch and then the seniors would graduate on Saturday. No one was paying attention to me anymore, except Emilia’s boyfriend Alejandro. I’d known him as long as I’d known her.
“Meadow, are you okay?” he asked.
“Fine.” I didn’t stop to talk to him. I put my head down and hurried through the stained-glass front doors of Hobart School of the Arts.
As soon as I was through the doors, I let myself cry. I vowed that I would never again set foot on the HSA campus. I would go to public school and then go to college and become an accountant or something. Anything but painting. Anywhere but here.
I leaned up against a tree and waited until I could walk home. I wiped my eyes for the second time in half an hour, and started home. It wasn’t far, but I didn’t want to be a crying mess as I walked down the street and headed up the hill toward my Berkeley home. In an attempt to keep calm, I focused on the recycling bins lining the street. There were many more of them than trash bins.
My mom greeted me at the door when I finally got home. “Hi, honey! Happy last day . . .” She stopped talking and frowned. “Are you okay?”
I plastered a cheerful smile on my face. “I’m fine.”
“Did something happen?” she asked. “You look like you’ve been crying.” She brushed the hair out of my face.
“No, just emotional goodbyes.” I ducked by and made my way to the kitchen. My head ached from all the crying.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
I avoided eye contact while I poured myself a glass of filtered lemon water from the pitcher that always sat on the counter because Mom insisted that room temperature water was better for digestion. “You know how the last day is.”
“How was the assembly?”
“Fine,” I lied. “I’m really tired. I think I’m gonna go lie down.” I hoped she’d buy that excuse and leave me alone.
“Okay.” She pulled me into a hug. “I’ll check on you later.”
I tru
dged to my room and dropped onto my bed. All cried out, I imagined getting revenge on Emilia. Shaving a big section of her beautiful black hair might be satisfying. Or taking a cue from that old movie my sister loves, The Parent Trap, and cutting the back of her skirt out at a big dance. Admittedly, none of my ideas were perfect but it made me feel a little better.
Over the first few weeks of summer, I became an expert in wallowing. My cat, Hank, and I spent our days curled up on the bed together while I avoided all social media and all of Emilia’s texts in which she tried to pretend that I’d been the one to humiliate her. The only people I talked to were related to me. But I knew my reclusiveness wouldn’t get me out of the annual HSA fundraiser that my mom threw every year at the end of June. It was fast approaching. Students, faculty, and alumni would soon be taking over the house and barn, which was the art studio, to look at student art, mingle, and raise money. Mom had been throwing the fundraiser for years.
These days, my mom had taken to hovering. “Do you want to go to the gallery with me?” she asked every morning.
“No thanks.” I attempted to be cheerful. “I need to rearrange my nail polish collection.” Every day I came up with a new excuse. Instead, I sat on my bed surrounded by pillows and stalking mom’s email waiting for an email from Mr. Egan.
One particular day, I lay sprawled in the bed. I’d gotten straight back in after mom left. As I watched reality TV in bed, my other favorite new pastime, I checked mom’s email for the tenth time. My heart leapt into my throat. There it was. The email from Mr. Egan I’d been waiting for. I hovered the cursor over it while I tried to decide whether or not to read it. I took a deep breath, deleted it, then I burrowed back under the covers. Determined not to return to HSA, I still hadn’t figured out how to tell my parents.