Page 1 of The Rebel
Chapter 1
VALENCIA
“Ooh, it’s freezing,” Mom said, shivering as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her pale pink cardigan.
We’d been back in Covington Heights for all of two minutes and she was complaining about the cold. Well, what did she expect? It was January, and winter, and temperatures were never much above 30°. Itshouldbe freezing!
We’d flown in from Florida, two weeks of wearing tanks and shorts, sipping on iced tea and eating outdoors—and watching tennis. And it had been the worst Christmas of my life.
Christmas break was supposed to be about last minute gift shopping, wearing ugly Christmas sweaters, watching festive movies, all surrounded by the smell of a real fir tree covered in glittering decorations. It was about being wrapped up in puffer jackets and mittens and sledding on the hills, then drinking hot chocolate snuggled around the fireplace.
But no, we’d gone to Florida to be with my brother at a coaching academy. Paris was touted to be the next big thing in tennis circles. He’d gotten a wildcard into the US Open in August, and in his first round he’d beaten a player ranked 126 places above him. In the second round he’d lost in five sets, but his achievement had boosted his profile and opportunities were flooding in, his reputation growing.
Which is why we’d been in Florida. Paris had been invited to the prestigious Juan Duran Academy for a month of intense coaching.
And Mom and Dad thought it would be fabulous if the whole family went too, Christmas in the sun. I’d protested, naturally. Christmas in sweltering temperatures wasn’t my ideaof fabulous at all. I looked forward to winter break for the very reason that Covington Heights would serve up cold, wintry days, and I’d layer up and wear a coat and scarf and beanie and visit the annual Light Festival over in River Valley. But no, I missed out on that this year, instead getting sunburn on my shoulders and breaking out in hives after ordering crab legs at a restaurant.
With my first taste of crab, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven, the juicy messiness part of its appeal. I told my parents it was a travesty that they’d never fed me such a delicious dish before, but as soon as we got back to the condo we were renting, my arms and stomach were covered in angry red itchy welts. Mom diagnosed an allergy to shellfish—just my luck—and I was smothered in calamine lotion and given antihistamines. Not the best way to start a vacation. Seemed I couldn’t catch a break.
And now I was gritting my teeth and biting my tongue as Mom moaned about the cold weather the minute we arrived home.
“Oooh, I’m going in to heat up the house,” she said, scurrying inside, leaving me and Dad to unload the suitcases from the trunk.
Dad held up his phone and grinned at me like he was a tech genius. “Timer,” he said. “It’ll be toasty warm in there.”
“Ahhh, I’m so glad to be home,” I said, breathing in the crisp cool air. It was so bracing, so refreshing. And I couldn’t understand how people liked to exist in blistering heat and wanted be in a constant state of perspiration at Christmastime. Ughh!
“I know you are, Poppet,” Dad said, handing me my carryon bag.
“Can we go sledding tonight?” I asked. “They have lights at Oak Brook Hill.”
“I’ve got a few things to sort for work tomorrow,” Dad said. “Ask your mother.”
“Hmmphh,” I snorted, knowing the answer I’d get to that.
“It’s been a long day,” Dad said, showing more interest in the suitcases than me.
“Pleasssssse,” I ended up hissing. “We just sat in a plane for five hours and another hour driving home. That’s hardly tiring. And you said you miss the snow.”
“I’ve got a lot to catch up on,” Dad said.
“Fine,” I snapped with a roll of my eyes. “I’ll call Gabby.”
“That’s a good idea,” Dad said, eyes bright with relief. “See if your mother will let you take her car.”
“You fly half way across the country for Paris,” I muttered as I scuffed my way to the front door, dragging my suitcase, “but you won’t even drive over the bridge to River Valley for me.”
I doubted Dad heard me over the wheels of the suitcases he was pulling, probably just as well. Mom stood at the door ushering us through and saying she had the coffee pot on.
“Have you seen Volley?” I dropped my bags and headed straight to the laundry room to check the cat’s food bowl. Volley was Paris’s cat, but now that he was hardly around I claimed him as my own, giving him the most attention. Pretty sure he liked me the best now.
“I’ll let Paris know we’re home,” Mom said. Typical, her thoughts were always on Paris, who was staying in Florida a little longer.
“Did Dani come and feed her?” I called out. There was water in her bowl but no food. I grabbed the container of dry food and shook it. That usually had Volley running in. I called out his name several times and was rewarded with his pale green eyes peeping through the cat door. He hesitated, uncertain, which was to be expected after we’d abandoned him for two whole weeks.
Mom’s best friend and our neighbor, Dani Sinclair, had come over daily to feed Volley while we were away.
“Hey, Volley. Look who’s back. It’s me.” I had a completely different voice when speaking to the cat. It was squeaky and a pitch higher than normal with a sing-song lilt. I poured some kibble into the bowl and he cautiously came through the flap door. He swirled around my legs, seemingly in approval and sniffed at the salmon and tuna flavored food.
