Hotlanta
Denene Millner
Mitzi Miller
For Familyâ¦with arms that hold you tight, there is no
need to fear the dark place. There's no place like home.
SYDNEY
“Sydney! Sydney Duke! I need you downstairs, right now!”
The shrill sound of Sydney's mother's voice echoed all the way up her polished mahogany staircase, down the plush off-white carpeted hall, and right through the walls of Sydney's bedroom.
“I'm coming!” Sydney shouted back as she reluctantly earmarked the page she was reading in the latest issue of
Teen Vogue
and turned off the flat screen where the final minutes of her
Girlfriends
rerun was showing for the millionth time. She snatched up her hot-pink Marc Jacobs bag and matching jean jacket, even though Atlanta and the surrounding suburbs were still warm in late September. Nothing irked her more than when her mother yelled through the house like a
wild banshee, but from the tone of her mother's voice, Sydney knew she needed to hurry downstairs and deal with whatever drama awaited before her ride arrived.
She had barely entered the kitchen before her mother started in on her. “Sweetie, I really think this time I may have found the perfect dress for you!”
“Honestly, Mom. The way you were screaming, I thought this was a life-threatening emergency.” Sydney grabbed a handful of grapes from the crystal fruit bowl.
“This
is
an emergency. We only have a few weeks left, and Lord knows it'll take at least that long to find both you and your sister the perfect dresses.”
“I suppose,” Sydney sighed, leaning over her mother's shoulder to glance at the dog-eared page of the October issue of
Vanity Fair
that lay open. “Um, as much as I love Roberto Cavalli's dresses forâI don't knowâthe MTV Awards, don't you think it's a bit flashy for your party?” she hinted none too subtly, after quickly perusing the over-the-top, beaded, strapless creation shown in the fashion layout. “How about a dress with a little understated elegance? Something more along the lines of Tracy Reese.”
Her mother rolled her eyes. “Nothing about my twelve-year-anniversary party is going to be described as understated. And there's no way I, Keisha Duke, will allow either of my daughters to blend in with the crowd on such a big
and very expensive night in honor of our family. So you can just forget about Tracy Reese.”
“Mom,” Sydney pleaded. “She's one of my favorite designers!”
“And that's fine, but the answer is still no. You can wave your little power-to-the-people fist and support black designers all you want when it's your event, but there's no way I'm going to let my friends think we suffer from everyday-people taste. Period.” Keisha Duke rarely bothered to hide her need to keep way ahead of the Joneses. She flipped to another page and ran a finger over a picture showing a slinky black number with raw seams and a plunging neckline. “Well, what about Stella McCartney? She's couture and vegan.”
Three quick beeps from Carmen's car horn sounded through the open bay windows. “I'll tell you what: Why don't you keep doing your research while I'm at my committee meeting?” Sydney broke for the front door. “Don't forget, I have a movie date with Marcus afterwards, so I might be home a little late.”
“Marcus, Usher, Ne-Yo, or whomever you think you're in love with this week, I expect you home no later than one
A.M.
, young lady. And tell Carmen this better be the last time she beeps any car horn in front of my house. This ain't the projects!”
“Yes, Mother,” Sydney tossed over her shoulder, rushing toward freedom. She was more aware of that than anyone.
Despite the fact that it was almost seven o'clock, the sky was still fairly bright, and a soft Georgia breeze greeted Sydney as she stepped out the massive front door and ran down the marble steps of the Duke estate.
The sharp smell of newly cut grass burned inside her nose, as she waved hello to the workers dotting the front grounds. Like clockwork, they arrived every Friday afternoon to mow the lawn, trim the hedges, and tend to the exotic flowers that decorated the impressive three-acre property. Keisha Duke might have been a certified control freak when it came to keeping up appearances, but at the end of the day, everything she touched looked amazing. Their home was easily one of the most admired in the exclusive, multimillion-dollar Buckhead subdivision, if not in all of the surrounding Atlanta area.
“What's up, Syd?” Carmen asked as Sydney settled herself in her best friend's car. Since the day when they'd been lined up in height order and Carmen had been placed directly behind Sydney at their exclusive Montessori kindergarten orientation class, Carmen had been extremely comfortable being Sydney's faithful follower. The only place where Carmen didn't trace Sydney's footsteps was in all her charity work, which cut down a great deal of their one-on-one face time.
“Just happy to see the end of another busy week. Your timing is on point, as usual,” Sydney said, fiddling with the XM radio.
Carmen pulled her birthday presentâa black Land Rover Freelanderâaround the fountain and back down the Dukes' lengthy driveway.
“You think? It's almost seven. We're barely going to make the start of the meeting. I got caught up looking at the latest update on YoungRichandTriflin.com.”
“Umm, I just don't know why you waste so much time reading YRT. You know that it's written by some hater who you probably don't even speak to and has nothing better to do than talk about people and their personal business,” Sydney answered with a roll of her eyes. Recently, everyone in school had become obsessed with the scandalous blog started by an anonymous Brookhaven student. Every week all the latest news, trends, and hot gossip from the Atlanta region's most exclusive private high schools was broadcasted to everyone that logged on. Occasionally, if the gossip proved juicy enough, the site administrator would send out a special all-alert bulletin. Not that Sydney would ever admit it, but she too was totally addicted.
“I bet you'll be glad I waste so much time on it if something gets posted about you or your man one of these days⦔
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Regardless, I'm not talking about that, Carmen. I'm talking about saving me from my mother's latest party-dress intervention. She's treating her anniversary soiree like it's Atlanta's answer to the Grammy Awards. If I don't
settle on a dress soon, she'll have me wearing some godawful, neon-pink Versace monstrosity, talking about how she saw Vivica Fox wearing one in
US Weekly.
And forget about Marcusâyou already know he's pickier than Keisha if the two of us are going to an event together.”
“You don't say,” murmured Carmen sarcastically. As much as she liked Marcus, Carmen was one of the few people who had no qualms saying something when his control-freak tendencies got crazy.
“Whatever, Carm⦔ Sydney laughed as she pulled down the visor to check her hair. Lord knew it only took a minute for it to go from curly to frizzy. Since tonight would be her first real alone time with Marcus since the hectic school year had begun, she wanted to make the most of it. And she hoped her hair would cooperate.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to the student parking lot at Brookhaven Preparatory School. The enormous state-of-the-art institution was located on a ten-acre plot of land formerly purchased by a Baptist church in the late 1800s for the sole purpose of educating the upper-class Confederate children in the ways of the Bible. Some hundred years laterâ1980 to be exactâthe property landed in the hands of an anonymous African-American millionaire who promptly turned the rundown estate into the premier, predominantly African-American private institution of learning in the Atlanta area. Catering to the sons and daughters of Atlanta's most
well-to-do, Brookhaven boasted a ten-to-one student-to-teacher ratio, laptops and wireless access for all students, a solar-paneled greenhouse, auditoriums with international video-conference capabilities, and a competitive athletics program that included everything from football to polo. And thanks to all the generous donations from alumni and the wealthy families clamoring to gain acceptance for their children, it managed to remain extremely selective (read: African-American applicants always received preferential treatment) and ranked as one of the highest among all secondary schools in Georgia.
At 7:00
P.M.
on a Friday, there were only a few cars scattered around the large lot. Sydney recognized the ones that belonged to the other members of the annual Homecoming Benefit Gala planning committee, because they were all chromed-out and shiny. She assumed that the more beat-up rides belonged to either the janitorial staff or the scholarship kids.
“You ready, my dear?” Carmen asked, opening her car door. Wearing a mint-green cashmere cardigan over a white tank top and a cute pair of gray Joe's, Carmen looked every bit the only child of an older, extremely wealthy set of parents.
“Absolutely,” Sydney said, shuffling some papers together. “I just reviewed the budget, and it looks like we're in great shape. This should go down no problem.”
Carmen clicked the car alarm and headed toward the entrance. “That's what I like to hear. These meetings have been all about the drama, and I just don't have the time for that tonight. I'm trying to get out of here and start the weekend off with something fun.”
“You and me both,” Sydney agreed. The girls started walking up the stairs toward the entrance.
Almost an hour later, Sydney was beyond pissed. Not because the meeting was particularly difficult. Sure, there'd been a few objections to the chosen tablecloth color and a heated debate over the contents of the gift bags, but Sydney had pacified all parties with the smoothness of Atlanta's mayor, Shirley Franklin. Still, she was aggravated because her Tag read quarter to eight, and not one of the six text messages she'd sent Marcus in the past thirty minutes had been returned. With each one she hammered out, Sydney lost focus on her surroundings.
“So do you agree or not, Sydney? âCause we really need to make a decision on this tonight. This issue is, like, a cornerstone of the benefit. And I certainly don't want to jeopardize our fund-raising abilities by dropping the ball.” Dawn's insistent voice interrupted her thoughts. Sydney looked up from her iPhone to find the entire Benefit Gala planning committee staring her down.
Damn. There were a lot of perks to being committee chair: It looked great on college apps, Marcus loved it when she took leadership roles in her volunteer efforts, and Sydney not so secretly enjoyed running the show. But right now, she didn't really care about any of that.
“You guys should just take a quick vote instead of relying on my opinion.”
“Good idea,” said Carmen, rallying to her defense. “I mean, they're just napkin holders, Dawn.”
“Excuse me. I need to go to the bathroom,” Sydney said, rising out of her seat at the head of the conference room table, leaving Dawn behind with a puckered scowl.
Sydney knew that Dawn had noticed her sending off that last text and had tried to play her in front of everyone on purpose. What a hater. Dawn had been giving Sydney major attitude ever since her not-so-special-looking boyfriend, Alonzo, had dumped her the minute Sydney's twin sister, Lauren, expressed a mild interest in his not-so-special-looking self. Sydney could've saved him the trouble. The last thing on Lauren's mind was a long-term relationship. She fell in and out of love more often than most people with full-time maids changed their monogrammed hand towels. The only reason Lonzo had even registered on her meter was that he was rumored to be the next varsity basketball captain. The poor loser had barely saved Lauren's cell number in his
Sidekick before it was announced that he wasn't picked and Lauren was on to her next flavor of the month.
Quite honestly, Sydney was tired of dealing with the overflow of Lauren drama. Sydney was not Lauren. Why couldn't people get that through their thick skulls?
Lauren specialized in being a superficial, self-centered, scandalous drama queen. All Sydney wanted was to graduate at the top of her class, attend the university of her choice (Brown), marry the man of her dreams (Marcus), and join the exclusive ranks of the country's Who's Who on the society pages of
Vanity Fair
and
Vogue.
Was that really too much to ask?
As soon as she entered the plush lounge area outside of the girls' bathroom, Sydney plopped down on a paisley chaise lounge and whipped out her cell phone. She dialed Marcus's number. It went straight to voice mail.
“Hey, Marcus, it's Sydney. Again.” She tried to keep her voice light, but it was almost impossible to hide her annoyance. “What are you doing? We have movie plans, right? My meeting is about to be over. Call. Me. Back.” She absentmindedly twisted the diamond stud in her right earlobe.
The silence of her iPhone not ringing echoed around her. Marcus was a lot of things but none of them forgetful. He damn well knew that the two of them had plans to go to the movies tonight. There was no reason for him not to answer his cell or return her texts. Ain't no study group
session that serious. Feeling anxious, Sydney headed inside to the nearest sink. She waved her hand under the automatic cold water faucet and started washing her already clean hands in an attempt to calm down.
Duke Family rule number one: Never let 'em see you sweat.
As far as their classmates and even their closest friends were concerned, Sydney and Lauren Duke lived fairy tale lives: Their mom had married an old friend and wealthy car dealership owner, Altimus Duke, when the twins were only five. He'd promptly rescued them from their 250-square-foot cinder-block government-housing cell and moved the family into the posh Duke estate, where every single bathroom had its own Jacuzzi tub and heated towel rack. And though she cared deeply about the plight of the less fortunate, at the end of the day, Sydney was very accustomed to life in the lap of luxury. And to getting exactly what she wanted, when she wanted it.