POPULAR: A high school version of Emma (Prologue)

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*Note to readers: POPULAR is a complete story, however, you might like to read Pride & Princesses first as this introduces the world of Sunrise High.

POPULAR by Summer Day

Prologue by Phoebe Knightly: Former babysitter to Miss Honey Woodhouse

It is said in our street - the laneway that leads from Sunrise Drive all the way up the hill to Beverly Hills - that when Miss Honey Woodhouse was born, fairy princesses attended her every whim. Dressed in pink tulle, they ascended from the waterfalls that surrounded the infinity pool at the base of Honey’s perfectly manicured garden. These fairy princesses granted her every wish and bestowed upon her those qualities - beauty, kindness, intelligence and the comforts of wealth (in fairy dust), which wise people will assure you are rarely bestowed simultaneously and never on one person.

    Of course, I’m not saying that beautiful, blonde, popular Honey did not become both slightly conceited and even a little bit annoying by the time she reached her teens, but this is her story and I should never tell the ending just because I have the advantage of knowing it.    

   Honey’s brother-in-law, Ethan Knightly was the much younger cousin of the equally handsome and extremely sought after Mark Knightly. Ethan was staying with us that year, the year Emily Mouche Knightly (my daughter) was born. But I’m jumping ahead of myself as usual.

    I’m Phoebe Harris Knightly. I trained to be a lawyer and before that, when I was a teenager, I was Honey’s babysitter. Presently, I’m her next door neighbor. My husband’s cousin Ethan is staying with us while his parents are in Europe. Ethan is close to Honey’s age. I think they’re perfect for each other.

   Other children in the wickedly expensive enclave known as Bel Air, where Honey Woodhouse and the Knightly family grew up, were attended by baby nurses but Honey had a whole team of experts as well: her tutor and babysitter (that was me during the summer I spent at home before I went to college) a nanny, a swimming instructor, a tennis coach and even a riding instructor.

    Most of these people came into Honey’s world when she was just eighteen months old.

    I grew up in a slightly less expensive enclave known as Sunrise a few streets and an entire social divide away.  After my best friend was killed in New York and her husband and daughter stayed in New York City, I wondered what my life’s purpose was. I wanted to help people, but I was also just so over, everything.  Finishing law school was more of a chore than a pleasure, and afterwards I returned to Sunrise and resumed my teenage job for a few months over summer. This time I became more of a tutor and friend, less of a babysitter to Honey.    

    Honey’s mother wasn’t at home very much when she was growing up. Her parents separated, then intermittently got back together, until they agreed they were happier apart. This allowed Honey to consider herself, from the age of six, in charge of her father. This was a job she enjoyed. While Honey’s mother vacationed at various clinics in Europe (treating ailments that changed every winter from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder to water retention to an overdose of Botox necessitating her thrice yearly trips to Europe and Switzerland), we grew into our own family. It was often just us in the house. Honey’s older sister, Maya, who was far more retiring than the boisterous and decorative Honey was soon away at boarding school. Maya got married soon after college and we saw little of her in Sunrise given that she now resided in New York. 

   Honey took her role as family organizer very seriously.

   After some success, she decided to organize her entire school, her neighborhood, her family and my husband’s younger cousin, Ethan Knightly – a dedicated athlete and high school student who was smart enough to have Honey’s measure since her celebrated birth. Ethan was also nine months Honey’s senior. Honey, at six, had conspired to make Ethan her pram pusher, sunglass straightener and swimming pool life guard – roles from which he had barely recovered.

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