8
Kennedy
Summer Prescott doesn’t exist. That’s my initial take on Nolan Prescott’s daughter. But Brook would never have asked me to handle the profile on the new engineering building and the genius’s daughter’s involvement in it otherwise.
So I amend my notes: Summer Prescott doesn’t exist in a cyber capacity. I’ve spent hours raking through internet article after social media platform after sorority recruitment video. I went so far as to check Lakewood records, but other than a few credits on this site and that, there’s nada. A couple of journal features on Nolan himself, where it’s mentioned all the way at the end, When he’s not saving the world one robotic arm at a time, Prescott spends time at home with his daughter.
Expanding my search, I’d found an article from a few years ago detailing Prescott’s substantial rise to fame and fortune. How he’d received funding and investors for an advanced prosthesis after his wife lost a limb in a horrific car accident. How that same wife suddenly passed away with no attributed cause, inspiring Prescott to channel all his energy into his business and caring for his motherless child.
I’d only learned her name was Summer from Brook’s email with her contact information, which I’d used to set up an interview with the girl between my classes this afternoon. I conclude Brook must have gotten the information from Alpha Beta Beta’s website, which is the only other place online I found Summer’s name. It’s listed in a large paragraph with other sorority members, right under a picture of a large group of girls in white dresses. I can’t be sure which one is her.
So when I arrive at the library study room I reserved for our meeting, I knock on the open door and ask the blond sitting at the table, “Summer?”
The girl’s eyes flit over her phone screen. I knock again.
She rolls her eyes. “Do I need to issue a formal invitation? Come in already, jeez.”
Promising start. Oh well. This should be quick and painless. I’m good with interviews—barring a certain football player’s obstinance—mainly due to the fact that people love talking about themselves.
I take the empty seat closest to me and observe my subject. Blond hair styled in pristine ringlets, sheening even under the library’s fluorescent lighting. A black long-sleeved turtleneck tucked into a herringbone skirt, both pieces tightly displaying curves. Striking red lipstick and smoky eye shadow, a look I’ve fruitlessly tried emulating, despite that I know it clashes with my hair. On her, it appears natural. Movie-star quality. All of her is simply chic, and I know from years of gifting Ashton overpriced outfits that every inch of Summer Prescott is accompanied by an invisible dollar sign well past any of my savings.
“Hi, I’m—”
“Kennedy Walsh,” she says for me, typing on her phone with French-manicured nails. “Junior. Journalism major. Staff photographer for The Lakewood Weekly. Busy Beans barista.”
“Uh, yes…” I pause in setting up my laptop. “I’m sorry, have we met?” Maybe we’d exchanged small talk at that ABB high tea Ashton took me to, though she’s not familiar to me at all.
“Nope.” She pops her mouth on the ‘p’.
“Then how do you know—”
“I know everyone on this campus. Brook Larkins wants you to interview me. The Weekly’s editor-in-chief. President of the LGBTQ pride organization. She won a national investigative journalism competition for her piece on fraternity hazing last year.” She puts down her phone. Swivels in her chair and places both hands on a crossed knee. Looks me in the eye. “And Ashton Keeland broke up with you last semester. He’s a member of Epsilon Sigma Pi. Also a junior, journalism student, Weekly writer, and bonus, a major tool.”
Whoa. What. Wait.
What is going on?
“I haven’t heard if you’re dating anyone new yet, though. Are you seeing anyone?” Summer asks. “Girls like you always have boyfriends.”
She rolls her eyes again when I open and close my mouth, no idea what to say. “Don’t take it personally. I meant, serious girls. Studious ones. I bet you were class president at your high school.”
“Treasurer,” I say, dazed. Because Ashton had run for president.
Summer inspects me, up and down, and nods. “Yeah, makes sense. So, no new boyfriend?”
I’m confounded by this conversational whiplash. From the way she eyes me like she knows everything I’m about to say and do. This is not the vapid sorority girl I expected to meet today.
But I can’t walk out of this room, despite all warning signals in my brain telling me to do just that. Brook wants this story. And I don’t want Brook to take any more stories from me.
I try to smile, but my teeth hurt from clamping too tight. “Summer, I’m writing a profile on the engineering building—”
“Not even a secret boyfriend?” Her booted foot kicks up in the air with unrestrained enjoyment. “Those are fun. You can let me know. I keep secrets, I don’t tell them.”
“I don’t have a secret anything,” I huff. How did this meeting get this sidetracked so quickly?
I set my phone down, voice-recording app at the ready. Summer eyes the background selfie of Ashton and me with a raised brow. Then, with a straight look, she says, “Everyone has secrets, Walsh.”
Fine. Whatever. I’m not about to argue with her. “Look, Summer, let’s leave my personal life at the door. Can we focus on Prescott Hall and ABB’s fundraiser?”
Her boot slips to the floor with a thunk. The teasing Summer of a moment ago disappears, in her place a no-nonsense replica who folds her hands on the table. The change is abrupt, and I have to wonder if I imagined her pestering me about secret boyfriends.
“Right to business then, huh.” She pulls a paper from the large purse propped in the chair beside her and slides it over to me. “Here’s a list of pre-approved questions from my publicist that you may ask. Typical stuff, you know.”
Right, because
