Somebody to Love
Kristan Higgins
CHAPTER ONE
“AND WITH THAT, the six Holy Rollers—Golly, Polly and Molly, Ike, Mike and Spike—took off their magical roller skates for the last time. Their job on earth was done. They’d earned their beautiful, sparkly angel wings and could stay in heaven forever…and ever…and ever. The end.”
Parker Harrington Welles suppressed a dry heave, closed the book and tried not to envision smothering the fictional angels, no matter how much she would’ve enjoyed it.
Don’t kill us, Parker! squeaked the imaginary voices in her head, their voices helium-shrill.
I can’t kill you. You’re immortal. Unfortunately. One of the huge downsides of writing the series—the little pains in the butt talked to her. Another downside—Parker talked back.
Seven or eight little hands shot up in the air.
“Please write more Holy Rollers books, Miss Welles.”
I’d rather bathe in my own blood, kid, thought Parker. “No, sweetie, the Holy Rollers are in heaven now,” she answered. “This is the last book in the series. But you can see them in a movie this summer, don’t forget.”
Today at her son’s preschool, the Holy Rollers, a book series so sickeningly precious it made The Velveteen Rabbit look like a chapter out of Sin City, was officially done. Though they had made Parker moderately famous in the world of kiddie lit, had been translated into sixteen languages and had print runs in the gazillions, there was no getting around the fact that their author hated them.
Hate is such an angry word! chorused the child angels. We love you, Parker! Honestly, they were a Cartoon Network version of a Greek chorus, always popping into her head with unwanted advice.
“Did you write Harry Potter?” was the next question, this one from Nicky’s friend Caitlin.
“No, afraid not, honey. But I love those books, don’t you?”
“Sometimes I get the Warm Fuzzles, just like the Holy Rollers,” Mariah said, and Parker nearly threw up in her mouth. Had she really invented that term? Had she been drinking at the time?
“Are you rich?” Henry Sloane asked.
“Well,” Parker answered, “if you’re asking if I make a lot as an author, the answer is no. All the money I get for the Holy Rollers goes to a charity called Save the Children.”
“That’s for kids who don’t have enough food,” Nicky said proudly, and Parker smiled at her son. It was the one good thing about the book series. Parker didn’t need the money, so right from the get-go, she’d donated all proceeds to the charity, which took away some of the nausea.
“But you live in a mansion,” Will Michalski stated with authority. “I’ve been there. You have twenty-nine bathrooms.”
“True enough,” she said, a twinge of discomfort flashing through her.
“It’s a mansion. It’s a castle! I want to live there when I grow up!”
“Are you going to write another book?” asked Amelia.
Excellent question. Parker might not love the Holy Rollers, but new ideas hadn’t exactly been pouring out of her. “I hope so.”
“What’s it about?”
“Um, I’m not quite sure yet. But I’ll let you know, okay? Any other questions? Yes, Ben.”
After another half hour, as the questions dwindled into what color wings Golly should have, the teacher finally stepped in.
“Miss Welles has to get going, I’m sure,” she said. “Kids, can you say thank-you to Nicky’s mom?”
“Thank you, Nicky’s mom!” the kids chorused, then rushed her, hugging her legs, the payoff for reading The Holy Rollers Earn Their Halos out loud.
“Am I staying with Daddy this weekend?” Nicky asked as they walked to the car.
“You sure are,” Parker answered. She stroked her son’s dark hair. Ethan’s weekend had come awfully fast, it seemed. She gave her son a kiss, then bent to buckle him into his booster.
“I can do it myself,” Nicky said.
“Right. Sorry, honey.” She got into the driver’s seat and started the car.
A weekend alone. Parker tried not to sigh. She really needed to find another idea for a series. The Holy Rollers had been born as a spoof, sure, but they’d been her job for the past six years. Aside from staring at a blank computer screen and possibly watching a Gerard Butler movie or three, she had no plans.
“You should sleep over, too,” Nicky suggested, practically reading her mind. “We could have popcorn. Lucy said she’s making me a cake.”
“The woman can bake, that’s for sure,” Parker said. “What kind?”
“My favorite kind. With the frosting and the coconut. I can eat seven pieces, she said.”
“Did she, Nicky?” Parker cocked an eyebrow. Truth wasn’t a strong point for her little guy these days.
“I think so. She maybe said five. But it was a lot.”
Nicky continued to chatter about the joys that lay ahead of him for the weekend: eating cake; a sail on Ethan’s boat; more cake; sleeping with Fat Mikey, Lucy and Ethan’s cat; possibly taking a bath with Fat Mikey; having cake at midnight; and finding the pirate’s cave that Mackerly, Rhode Island, supposedly possessed. Like his grandmothers, Nicky had been born with the gift of chat.