Poison Princess Read Online Free

better. I’d begun to realize that he was a good boy , but not yet a great guy .
    Maybe I could drag him over the finish line with that.
    He planted a sweet kiss on my lips, then jogged off with one hand raised for the ball.
    Heading toward the front doors, I passed a rosebush with double blooms of poppy red—my favorite color. A breeze blew, making it seem like the flowers swayed to face me.
    Ever since I could remember, I’d loved all plant life. I drew roses, oaks, vine crops, and berry briars compulsively, fascinated with their shapes, their blooms, their defenses.
    My eyelids would go to half-mast from the scent of freshly tilled pastureland.
    Which was part of my problem. I wasn’t normal .
    Teenage girls should be obsessed with clothes and boys, not the smell of dirt or the admirable deviousness of briars.
    Come, touch . . . but you’ll pay a price.
    A metallic-blue Beamer screeched into a parking space just feet from me, the driver laying on the horn.
    Melissa Warren, my best friend and sister from another mister.
    Mel was a hyperactive wild child who was a stranger to shame and had never acquainted herself with embarrassment. And she always leapt before she looked. I was actually surprised she’d managed to survive her summer overseas without me.
    We’d been best friends for a decade—but without a doubt, I was the brains of that operation.
    I couldn’t have missed her more.
    Considering her five-foot-eleven height, Mel hopped out of her car with surprising speed, raising her straightened arms over her head and snapping her fingers. “That’s how you park a car, bitches.” Mel was going through a phase lately where she called everyone bitches.
    Her mother was the guidance counselor at our school, because Mel’s dad had paid for Sterling High’s new library—and because Mrs. Warren needed a hobby. Most parents figured that if Melissa Warren was a product of her parenting skills, then they shouldn’t put much stock in Mrs. Warren’s guidancing skills.
    Today Mel wore a crisp navy skirt and a red baby-doll T-shirt that had probably cost half a grand and would never be worn again. Her bright Dior lipstick was a classic red to match, her auburn hair tied with a navy bow. Prepster chic.
    In short order, she popped her trunk, dragged out her designer book bag, then locked her keys in the car.
    With a shrug, she joined me. “Hey, look over my shoulder. Is that Spencer in the quad with Brand?” Spencer Stephens III, Brand’s best friend.
    When I nodded, she said, “He’s looking at me right now, isn’t he? All pining-like?”
    He was in no way looking at Mel.
    â€œThis year I’m taking our flirtationship to a new level,” Mel informed me. “He just needs a nudge in the right direction.”
    Unfortunately, Mel didn’t know how to nudge. She play-punched hard , titty-twisted with impunity, and wasn’t above the occasional headlock. And that was if she liked you.
    In a pissy tone, she added, “Maybe if your boyfriend would—finally—set us up.”
    Brandon had laughed the last time I’d asked him, saying, “As soon as you housebreak her.” Note to self: Put in another request today.
    Two of our other friends spotted us then. Grace Anne had on a yellow sateen dress that complemented her flawless café-au-lait skin. Catherine Ashley’s jewelry sparkled from a mile away.
    The four of us were popular bowhead cheerleaders. And I was proud of it.
    They smiled and waved excitedly as if I hadn’t seen them every day last week as we’d spilled deets about our vacations. Mel had modeled in Paris, Grace had gone to Hawaii, and Catherine had toured New Zealand.
    After I’d repeatedly declared my summer the most boring ever, they’d stopped asking about it. I was pictureless, had zero images on my phone for three months, not a single uploadable.
    It was as if I