Whip It Read Online Free

I just go to one, one store that is not in a mall? One store where I might actually find something that I like? You promised me a trip to Austin. This isn’t Austin, this is a suburban mall.”
    There is a long pause, like Brooke can barely comprehend what I’m saying, as if it never occurred to her to shop outside of a mall. At last she says, “Okay, Bliss, what is your idea of Austin?”
    “Well, like, down by the college, where the noncorporate stores are. It’s not even ten minutes away.”
    She gives me this martyr sigh, like I’m asking the impossible, like I expect her to carry me there on her back.
    “Fine,” she says. “One store.”
    “Awesome! Let’s go to Atomic City. They have the best shoes!” I squeal, well aware that my mom is desperate to see me in something other than these busted Chuck Taylors with the silver duct tape around the toe (a fuck-off fashion do if there ever was one).
    I enter Atomic City, a rambling store in an old house that caters to the local punks, rockabilly kids, goths, hippies, ravers, mods, and anyone else not represented by the mainstream. I practically sprint past the Manic Panic hair dye, the Japanime T-shirts, the kiosk of cooler-than-thou sunglasses, and retro pin-up dresses in search of what I came here for: John Fluevog shoes. And the selection is even better in person than what you see online. Score!
    I try on several styles and gather opinions from a trio of to-die-for cute boys who are also shopping. They are way college-aged, and Brooke is in full spy mode, so I have to keep the flirting to a min. But trust me, I am swooning on the inside. Big time. I even forget (momentarily) about my unicorn zit. This is my kind of Austin.
    I finally decide on a pair of chunky Mary-Janes in bright purple with two turquoise straps. Cool and comfy and worth every penny of the 175-dollar asking price (my entire back-to-school budget, plus some saved-up baby-sitting money). Best of all, this fab footwear says, to even the most casual of observers, “I was not purchased in a mall.” Maybe on Mars, but definitely not in a mall.
    Even Brooke seems relieved to be buying me something I obviously love. She is just about to slap down the plastic and seal the deal when something across the store catches her eye: a shelf of bright-colored glass illuminated by the late-afternoon sun.
    “Ooh, now those are pretty!” she exclaims a little too loudly before realizing what it is she’s admiring. It’s a shelf of foot-long bongs.
    My mother’s face goes white, as everyone in Atomic City turns away and laughs their collective ass off.
    Brooke is mor-ti-fied. It takes exactly three seconds for her to reconsider my prized purchase. “Bliss,” she says, so piously I can practically see the halo hovering above her head, “I don’t think I would be doing my job as a mother if I bought you your back-to-school shoes from an establishment that also sells drug paraphernalia. Do you?”
    “Mom,” I say, trying to calmly navigate the choppy waters of my mother’s mood swing, “I just want the shoes, not the bong.”
    “First it’s the shoes, then it’s the bong.”
    “Yeah, right.” I laugh. “Shoes are the gateway drug.”
    “Very funny, Bliss,” she scoffs, not laughing. “Apparently you don’t mind supporting drug dealers.”
    “Whatev,” I protest. “Have you ever seen the delivery guys who work for Dad? Hello. They’re all about the ganja. Does that make Dad a supporter of drug dealers?”
    My mom throws her hands over Sweet Pea’s innocent ears. “You are out of line!”
    I’m out of line? She’s out of line. This whole damn shopping trip is out of line! Brooke wouldn’t even be pulling this stunt if Pash was here. She’d be too busy showing off, playing the perfect parent.
    “C’mon, Mom, please. Just let it go,” I beg.
    “You know what, if you can convince your dad to let you get these shoes, then they’re yours,” she declares, whipping out her rhinestone cell