Death by Tiara Read Online Free Page A

soon disappear into the slag heap of Daddy’s unfinished projects out in their garage.
    But I couldn’t worry about my parents. Not now. Not when I had Taylor’s lyrics to write. I’d agreed to do a rush job and promised Heather I’d send them to her by the end of the day. Which meant I had less than eight hours to write song lyrics for a teen queen wannabe posing as a Latin spitfire in a fruit headdress.
    Why, oh, why had I wasted all that time shopping with Lance yesterday?
    So the very minute I finished my cinnamon raisin bagel I buckled down and started writing.
    Okay, so the minute I finished my cinnamon raisin bagel, I nuked myself another one. But right after that, I got down to work. I did not get very far, however, staring at the blank screen, wondering what the heck I’d gotten myself into.
    The whole thing turned out to be a lot harder than I anticipated.
    I don’t suppose you’ve ever given it any serious thought, but many of the words that rhyme with “queen” are a tad uninspired. Like “mean,” “bean,” and “latrine,” to name just a few.
    Finally, after countless trips to the refrigerator for inspiration, I came up with the following ditty:
     
TAYLOR FOR TEEN QUEEN
 
My name is Taylor
And I’m here to say
I want to be teen queen
In the very worst way
I’ve got grace, I’ve got charm, I’ve got poise to spare
Not only that, I’ve got super shiny hair!
I look good in a swimsuit without sucking my gut
And if I say so myself I’ve got a mighty cute butt
I can sing, I can dance, I can play the kazoo
But my real ambition is to represent you
So vote for Taylor and I’ll never cease
To whiten my teeth and work for world peace!
CHORUS
Aye aye aye aye
Taylor’s so sweet
Aye aye aye aye
She can’t be beat
Aye aye aye aye
Goodwill she’ll preach
Aye aye aye aye
Taylor’s a peach!
(TAKES A PEACH FROM HER HEADDRESS
AND THROWS IT TO THE JUDGES WITH
A PERKY SMILE)
     
    Something told me I could forget about my career as a future Grammy winner. But it was the best I could do. So I took a deep breath and emailed the lyrics to Heather.
    I only hoped she liked them. And what if she didn’t? Would she still pay me the five hundred bucks she’d promised? I kicked myself for not ironing out the details of the deal. Oh, well. There was nothing I could do about it now.
    Worn out from my exertions, and still in my pajamas, I headed for my bedroom to take a restorative nap.
    I cringed to see the bedroom door open.
    Which could mean only one thing. Prozac had broken in.
    I raced inside to check on my armoire. Surely there was no way she could get past two phone books and a packing carton.
    Who am I kidding? That cat was a regular Houdini with hair balls.
    Somehow she’d managed to dislodge the phone books and upend the carton, and was back at work perfecting her chef d’oeuvre on the side of my armoire. Several more scratches had been added to her masterpiece.
    She gazed up at me with a proud swish of her tail.
    Eat your heart out, Picasso.
    A half hour later, I’d put all my DVDs back on my dresser, sealed the armoire tight as a drum in its carton, and stashed it away in the hall closet.
    Score one for Prozac.
    But this little game wasn’t over.
    Not by a long shot.
     
    The next day dragged by interminably as I waited in vain for Heather to call.
    I spent most of it working on a Toiletmasters brochure for their new “double flush” commode (don’t ask), but my heart wasn’t in it.
    True, my heart’s rarely in it when I’m writing about toilet bowls, but that day I was especially distracted.
    When three o’clock rolled around and I still hadn’t heard from Heather, I assumed it was a lost cause. She’d read my teen queen lyrics and was probably using them to scoop up Elvis’s latest poops.
    I was heading for the kitchen for a teensy Oreo break when I heard a knock at my door.
    I opened it and saw the first bright spot in my otherwise gloomy day.
    Standing there was