One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies Read Online Free Page A

her,
her black nails slicing into my skin—
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
    Thank
God
for alarm clocks.

    It’s 9:30!
    I’m supposed to be ready
to go shopping with Whip
in half an hour!
    I catapult out of bed—
and almost shatter my ankle
because I forget how high up I am.
    I limp into the shower,
but there’s so many dials and high-tech switches
that I can’t figure out how the heck any of it works.
    So I opt for a bath.
But I must be suffering from a severe case of jet lag,
because I can’t even figure out how to close the drain.
    Finally,
I just give up,
and wash under my arms.
    I’ve never been in a bathroom before
that made me feel
like such a moron.

    I Scramble Down the Stairs
    Expecting to see the limo
waiting for us out front,
like a sleek black flashback of Mom’s funeral.
    But it’s nowhere in sight.
Whip leads me over to his five-car garage.
(You heard me right: there’s five of ’em.)
    Then he asks me
to choose one of the doors,
like I’m a contestant on a quiz show.
    I think this
is a real lame thing to be doing,
which I indicate by rolling my eyes,
    but I wave my finger
at door number one,
just to get him off my back.
    Then he presses a button
and the door swings up,
revealing a cherry red 1952 Chevy Corvette.
    How do I know that’s what it is?
Because I’ve always had a thing
for vintage cars.
    And this one’s in primo condition,
with headlights like sleepy eyes
and a grill like a brace-face grin.

    Whip walks over to it and strokes the fender
like he’s patting a kitten.
Then he says, “I collect classic cars.”
    And when I hear this,
that same little flash of lightning
flickers on and off inside of me.
    And my cheeks get all splotchy.

    They Don’t Call It Labor Day for Nothing
    It’s hard work
shopping with a fabulously wealthy father
who keeps buying me everything in sight
to try to make up for an entire lifetime
of world-class neglect.
    It’s hard work
acting like I really don’t want
any of the stuff that he’s buying for me,
when the truth is
that I want it very, very much,
    only I
don’t
want it
because
he’s
the one who’s buying it,
but I
do
want it because I’ve always dreamed
of having a computer just
like
this
and all these great clothes and jewelry and shoes.
    It’s hard work acting like
I could take or leave all this stuff.
But I’d give every bit of it back
before I’d give Whip the satisfaction
of knowing that I’d hate to.

    As Soon as Whip’s Computer Guy Hooks Up My PC
    I check my e-mail.
There’s three from Lizzie,
and one from Ray!
    My heart starts beating ninety words a minute.
I take a deep breath
and click open his message.
    It says that he can’t believe
school starts tomorrow.
That he’s so not ready to hit the books.
    It says that he’s been thinking of me.
And that he misses me.
And that it sucks that I’m so far away.
    â€œMy entire
life
sucks,”
I whisper to the screen,
feeling suddenly and unbearably tragic.
    I swear to God.
If Ray walked through my door right now
I’d be so happy to see him
    I’d finally let him devirginize me.

    Hey Ray,
    I dreamt about you on the plane. And when I woke up, and you weren’t there, I wanted to jump out the window. But the evil flight attendants wouldn’t let me.
    The only thing keeping me from drowning myself in Whip Logan’s Olympic-size swimming pool is the thought of you coming to visit me at Thanksgiving.
    In the meantime, maybe we should try having cybersex. Then again, maybe we shouldn’t. Whip’s so famous that someone would probably get their hands on a copy of it and publish every word in the
National Enquirer
.
    Don’t wait until Thanksgiving. Come this weekend. Come right now.
    I think you should know that I have a really big bed.
    Love and kisses,
    Ruby Dooby

    The Three E-mails from Lizzie
    Dear Ruby,
    I can’t believe you’re gone. It’s