Страница 1 из 50
Copyright
Copyright © 2010 by Kody Keplinger
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Poppy
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.
www.pickapoppy.com.
Poppy is an imprint of Little, Brown Books for Young Readers.
The Poppy name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
First eBook Edition: September 2010
ISBN: 978-0-316-12324-2
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Acknowledgments
For Aja,
whose birthday brought us both good luck
1
This was getting old.
Once again, Casey and Jessica were making complete fools of themselves, shaking their asses like dancers in a rap video. But I guess guys eat that shit up, don’t they? I could honestly feel my IQ dropping as I wondered, for the hundredth time that night, why I’d let them drag me here again.
Every time we came to the Nest, the same thing happened. Casey and Jessica danced, flirted, attracted the attention of every male in sight, and eventually were hauled out of the party by their protective best friend—me—before any of the horn dogs could take advantage of them. In the meantime, I sat at the bar all night talking to Joe, the thirty-year-old bartender, about “the problems with kids these days.”
I figured Joe would get offended if I told him that one of the biggest problems was this damn place. The Nest, which used to be a real bar, had been converted into a teen lounge three years ago. The rickety oak bar still stood, but Joe served only Coke products while the kids danced or listened to live music. I hated the place for the simple reason that it made my friends, who could be somewhat sensible most of the time, act like idiots. But in their defense, they weren’t the only ones. Half of Hamilton High showed up on the weekends, and no one left the club with their dignity intact.
I mean seriously, where was the fun in all of this? Want to dance to the same heavy bass techno music week after week? Sure! Then maybe I’ll hit on this sweaty, oversexed football player. Maybe we’ll have meaningful discussions about politics and philosophy while we bump ’n grind. Ugh. Yeah, right.
Casey plopped down on the stool next to mine. “You should come dance with us, B,” she said, breathless from her booty shaking. “It’s so much fun.”
“Sure it is,” I muttered.
“Oh my gosh!” Jessica sat down on my other side, her honey-blond ponytail bouncing against her shoulders. “Did you see that? Did you effing see that? Harrison Carlyle totally just hit on me! Did you see that? Omigosh!”
Casey rolled her eyes. “He asked you where you got your shoes, Jess. He’s totally gay.”
“He’s too cute to be gay.”
Casey ignored her, ru
“Totally,” Jessica agreed, eyeing Harrison Carlyle, who sat in a booth on the other side of the room. She paused and turned back to us. “Wait. What? I wasn’t listening.”
“You just look so bored over here, B. I want you to have some fun, too.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “I’m having a great time. You know I can’t dance. I’d be in your way. Go… live it up or whatever. I’ll be okay over here.”
Casey narrowed her hazel eyes at me. “You sure?” she asked.
“Positive.”
She frowned, but after a second she shrugged and grabbed Jessica by the wrist, pulling her out onto the dance floor. “Holy crap!” Jessica cried. “Slow down, Case! You’ll rip my arm off!” Then they made their merry way to the middle of the room, already syncing the sway of their hips with the pulsing techno music.
“Why didn’t you tell them you’re miserable?” Joe asked, pushing a glass of Cherry Coke toward me.
“I’m not miserable.”
“You’re not a good liar either,” he replied before a group of freshmen started yelling for drinks at the other end of the bar.
I sipped my Cherry Coke, watching the clock above the bar. The second hand seemed to be frozen, and I prayed the damn thing was broken or something. I wouldn’t ask Casey and Jessica to leave until eleven. Any earlier and I’d be the party pooper. But according to the clock it wasn’t even nine yet, and I could already feel myself getting a techno-music migraine, only made worse by the pulsing strobe light. Move, second hand! Move!
“Hello there.”
I rolled my eyes and turned to glare at the unwelcome intruder. This happened once in a while. Some guy, usually stoned or rank with BO, would take a seat beside me and make a half-assed attempt at small talk. Clearly they hadn’t inherited the observant gene, because the expression on my face made it pretty damn obvious that I wasn’t in the mood to be swept off my feet.
Surprisingly, the guy who’d taken the seat next to me didn’t stink like pot or armpits. In fact, that might have been cologne I smelled on the air. But my disgust only increased when I realized who the cologne belonged to. I would have preferred the fuzzy-headed stoner.
Wesley. Fucking. Rush.
“What do you want?” I demanded, not even bothering to be polite.
“Aren’t you the friendly type?” Wesley asked sarcastically. “Actually, I came to talk to you.”
“Well, that sucks for you. I’m not talking to people tonight.” I slurped my drink loudly, hoping he’d take the not-so-subtle hint to leave. No such luck. I could feel his dark gray eyes crawling all over me. He couldn’t even pretend to be looking me in the eyes, could he? Ugh!