How to Teach Filthy Rich Girls Read Online Free PDF Page B

little nightmarish.
    Early in a flight, they reek from whatever disinfectant kills every germ known to humankind. Later on, they reek for other reasons. Not this one. The walls were white marble, veined with forest green. There was a glass shower stall with multiple gold showerheads. A green velvet swivel chair faced a white marble vanity that held baskets of hair- and skin-care products. A tower of fluffy white towels rested on a shelf. I ran my finger along the familiar embroidered initials: LL.
    When I made my way back to my seat, the captain was standing in the open cockpit door.
    ―Miss Smith, hello. Welcome aboard. Don‘t be concerned—I‘ve got her on autopilot.‖
    ―Good to meet you,‖ I said, though the autopilot thing did not fill me with confidence.
    When I‘m thousands of miles up, up, up, I like to see a human at the controls, controls, controls.
    Though I didn‘t have the nerve to say that, I did muster enough courage for a question.
    ―Would you mind telling me whose plane this is?‖
    ―Laurel Limoges, of course.‖
    Oh. Of course. Well, that solved everything. And by everything, I mean nothing . Who the fuck was Laurel Limoges?
    ―Anyway,‖ the captain went on, ―I wanted to apologize for the bumps. Should be smooth sailing from here down to Palm Beach.‖ He checked his watch. ―We ought to be on the ground by four o‘clock. Anything we can do for you, just let Adrienne know.‖
    He went back to the cockpit—whew—and I turned back to my seat to find Adrienne setting a place for me in the TV viewing area. There were a linen place mat and napkin, both with that damn LL logo, heavy silverware, a crystal goblet, and a water glass.
    ―Ready for lunch, Miss Smith?‖ My something simple included a salad of pears, endive, and Gorgonzola, a warm baguette, red wine, and bubbly mineral water.
    I hadn‘t eaten since my jelly doughnuts with Lily, and this looked amazing. ―Thank you. Really.‖ I sat.
    ―Please let me know if there is anything else I can get for you.‖
    ―Actually . . . my backpack?‖
    ―Right away,‖ Adrienne said, verging on Stepford Wives agreeability.

    I broke off a chunk of the baguette, slathered it with butter, and stuck it in my mouth.
    Taste-bud bliss.
    ―Here you go, Miss Smith.‖ Adrienne set my backpack on the seat to my left.
    ―Anything else?‖
    I sipped the bubbly water. ―No, thanks. This is terrific.‖
    ―After you eat, if you‘d like me to launder your shirt, we have facilities in the galley.
    There‘s a . . .‖ She motioned to the doughnut stain, which I‘d completely forgotten about. ―It will only take forty-five minutes. There‘s a robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door, if you want to change.‖
    Okay. I was impressed.
    I ate half the salad, then dug Vanity Fair out of my backpack. There was a piece by Dominick Dunne about a murder in Nashville and the husband‘s conviction ten years later. A feature on the former members of Talking Heads. Both interesting but seemingly irrelevant to me, Florida, or why I was going to Florida.
    Then I turned another page and stared straight at a full-page photo of two blindingly gorgeous teen girls fully dressed and half submerged in a swimming pool. The simple caption said that they were Sage and Rose Baker of Palm Beach, Florida.

    THE FABULOUS BAKER TWINS
    by Jesse Kornbluth
    Paris who?
    If you‘re still snickering over her sexcapades or getting your gossip on over tabloid shots of the on-again-off-again best friend who wears anorexia like a couture accessory, then you‘re already five minutes ago. Welcome to the new millennium in white-hot-celebutante hype: Sage and Rose Baker, the Fabulous Baker Twins of Palm Beach, Florida.
    Sage and Rose Baker are objectively better-looking than the tabloid titillators who came before them, and if the eighty-four-million-dollar fortune that will soon be theirs can buy it, they will be much, much more successful. They are also only seventeen years old.
    They