P.S. I Loathe You Read Online Free PDF

the narrow entryway. Then she saw the
elevator
. It was stuffed with boxes and propped open by an elephant-tusk coffee table.
    Kristen turned her key with silent precision. She vowed that if she made it across the parquet floor to her bedroom undetected, she’d never risk wearing her Range Rover–replaced outfit home again.
    Marsha Purdy Gregory + plaid short shorts + a gray V-neck bell-sleeve sweater + knee-high black moccasins = being forced to don a burka until college graduation.
    “Heeeey, Beckham,” Kristen whisper-squealed when she saw the fluffy white Persian curled on her twin bed like a croissant. The kitty lifted his head, but Kristen denied him love until her knee-length sweat shorts and loose matching gray T-shirt were on and her illegal fly-arrhea-stained outfit was gone.
    “Safe!” She fell back on her blue and green polka-dot duvet and spoon-hugged Beckham. Then she tried to imagine the Pretty Committee hanging in her bedroom.
    The lime green bedside lamp was the same lime as the beanbag, which was the same lime as the polka dots on her duvet, which were the same lime as the walls. The room was so thoroughly coordinated she could probably convince them that someone other than the online shopping assistant at potterybarn.com had decorated it.
    “Not that I’d ever have the chance.” Kristen sighed aloud. “We’re ah-bviously not good enough for them.” She squeezed Beckham’s warm belly and buried her face in his fur. He smelled like coconut shampoo, a little something she’d invested in to remind them of Dune.
    “Seven more sleeps and he’ll be back.”
    Beckham sighed.
    Kristen rolled onto her back and blew a kiss at the photo of Dune Baxter taped to her ceiling. The sun was setting behind him, drenching the background in golden light that matched his skin. He was lying on a longboard, brown eyes staring straight into the camera, his smile relaxed yet stoked. For a moment, Kristen could smell his tropical fruit–scented sunscreen.
    Dune grinned back, like he was thanking her for being smart enough to have scored a summer job tutoring his younger sister, Ripple, so they could meet and become C-pluses. Well, at least that’s what she
liked
to believe his grin was saying.
    “You’re welcome,” Kristen mouthed back. “Thanks for being a CLAM,” she whispered to her cute, loyal, athletic, middle-class crush.
    “
He
likes coming over,” she mumbled in Beckham’s triangular ear. “
He’s
not a snob like certain OCDivas we know,” she said, recalling Dune’s nickname for the Pretty Committee. Her insides warmed just using his term. It made her feel closer to him, like he wasn’t surf-modeling on some heart-shaped, impossible-to-get-cell-service-on island in the South Pacific, but right there beside her.
    A startling crash, immediately followed by a muffled shouting match between an angry woman and an apologetic Russian First Rate Mover, came from next door.
    “Reeee-ow!” Beckham bolted under the bed.
    Kristen buried her face in a pillow. “Thank Gawd,” she mumbled, suddenly relieved that Massie had turned down her
après
-school invitation after all. Thin was in when it came to waists, nawt walls.
    Her black Razr rang “Need U Bad”
by Jazmine Sullivan—something it only did in extreme emergencies.
    Boy I need U bad as my heartbeat,
    Bad like the food I eat . . .
    Kristen shot up and speed-answered. “Why aren’t you using the WCC?” she whisper-hissed. “What if Massie was here? What if we got caught?”
    “Relax,”
the girl on the other end whisper-hissed back. “This isn’t official Witty Committee business, so I didn’t want to use the Witty Committee computer. It’s an abuse of power.”
    Kristen rolled her eyes. She was just as serious as Layne about their secret underground society of five, who paid homage to their favorite historical Gifted people by dressing up as them and meeting online to discuss all things intellectual. But if Massie ever found out Kristen