The Descendants Read Online Free PDF

“This is terrible,” I say.
    “Here,” Mrs. Higgins says. “Why don’t I relay to you her latest work: We all know you grew pubes over the summer. That’s it. She just sends little messages like that. For no reason at all. My daughter doesn’t bother her in any way.”
    I think of Scottie eating lunch and wonder if she was text-messaging Lani right there at the kitchen counter.
    “Terrible,” I say again. “And not at all like her. She’s very sweet. I’m afraid her mother isn’t well, and maybe that’s it. Maybe this is how she’s dealing with it.”
    “I don’t give a shit about the backstory, Mr. King.”
    “Whoa,” I say.
    “I just know that my daughter comes home from school in tears. And yes, she’s developing a bit early and is highly sensitive to her growth, and maybe she doesn’t shop at Neiman’s Kids or wherever you get Scottie’s clothes.”
    “Sure, sure,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.” I haven’t read any blogs about name-calling, and Esther hasn’t prepared me for this at all. I’ve been fooled by Scottie. Who are you, really? I want to ask.
    “Scottie should be the one who’s sorry. I want her to come over and apologize, and I want her to be reprimanded.”
    “I’ll talk to her,” I say. “I’ll get to the bottom of this. I’m afraid we’re really busy this week with her, uh, backstory, but I truly am sorry and will talk to Scottie immediately.”
    “That’s a good start,” she says. “But then I want an apology to Lani. And I don’t ever want Scottie to write to her again.”
    “She can in a good way!” I hear a voice say in the background.
    “In fact, I’d like her to come by today, or else I’ll have to take this up with the dean. You can’t buy your way out of this.”
    “Excuse me? What are you talking about?”
    “It’s your choice, Mr. King. Should I tell Lani you’re coming by right now, or should you and your daughter handle this matter with the school?”
    I get her address. I make promises. Life keeps happening.

 
     
    5

     
     
    ON THE WAY to see the Higginses, who live nearby, in Kailua, I coach Scottie. We need to get in and out quickly.
    “You need to say you’re sorry, and you need to mean it. I need to get to work, so no dicking around.”
    She’s quiet. I have taken away her message gadget, and her hands are open in her lap, fingers cupping the air.
    “Why would you call her those things? Why would you be so mean to someone? How do you type all those words?”
    “I don’t know,” she says, her voice full of irritation.
    “You made her cry. Why would you want to make someone unhappy?”
    “I didn’t know she was so sensitive. She writes back lol sometimes, so I thought she wasn’t going to be a dork about it.”
    “What’s ‘lol’?”
    “‘Laugh out loud,’” she mumbles.
    “Do you just do this texting by yourself?”
    She doesn’t answer. We pass the antiques shops and the dealership full of gigantic trucks. As we veer toward the strip of newer shops, we both look at the kids who skateboard under the banyan tree. We always look at them; probably everyone does as they turn on Kailua Road.
    “You just sit there and write nasty things, then go about your day?”
    “No.”
    “Well, what then?”
    “I write them with Reina. It makes her laugh, and then she shows what I wrote to Rachel and Brooke and them.”
    “I knew she had something to do with it. I knew it.”
    Reina Burke. Twelve years old. I see her at the club wearing string bikinis and lipstick; she has this collected air about her that no twelve-year-old should have. She reminds me of Alexandra—beautiful and fast, ready to dump her childhood like a bad habit.
    “From now on you’re not to hang out with her,” I say.
    “But Dad, I already have plans with her and her mom on Thursday!”
    “You have plans with your own mother.”
    “Mom can’t even open her eyes!” she says. “She’s never going to.”
    “Of course she’s going to.