Get Even English – Gretchen McNeil

Is that really what he thought of her? John sighed. “You know, there are better ways to piss off your dad than getting arrested, Butch Cassidy.” Bree seriously doubted that. “Your dad would probably freak the hell out if he knew you had a guy up in your room three days a week .

. .” John struck a laughably sexy pose, and tossed his hair out of his face like Fabio at a romance-novel cover shoot. “Without parental supervision.” Bree burst out laughing. John swung around onto all fours and crawled through the sea of lighting rigs toward her. “That’s right. I make you laugh with passion. We’re the hottest couple in school.” “Oh my God,” Bree managed, blurting out the words between heaves of laughter.

“No one thinks we’re a couple.” John stopped his gyrations. “No one thinks we’re a couple,” he repeated. He planted his boots on the floor and pushed himself to his feet. His face was drawn as he looked down at her. “Especially not you.” Without another word, he slipped through the curtains onto the stage. Bree sat there, staring at the empty space that John had vacated. “Shit,” Bree said to no one in particular. Was Mercury in fucking retrograde or something?

Her entire world seemed to be falling apart. What would be next: Earthquake? Meteoroid strike? Seven hours of religion homework? She wasn’t sure which she’d prefer. Maybe she should text John? But what would she say—sorry people don’t think of us as a couple, we’re still cool, right? Yeah, no. She felt as if a chasm had opened up between herself and her best friend, and she had no idea how to bridge it.

She sat on the cold concrete floor, her eyes searching the backstage wings as if an answer to her problem might magically appear amid the discarded light gels. Eventually, they landed on her ammo bag. The flap was open, and something was sticking out. Something flat and long and antique yellow in color. Manila envelope? Back the truck up. No way had Bree put that in her bag. The fine hairs stood up on the back of Bree’s neck.

She glared at it, no longer a mundane office supply but a harbinger of doom. Really, Bree? Ridiculous didn’t even begin to cover it.

courtesy of HarperCollins Publishers This is an advance reader’s e-proof made from digital files of the uncorrected proofs. Readers are reminded that changes may be made prior to publication, including to the type, design, layout, or content, that are not reflected in this e-proof, and that this e-pub may not reflect the final edition. Any material to be quoted or excerpted in a review should be checked against the final published edition. Dates, prices, and manufacturing details are subject to change or cancellation without notice. OceanofPDF.com UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE HarperCollins Publishers …………………………………………………………

[i: front sales TK] OceanofPDF.com UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE HarperCollins Publishers ………………………………………………………… OceanofPDF.com UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE HarperCollins Publishers ………………………………………………………… Dedication For Ginger Clark and Kristin Daly Rens, without whom there is no there there. OceanofPDF.com UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE HarperCollins Publishers ………………………………………………………… Epigraph Revenge should have no bounds. —SHAKESPEARE, HAMLET, ACT 4 OceanofPDF.com Contents Cover Disclaimer Title Dedication Epigraph One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty-one Twenty-two Twenty-three Twenty-four Twenty-five Twenty-six Twenty-seven Twenty-eight Twenty-nine Thirty Thirty-one Thirty-two Thirty-three Thirty-four Thirty-five Thirty-six Thirty-seven Thirty-eight Thirty-nine Forty Forty-one Forty-two Forty-three Forty-four Forty-five Forty-six Forty-seven Forty-eight Forty-nine Fifty Fifty-one Fifty-two Fifty-three Fifty-four Fifty-five Fifty-six Fifty-seven Fifty-eight About the Author Copyright About the Publisher OceanofPDF.com UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE HarperCollins Publishers …………………………………………………………

ONE BREE SAT BACK AGAINST THE CHAIN-LINK FENCE, BOUNCING her tennis racket lightly against the toe of her black Converse. “Why do we still have physical education in school?” John snatched the racket out of her hand. “It’s a political conspiracy to repress the youth of America through enforced humiliation.” A quartet of diligent tennis players trotted past Bree and John to the last empty court and began to hit the ball back and forth over the net with enthusiastic, if not particularly accurate, strokes.

They looked lame in their white skirts and sneakers, glistening in the fierce afternoon sun, as they bounced and swayed like Maria Sharapova in a Grand Slam final. “You’d think,” Bree said, pulling her knees up to her chin, “that a fancy prep school like Bishop DuMaine would have some kind of virtual phys ed. This is Silicon Valley. Shouldn’t we be high-tech?” A whistle blared from the other side of the courts. “Deringer! Baggott!” Coach Sampson pointed at them with her racket.

“This isn’t break time.” Bree scanned the occupied courts. “We’ve got next,” she shouted, accompanied by an overly enthusiastic thumbs-up.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

Book Information

• Unique ID: d4acc7687bbf3355
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 1,827,507 bytes (1.743 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• Pages: 304
• Language: English (en)

Reading & Word Statistics

• Estimated Reading Time: 427.48 minutes
• Total Words: 85,496
• Total Characters: 493,249
• Average Words per Page: 281.24
• Average Characters per Page: 1622.53

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