Free How to Teach Filthy Rich Girls by Zoey Dean

underneath. And here I was with girls so perfect on the surface and so nasty inside. The same could probably be said about Palm Beach itself. And it was all right in front of me.
    ―James? I changed my mind,‖ I told him. ―I‘m not coming home.‖
    ―Wait, what? What‘s going on?‖
    I explained my epiphany as I paced around the balcony, my mind flying with the possibilities of a Palm Beach–Baker twins exposé. ―It‘s the ultimate outsider-insider story. Who wouldn‘t publish it?‖
    It wasn‘t like the twins could throw me off the estate—only Laurel could do that, and she was currently en route to France, as the Skull had so haughtily put it. She‘d be there for another two weeks, which basically meant I was getting paid to be on an undercover assignment for fourteen glorious sun-filled days. Of course, I‘d have to leave as soon as she returned and it became immediately obvious that the twins were still brain-dead assholes, but until then . . . It was freaking genius.
    ―It‘s great,‖ James enthused. ―Seriously.‖
    Okay, so it wouldn‘t be eight weeks at fifteen hundred a week. And it definitely wouldn‘t be a seventy-five-thousand-dollar bonus for getting the twins in to Duke. But if I wrote a first-class, kick-ass insider piece on all things young and Palm Beach and secretly smarmy and corrupt— that could launch my writing career.
    I was sitting on a journalistic gold mine. Let the excavation begin.

    Choose the definition that most accurately matches the following word: GAY

    (a) a person who is sexually attracted to people of his or her own sex (b) the best friend to have in a fashion crisis
    (c) current de rigueur ―accessory‖ for talk-show hostesses and B-list actresses (d) safe arm candy at red-carpet events
    (e) all of the above

chapter eleven
    The next morning—despite my lack of both coffee and food (since I still had no clue how to ―summon Marco‖)—I awoke early and dressed in the second of my profoundly hideous Century 21 outfits on the off chance that the twins would come knocking on my door with pencils and calculators in hand.
    Ten o‘clock came and went with no sign of the girls, so I set off looking for them. I went down the hallway past the top of the spiral staircase, then followed the white corridor to the twins‘ wing. It wasn‘t hard to figure out whose door was whose. Each girl had her name spelled out in electric-pink neon tubing.
    Rose first, since she was marginally less detestable. When there was no answer to my knocks, I went in, taking mental notes. Her suite was gigantic, with rooms twice the size of mine. There was a bedroom with a balcony, a kitchen, a den, a dressing room, and a bathroom whose vanity held every cosmetic and beauty product known to humankind, and not manufactured by Angel Cosmetics. Everything was furnished in stark modern white. There were fresh white roses in a white vase on the nightstand, and white gardenias in the bathroom. I was struck by two strange—okay, kind of creepy—things in her den. There was a dollhouse that was an exact-scale model of her suite, right down to the tiny fake floral arrangements. Inside that dollhouse, two identical red-haired girls played jacks together on the den floor.
    When I tried Sage‘s suite, I found it similarly empty, identical in layout, but completely different in decor. Her king-size bed was swathed in leopard fabric. The safari theme carried through to her den, which had a working waterfall and a six-foot stuffed parrot on a perch. Her bathroom and dressing area were as well equipped as Rose‘s. I peeked into her clothes closet. Jesus. There was enough couture here to dress the state of New Hampshire.
    What could it possibly be like for this to be the norm? The reality? How did you look at the rest of the world when you‘d known nothing but this kind of excess?
    My next stop was their pool deck. Still no girls. I decided to go up to the main house.
    The white gravel of the path crunched