She's So Money - Softcover

Cheva, Cherry

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0061288535 ISBN 13: 9780061288531

Verlag: HarperTeen, 2009

Inhaltsangabe

Who knew that getting in trouble could be so much fun?

Maya has always been the good girl. Camden is the popular jock with a bigger ego than brain. Maya never thought there'd be a reason for them to, like, interact. But when the biggest mistake of her life lands her in need of a seriously devious plan, she discovers Camden isn't as dumb as he looks. And now that Maya's playing the bad girl (lying, cheating, swindling, and, um, shopping), she might as well do it right and flirt with the bad boy. . . .

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Cherry Cheva (full name: Cherry Chevapravatdumrong) is the author of She's So Money. Cherry is originally from Ann Arbor, Michigan, and currently lives in Los Angeles, California, where she writes for the animated series Family Guy.

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Who knew that getting in trouble could be so much fun?

Maya has always been the good girl. Camden is the popular jock with a bigger ego than brain. Maya never thought there'd be a reason for them to, like, interact. But when the biggest mistake of her life lands her in need of a seriously devious plan, she discovers Camden isn't as dumb as he looks. And now that Maya's playing the bad girl (lying, cheating, swindling, and, um, shopping), she might as well do it right and flirt with the bad boy. . . .

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She's So Money

By Cherry Cheva

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Copyright © 2009 Cherry Cheva
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780061288531

Chapter One

"Maya! What are you doing?" my mom yelled in Thai from her usual spot up front by the cash register. "Table Five needs water! Clear Table Eight and ask if they want dessert! Your ponytail is falling out! I need the bill for Table Six!" She paused, then beckoned me over to her as she lowered her voice to a whisper. "Look at Table Fourteen. The man keeps wiping his fingers on his sock." I glanced toward one of the tables in the back corner, giggled briefly with my mom at the sight of one of our customers picking apart a chicken wing and then reaching for his ankle instead of his napkin, and then steeled myself to ask her if I could leave work at eight. Half of the kids in my Advanced Placement History class were at a study group session that my best friend, Sarah, was having at her house, and, like any self-respecting seventeen-year-old waitress whose first priority was school, I was desperate to get there for at least part of it.

"Mom?" I asked. She looked up from her accounting book, her ballpoint pen hovering as it paused halfway through scrawling a row of numbers. "Do you think it would be okay if—"

I didn't get to finish, because the phone rang and she turned to pick it up—"Good evening, Pailin Thai Cuisine"—just as a customer started frantically waving at me from across the room. The guy was sitting in my younger brother's section, but Nat had either gone to the kitchen or disappeared into thin air, so I went over and looked at the guy's glass. There were a few dregs of Thai iced coffee still left in it.

"Can I get a refill?" the guy asked.

Nope, I thought to myself. The last time my parents caught me giving free refills on specialty drinks, they yelled at me for half an hour about how I might as well give away entrées, silverware, our Pad Thai recipe, and my virginity.

Of course, I wasn't going to tell the guy that, so instead I smiled cheerfully and fed him the usual line. "I'm sorry, we don't do refills on iced coffee, but if you'd like to order another—"

"Oh, come on," he interrupted, staring up at me expectantly. "Be a pal."

On a day when I was in a good mood, an extremely cute boy might have had a fighting chance. But this guy was old, with a forehead that was more of a fivehead. Maybe even a sixhead, considering his receding hairline. I summoned up a soothing voice and said as nicely as I could, "I'm sorry. But if you want to order another—"

"Forget it," he snapped. "Two-fifty is overpriced anyway." He glared at me, then looked back down and dug into his half-eaten curried catfish as his wife gave me an embarrassed smile. I smiled back with an expression that I hoped said, "I understand," and not, "Your husband's a douche," then retreated to my own section by the front window. For a moment I stared blankly out through the gauzy white curtains into the darkness, where the late February snow was having trouble deciding whether to melt or refreeze. There were still some long-overdue-to-be-taken-down Christmas lights hanging on the little sidewalk tree in front of the crafts shop across the street, and I watched as a college professor type walked a small dog past our window, weaving in between some cars before disappearing around the corner. I spent a minute wishing I were outside; the restaurant gets so warm when it's crowded, and the chilly night air would have felt good on my face . . . until I remembered that I was still at work, and I snapped back to attention. A cute young couple with a baby was just finishing up at Table Two, and the mom was now beckoning me over.

Oooh, a chance to score a big tip—parents love it when you play with their kids. It wouldn't technically help my wallet, since everything Nat and I make goes straight into our college funds (also known as the Get as Far Away as Possible from Michigan fund, in my case). But a full tip jar might put my mom in a generous mood.

"Aren't you a cutie!" I cooed at the baby, gently tickling her round, pink-clad stomach and admiring her wispy blond curls. She laughed delightedly and clapped her hands. Then she vomited on the table.

You never saw a family leave a restaurant so fast.

Ten minutes later, the ickier-than-usual table cleanup finished and my hands stinging from a vigorous wash and rewash, I was just about ready to take another stab at asking my mom if I could leave early—maybe this time her gung ho attitude about me getting good grades would trump her dinner rush business instinct. I ducked my head through the swinging kitchen door to say hi to my dad, who could barely hear me over the sizzling seafood dish that he and our assistant chef, Krai, were making, not to mention that he could barely see me through his glasses, which were steamed up from the stove. Nonetheless, he waved cheerfully from underneath his ragged University of Michigan baseball cap, the wooden spoon in his battle-scarred cook's hand spattering a smidge of grease into the air from the motion.

Back in the dining room, my mom was on the phone, taking what sounded like a rather lengthy order. No problem. I could wait it out. She hung up the phone. It rang again. Argh.

"Hey," I said, poking Nat in the back as he returned from making the water rounds to our station behind the bar counter. "Quiz me on my history?" We could see the whole dining room from where we were standing, so as long as we kept an eye out while I was studying, we weren't technically slacking off.

"Eh," he said. His hands were wet from the water pitcher, so he dried them off on a stray napkin, then took off his glasses and lazily polished them on his shirt.

Continues...

Excerpted from She's So Moneyby Cherry Cheva Copyright © 2009 by Cherry Cheva. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: HarperTeen
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2009
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0061288535
• ISBN 13: 9780061288531
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 300
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Product Safety Manager; enquiries@harpercollins.ie; ; HarperCollins, Macken House, 39/40 Mayor Street Upper; Dublin 1; D01 C9W8; Irland