Twisted Sisters Read Online Free Page A

it.” With a hand trembling
     so profoundly that her bracelets clatter, Dina extends a shaky finger and pulls up
     her Facebook account. I instruct her, “On the count of five, Dina. This is what we’ve
     been working toward. Let’s go. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.”
    Everyone gathers around to watch Dina finally, blessedly, delete her (frigging) Facebook
     account. The crew can’t help but let out a rousing cheer.
    “You did it, Dina!”
    I’m so overcome with pride that I hug her to me. Wow. Those are like a couple of kettlebells
     in there. So not a surgical selling point. Is that what happens when you cheap out
     on the augmentation? They get hard? Wouldn’t they hurt? Like, all the time? Would
     I even be able to sleep on my stomach? And how would I run any kind of distance with
     them? I’d need three bras! Plus, for all of Sebastian’s enthusiasm, I can’t imagine
     he’d appreciate a handful of concrete. Besides, what I have going on is far better
     than Geri and her ridiculous rack. She claims they’re homegrown, but she was flat
     when I left for my doctorate and stacked when I came home. And everyone else in the
     family is small to mid-busted, save for Great-Aunt Helen and her uniboob. I mean,
     Geri’s already proved herself a liar with the nut business and—ahem, Dina.
    Focus, self, focus.
    I ask, “Tell me what feeling you have now that you’re rid of that temptation.”
    Dina lifts her head, and it’s almost like she’s taking in the scenery for the first
     time. The sun, the lake, the after-work crowd, released from long days in the office
     and confining business garb, filtering onto the walking path. Then she shows me the
     brightest smile in all of New Jersey.
    “I feel . . . free. I feel like I can breathe again for the first time in a very long
     while.”
    Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta.
    A few more days like this and I’ll have the confidence to turn her over to the makeover
     team. I find once I figure out our pushee’s insides, working on the outside is pure
     gravy.
    Before Dina can further express her joy, a Lycra-clad biker whizzes perilously close
     to us, causing the production assistant to drop my beverage, which splashes all over
     Dina’s leggings.
    “Yo!
Yo!
Yeah, I’m talking to you, you frigging Lance Armstrong wannabe.
This
is the walking path.” She gestures with talon-tipped fingers. “
That
is the bike path. Follow me here—walkers go on walking path, bikers go on bike path.
     But maybe they need to post a big, frigging sign that says ‘Bikes
and
Douche Bags,’ so you understand that this means you ride there. Oh, you’re riding
     away from me? Really? Big man! Get your narrow ass back here, ya frigging pussy!”
    Two points to make here:
    This is likely not the episode to earn me a spot on my parents’ mantel.
    Also, I may need to touch upon anger-management skills before sending Dina back to
     Perth Amboy.

CHAPTER TWO
    Boat Drinks
    “Is this seat taken, Reagan Bishop?”
    A figure hovers over me. I can’t see her face because the sun’s to her back, but I
     can easily discern her voice, especially because of her bizarre penchant for saying
     my first and last name together all the time. Who does that?
    I crane my head around, as though to indicate the plethora of empty chairs on this
     side of the pool that she may not have noticed. Since we’re here in Hawaii, the majority
     of people at the resort prefer to catch rays rather than huddle on the side of the
     pool in shadows. But I pride myself on never once having had a sunburn, which is why
     my skin’s still the color of freshly poured cream. (Or, if Geri’s to be believed—which
     she is not—Elmer’s Glue.) Even when I was at the beach all the time with Boyd years
     ago, I was careful. With my umbrella and sun hats and towel fortresses, Boyd would
     laugh about how no one would ever guess I lived in Malibu.
    I glance uneasily at the chair next to