52 Reasons to Hate My Father has 4, ratings and reviews. Djezelle said: Те из вас, кто уже какое-то время интересуются моими отзывами, знают. Editorial Reviews. From School Library Journal. Gr 7 Up-Lexington Larabee has grown up 52 Reasons to Hate My Father by [Brody, Jessica]. Being America's favorite heiress is a dirty job but someone's gotta do it, in 52 Reasons to Hate My Father. Lexington Larrabee has never had to work a day.
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Being America's favorite heiress is a dirty job but someone's gotta do it. Lexington Larrabee has never had to work a day in her life. After all, she's the heiress to. 52 Reasons to Hate My Father - Free download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online for free. Being America's favorite heiress is a dirty job but. And although she might have fifty-two reasons to hate her father, she only needs one reason to love him. Download 52 Reasons to Hate My Father pdf.
To withdraw your consent, see Your Choices. It looks like crap. Being America's favorite heiress is a dirty job Alex Foreman. The driver nods and I feel the long black car yank into an abrupt U-turn that almost makes me lose the contents of my stomach.
Brody graduated from Sm We want your feedback! Click here. Being America's favorite heiress is a dirty job Publication Details Publisher: Jessica Brody Author Jessica Brody knew from a young age that she wanted to be a writer.
In Jessica Brody's hilarious "comedy of heiress" about family, forgiveness, good intentions, and best of all, second chances, Lexi learns that love can be unconditional, money can be immaterial, and regardless of age, everyone needs a little saving.
And although she might have fifty-two reasons to hate her father, she only needs one reason to love him. My father is going to kill me. Actually, on second thought, he probably doesn't have time to kill me. But he is going to send someone to do it for him.
He's really good at that. Sending people Being America's favorite heiress is a dirty job Well, until you screw up again.
Until you do something like this. Im convinced my father has spies working all over the world. Theyve infiltrated national and foreign governments, theyve weaseled their way into law enforcement offices, theyve set up shop inthe streets.
Theyre like elves.
Santas helpers. Magically stealing through the night, doing his bidding, protecting the company name. The family name. Because really, theres no other explanation for how fast things happen. How quickly theyre able to get to the site of the disturbance. Like tonight, for instance. My father has people on the scene even before all the emergency vehicles have arrived.
Dressed smartly in their dark suits and designer shoes, even though its three oclock in the morning. As if they simply go to bed that way.
Magic elves, I tell you. Although following that analogy would mean my father would have to be Santa Claus. And trust me, besides the part about being elusive, never seen, and only staying in your living room for a total of two minutes before disappearing into the night, hes definitely no Santa Claus. The first thing they do when they arrive is tell me not to speak.
Then Im ushered away from the limelight and flashes of paparazzi bulbs and hastily stowed inside a black limousine with windows. Theres a woman seated across from me. She speaks with a diluted French accent, expertly fielding a flutter of phone calls and e-mails with a cell phone in each hand.
She pauses her current conversation long enough to assure me that everything is being taken care of. But I dont need to be assured. Everything is always taken care of. When my fathers name is involved, charges are mysteriously dropped, lawsuits are inexplicably settled out of court, and angry business owners threatening revenge are suddenly sending Christmas cards with photos of their family on a two-week cruise in the Greek Isles. Im never quite sure how its done but you can be sure money changes hands.
Lots and lots of money. Probably in the form of large, unmarked bills. Contracts are most likely signed, threats are almost certainly made, and secrets are most definitely leveraged.
Its the mafia without the strip clubs and the cheap New York accents. Its no wonder that my father has entire law offices working exclusively for him. Through the tinted glass I can just make out the arrival of two more news vans.
The woman sitting across from me notices them too and hurriedly presses a single button on one of her phones before bringing it to her ear. Are we clear? Theres a moment of silence as she waits for a response. Tell them she has no comment. And then into the other phone, Good, were leaving. With a chilling sharpness, she clicks off both phones, taps on the.
The woman is already on another call before weve even pulled away from the curb.
Whats the situation at the Nest? I can make out a hint of a grimace on her tightly pulled face, and without saying another word, she turns on the flat screen and flips to CNN.
My vision is cloudy and my memory is still a bit fuzzy from the accident but I eventually recognize the street corner that the breaking news reporter is standing on. Its the same one we just left. And the demolished convenience store behind her still has my car parked smack-dab in the center aisle, next to the aspirin.
Should have grabbed one of those before I left, I think to myself. My head feels like its being pounded by a jackhammer. I collapse back against the seat with my hand covering my eyes. Change of plans, I hear the French woman tell the driver after lowering the glass half an inch. Were going to the Landing Pad. The driver nods and I feel the long black car yank into an abrupt U-turn that almost makes me lose the contents of my stomach.
Not that theres much in there to lose. Except vodka. Lots and lots of vodka. With maybe a few drops of water from the ice. I protest, struggling to sit upright. Why are we going there? None of my stuff is there.
I want to go home! But then I catch sight of the TV again and the answer is suddenly very clear to me.