Page 218 of The Billionaires

“But that’s too much money,” I say pleadingly.

She pulls the phone away when I try to grab at it. “He’s a billionaire. It might cost him more money to waste his time coming up with a new place to take you.”

Hmm. Does she have a point? I look it up on my phone and learn that some famous billionaires earn up to eight thousand dollars per minute, which, if true in Adrian’s case, would make Mom right. Maybe the cost of this dinner isn’t worth bugging him about. The suit might not have been either. Not that I will admit that to him.

The door slams shut downstairs, so we wait until Mary runs into the room, brimming with enthusiasm as always.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Mom says. “Did your dad feed you already?”

Despite looking like my ten-year-old clone, Mary is my half-sister and has a dad who has chosen to stay in her life, unlike the sperm donor who spawned me.

“We had salads,” Mary says. “I made sure he finished his.”

That’s Mary, the child who makes the adult eat his vegetables—and she does it with me and Mom as well.

“How was the interview?” Mary asks me.

I make a sad face.

“Oh, no,” she says. “But that library would’ve been perfect for you.”

“See?” I look at Mom pointedly. “That is what you were supposed to say.”

Mom bristles. “It’s not like they said you didn’t get the job.”

Mary narrows her eyes at me. “They didn’t reject you? Why do you think you didn’t get it?”

I explain how I was covered in mud, arrived late, and had to face an interviewer channeling Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada.

“But didn’t Anne Hathaway get the job in that movie?” Mary demands.

“She did,” I say sheepishly.

My sister spreads her arms in a “I rest my case” gesture.

Mom grins proudly. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: this kid will rule the world one day.”

The alarm on my phone beeps.

“That’s a reminder,” I say. “I have to get ready for the silly dinner.”

Mary looks from me to Mom and back again. “What dinner?”

“Jane has a date,” Mom says conspiratorially.

Mary makes a face. Though in most things she’s ten going on forty, she still thinks boys are yucky—and sometimes I wonder if she might just be wiser than Mom and me in that regard.

“Help me with her makeup?” Mom asks her.

My sister’s eyes light up. “A makeover?”

“No makeovers,” I say sternly. “But you can do a little makeup.”

“Sure,” Mom says and winks at Mary. “Just a little.”

Yeah. Sure. They’ll be satisfied with just a little—right after they also sell me the Verrazano Bridge.

CHAPTER 6

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