Proposal by Meg Cabot Read Free Book Online Page B

“Susannah, I would think our getting engaged would be good news, something everyone in your family would appreciate, and even celebrate. What is it that’s so upsetting you about my trying to propose?”
    â€œNothing,” I said, and grabbed my coat. “I told you. I just can’t deal with it right now. Did you find the address of the probably already dead boy?”
    He put the ring away and swiftly typed into his phone. For someone who despised modern technology, he was extremely good at using it. “No. It says their number and address is unlisted. These things are hopeless.”
    â€œNothing is hopeless,” I said. “You of all ­people should know that by now.” Then I flung open the door to my dorm room.
    I probably shouldn’t have been surprised that all six of my suite mates were crouched outside it.

 
    Siete
    â€œT HE F ARHATS ARE Persian,” said my suite mate Parisa. She was the one who was dating a guy in a motorcycle gang. If her parents found out, they’d kill her, she cheerfully informed us.
    â€œNot literally,” she explained to Jesse, who looked a little alarmed. “I’m Persian, too, you see. My mom wants me to find a nice medical student like you.” She batted her thick eyelash extensions at him. “And if I could find one as cute as you, I would. But he’d have to be Persian, of course.”
    â€œI’m Spanish,” Jesse said hastily. I think he was a little anxious about being surrounded by so many gorgeous women—­at least, I think they’re gorgeous. I know I am—­one of whom was Persian, and all of whom had overheard our argument in my room.
    He didn’t have anything to be concerned about, however. My girls had his back. And mine.
    â€œThat’s okay,” Parisa assured him. “With hair and eyebrows like that, you could pass.”
    â€œHe’s taken, Par,” I reminded her.
    â€œYeah, but maybe I could just borrow him to take home for the holidays,” Parisa purred. “My mom would be so happy.”
    â€œOr you could just quit dating a gangbanger who sexually abuses women, deals drugs, and traffics stolen goods,” suggested Valentina, the lesbian women’s studies major. “Or would that interfere with your plan to get back at your dad for not buying you that BMW you wanted for high school graduation?”
    Parisa smiled and shrugged her slinky shoulders. “It was a Porsche. And Ray’s not as bad as his friends. Besides, he’s got a really big”—­she glanced at Jesse, saw my warning glance, and smiled harder—­“ motorcycle .”
    Valentina rolled her eyes and poured herself another V and C. We’d all agreed this is the best cocktail, because it not only tastes good, but the cranberry juice allegedly helps ward off urinary tract infections.
    â€œGetting back to the subject at hand,” I said, with a cough. “You say the Farhats live over in Carmel?”
    â€œRight. There’s a really big Persian community there.” Parisa handed me the address on a piece of her Pomeranian puppy–shaped notepad paper. “Well, not as big as in Los Angeles, but, like, big enough.” She explained to Jesse, as if he were a child, “Most ­people think of carpets or kittens when they hear the word Persian, but we’re actually an ethnic group from north of the Persian Gulf.”
    Jesse smiled at her politely. “Yes, I know. Thank you for clarifying that, though.”
    â€œOh,” she gushed. “Not a problem.”
    I tapped her on the shoulder. “So do you know what the deal is with this Zack kid?”
    â€œYeah, totally. It’s Zakaria, not Zack. I mean, his Westernized name is Zack, but in Persian it’s Zakaria. His parents are friends with my parents, and I’ve been to their house a few times. That kid is so spoiled—­I mean, that’s true of a lot