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The Social Climber

Amanda Pellegrino
Chapters (34)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. Dedication
  4. About the Author
  5. Quote
  6. Part One
  7. ONE
  8. TWO
  9. THREE
  10. FOUR
  11. FIVE
  12. SIX
  13. SEVEN
  14. EIGHT
  15. NINE
  16. TEN
  17. ELEVEN
  18. Part Two
  19. TWELVE
  20. THIRTEEN
  21. FOURTEEN
  22. FIFTEEN
  23. SIXTEEN
  24. SEVENTEEN
  25. EIGHTEEN
  26. NINETEEN
  27. Part Three
  28. TWENTY
  29. TWENTY-ONE
  30. TWENTY-TWO
  31. TWENTY-THREE
  32. TWENTY-FOUR
  33. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  34. Booklist

Cover

Cover image

Praise

Praise for Smile and Look Pretty

“Readers will cheer Pellegrino’s shattering of the glass ceiling in this fast-paced, millennial-centric, you-go-girl novel about workplace empowerment.”

—Library Journal, starred review

“Smile and Look Pretty is 9 to 5 for the Instagram generation—a darkly funny and bitingly modern tale of friends banding together to stand up for what’s right. As a former assistant myself, I couldn’t stop nodding with recognition and cheering on its richly drawn cast.”

—Andrea Bartz, bestselling author of The Herd

“A sharp, funny, and incredibly relevant tale of young women taking their power back—a 9 to 5 for the digital age.”

—Susan Fowler, author of Whistleblower

“Smile and Look Pretty is a timely, page-turning battle cry that will make you want to call your friends and change the world. Bad bosses, prepare to quake in your boots.”

—Laura Hankin, author of Happy & You Know It

Dedication

For mom and dad.

About the Author

Amanda Pellegrino is a TV writer and novelist living in New York City whose writing has appeared in Refinery29 and Bustle. She is the author of Smile and Look Pretty, and The Social Climber is her sophomore novel.

Twitter: @AmandaPellss

Instragram: @AmandaGPellegrino

Quote

The most unsettling thing about a gunshot in the woods isn’t the echo, the metallic ping that reverberates through the spines of trees and leaves, but rather the peaceful silence that follows.

Part One

PART ONE

ONE

I force my eyes open and lie back onto a thin, sweat-stained towel, which has fallen, in inconvenient heaps, atop a thick sweat-stained mat. The time between the final vinyasa and the bong of the culturally appropriated bell by a white woman named Feather is always my least favorite part of the class. It’s when you’re meant to lie still, silent, attempting to empty your mind and focus on breathing in the dense air, thick with privilege and millennial body odor. It makes me feel sick. I refuse to be the first to leave so I lie in wait, falling into a sort of sleep paralysis, sweat worming down my neck, my eyes twitching with each unused moment as the to-do list in my head spins like a whirlpool, forever sucking me back in until I inevitably drown.

I truly hate yoga.