But nothing.
Three and a half weeks. Felt like forever, but it wasn’t. “I can’t wait,” I whispered, fighting back more tears.
“Me too. Hey, I have to go, my mom’s waving me over. I’ll text you later, okay?”
Two minutes later, my phone rang again. But it wasn’t Thom. It was my best friend, Caro.
A creepy, scary, slightly nausea-producing feeling slunk inside my stomach. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to Caro, especially now. Things had been a little weird between us the past couple of weeks, ever since Thom had announced he was moving.
I took a deep breath and answered the phone.
“Are you okay? Did he leave yet? I’ll totally come over to the stinky, gross farm if you’re not okay. And not even because Sam might be there.”
“I’m not okay,” I admitted, surprised by Caro’s sacrifice. “And Sam’s not working today.”
“I’ll be over in ten minutes with everyone,” she said, and hung up.
I sat down at the window seat that overlooked the pasture and the rise of hills where the herd was grazing. Caro Alexander, the reigning queen of Freeport Academy, was complicated. She hated the smell of the farm and would never hang out at my house if the very hot Sam Fray didn’t intern twice a week and come on Saturdays for no credit. Caro had gone as far as to buy cute Burberry rubber boots to change into for crossing from the parking lot to the house. (The dirt driveway was a mudfest and used by people and chickens and turkeys and ducks, plus the usual variety of cats and dogs, so there was animal poop everywhere.) But she was so grossed out by the sight of livestock that she only came over twice. That was how much she hated the farm. Still, I was surprised Caro didn’t show up more often in one of her skintight outfits and pink plaid Wellies just to be with Sam. She had given the farm a second chance, thinking she could feed a calf from a bottle and hook Sam the way I’d hooked Thom, but the calf had nudged her arm with its wet nose and she was grossed out permanently.
That she was coming over this early on a Sunday, when Sam wasn’t even here to flirt with, said a lot about our friendship.
Caro wanted Sam. They’d kissed, sort of hooked up a little at parties, but he always pulled away from her before crossing some kind of “okay, we’re together now” line, and never asked her out. She didn’t get it, since every other guy at school lusted after her. Caro Alexander was girl perfection, neither too tall nor too short, slender yet curvy, and a C-cup chest. Then there was the angelic face, the long, swirly light blond hair, the round blue eyes—so slightly and expertly made up you weren’t even sure she wore makeup—the glossy pink bow lips. Even male teachers stared at her before they caught themselves. She was without question stare-at-her beautiful. Hence voted Most Beautiful in the class poll since seventh grade.
“We’re here!” I heard Fergie call from downstairs.
“And we have fat-free frozen yogurt!” Annie added. Yes, that Annie, the funny one.
“With fat-free hot fudge,” Selena called up the stairs. “And Sprite Zero.”
My friends were great. They were here when I needed them. And boy, did I need them right now.
I opened my door and there they were, four girls who, two years before, I never thought would ever talk to me, let alone turn into my best friends. They were the Mosts of Freeport Academy. Caro Alexander, Most Beautiful. Fergie Ferragamo, Most Stylish. Annie Haywood, Most Hilarious (though sometimes I wanted to slap her). And Selena McFarland, Most Hot. And somehow I, Madeline Echols, had come out of nowhere to be named Most Popular last May in the freshman class polls. I was one of the Mosts. Though it wasn’t official until last spring, I’d been in the clique from practically the first day of my freshman year. Thanks to Thom.
The creepy feeling returned. Lately I’d been wondering if these girls would be my friends at all if it hadn’t been for Thom.
“You look so sad,” Fergie said, fake pouting and running over in high-heeled sandals to hug me.
Fergie, whose nickname—everyone called her Fergie except her family—came from her very apt last name, Ferragamo (no relation to the couture designer, though), narrowly won back Most Stylish last year. She had lost it the year before to some artsy girl named Alanna, who had broken both legs and had very stylish shirt-coordinated cast covers made for each week. Fergie had been campaigning for this year’s top prize since the school year had begun. She didn’t think her real name—Mary Margaret—was appropriate for a stylin’ girl, so she had ditched it the summer before seventh grade.
Fergie took her brush out of her huge purse and hogged the mirror on the inside of my closet door to brush her chic auburn hair, which was secretly wildly curly-frizzy like Elinor Espinoza’s, but had been Japanese-straightened and flat-ironed to perfection. Fergie had a killer bob, just past her chin, slightly A-line, which meant it was shorter in the back, and model-like bangs. Unlike me and Caro, Fergie was short, but she had a hot body. I was the only one of us who was practically flat-chested, but a trip to Victoria’s Secret fixed that—as much as it could, anyway.
“Anyone would be sad with the stink of this place,” Caro said, wrinkling her nose as she pulled something out of her leather messenger bag. She wore the pink plaid Wellies with supertight jeans tucked inside. “Guess what I did for you last night,” she said, handing me something wrapped in bright pink paper with a bow on top.
“What’s this?” I asked.
She smiled at me, those supposedly angelic blue eyes cool, though. I hated how she could manage that expression. “Open it,” she said, sitting down on my bed and crossing her long legs. She took off her fitted ice-blue cardigan to reveal a microfiber tank top. She looked amazing, as always.
Fergie, Annie, and Selena crowded around me at the window seat, across from my bed. I unwrapped the glossy pink paper to find the Freeport Academy freshman class yearbook. Uh, I had one of these already.
“Open it to the pages with the little pink Post-its,” Caro added.
I flipped to the first one. A pink Post-it arrow was on the page of kids whose last name began with A. The black-and-white photo of Reid Archer had a big red heart in marker around it. The next Post-it pointed to the same around James McNeil. There were six photos with giant hearts in total.
“I don’t get it,” Selena said, looking from me to Caro. She raked her hands through her long, shiny hair and made a quick braid, which fell apart in two seconds. Selena McFarland wasn’t known for her brains, but she had a good heart and a killer body.
But to her credit, I didn’t get it either. What were the hearts about?
“They’re not in order,” Caro said, as if that explained anything. “Reid’s only first because he’s alphabetical. But honestly, I’d go for James. He’s hot and will likely be captain of the lacrosse team next year.”
We all stared at her.
“Huh?” I said. “I thought you liked Sam.”
“I didn’t mean I’d go for James. I meant you should.”
“Me? Why would I go for James or any guy? Thom and I didn’t break up. He just spent a half hour telling me we were not breaking up, that we could do this long-distance thing.”
“Oh my god, that is so sweet,” Annie said, applying a shimmery pink gloss in the mirror of a compact. She turned her attention from the mirror to me. “Do you think he really meant it?”
I really didn’t like Annie. At all. But she was part of the group, and she mostly hung out with Selena—well, worshipped at her feet, really. Caro and Fergie and I were our own mini-clique within the group. Occasionally Annie made me laugh—and sent Selena and Fergie into hysterics—but there was always something snide and snarky to her humor. And of course I’d never quite forgiven her for the dis before I joined the group. She, like the other girls, had claimed to not even know I existed before I became one of them. Madeline Echols? That’s not even remotely familiar, they’d all said. And ours is a small school.
“I’m sure he did,” Fergie said. “Thom is madly in love with Madeline. They’ve been a
couple for two years.”
I smiled at her. “I’m sure he did too. I know he did. And we’re going to see each other in just three and a half weeks, when I fly out for my dad’s wedding. After that, he can fly in or I can fly out every couple of months or something.”
“Are you kidding? Airline tickets to California cost a fortune.” Annie giggled. “Oh, wait, Maddie will pay for her flight by selling eggs from her chicken coop and making her own stinky cheese.” Caro shot her a look that said, Uncool of you. So of course Annie stopped laughing instantly. “I just mean that flying costs a lot. My family didn’t even go to my uncle’s graduation from Stanford Law School because it was so expensive.”
Wait. This was making me feel better? This was cheering me up?
“Honey,” Caro said, looking at me. “What I’m trying to say by the gift I gave you”—she pointed at the yearbook open on my lap to James’s picture—“is that despite how much you like Thom, despite how much he likes you, you really do need to face cold, hard reality. He’s three thousand miles away. In California. Where every girl looks like we do. But in bikinis. I’m sure you two will keep it going as long as you can—maybe until your dad’s wedding. But honestly, you’re going to hook up with someone else and so is Thom. So I just circled the hottest guys to take his place.”
I let out a very deep sigh. No. Reality or not, Thom said we weren’t breaking up. I said we weren’t breaking up. We said we weren’t breaking up.
That was what mattered.
“No one’s taking Thom’s place,” I said to Caro. “I’m not even remotely interested in other guys.”
“This second, of course,” she said. “I mean, your boyfriend of two years just left. But tomorrow morning at Freeport Academy, you’re going to be considered single, Madeline. Guys are going to be asking you out. I’ve just done your weeding and vetting for you. If Reid asks you out before James, I’d stall him for a few days and wait for James.”
Fergie nodded and took the yearbook off my lap. She flipped through the pink-marked pages. “They are the other hottest guys in school. Besides Sam and Tate.”
“And Sam and Tate are totally off-limits,” Selena said. “Because Sam is Caro’s. And Tate is Fergie’s.”
Caro smiled. “That’s very kind of you, Selena. But he’s not mine yet.”
Selena moved over to the mirror and began checking out her stomach to make sure it was flat enough. “Matter of time,” she told Caro. “And it’s understood no one can go for him while you want him. I drool over him,” she said, thrusting out her 32D chest in her tight pink T-shirt. “But I’d never.”
“And I appreciate that,” Caro said coolly.
Caro liked Annie and Selena, even though she referred to them as fringe Mosts. Caro had once said, “I’m funny and hot and everything else. They’re just one thing.”
“Sam isn’t like other guys,” Caro said, moving from my bed to the mirror and basically pushing Fergie and Selena out of the way. “He’s not going to be attracted to just looks. But you’re right. No one goes for Sam until I’ve figured out how to get him.”
She didn’t look at me while making that announcement. But she didn’t have to. Everyone had noticed Sam watching me, staring at me, talking to me the past couple of weeks. I’d noticed for the past few months. Sam, with his sandy-blond hair and pale brown eyes, was very good-looking, very everything. And he was nice on top of it, in a way none of the other guys were. But ever since Thom had told us he was moving, I’d noticed Sam staring at me at lunch and at Yum’s, where we all often hung out after school. And at the farm, three times a week.
Caro had noticed immediately—which accounted for the weirdness between us. Unspoken, unacknowledged weirdness. I’d tried to ignore it, because it was so far-fetched. I was into Thom and only Thom. And I’d long thought of Sam as Caro’s. He’d never registered on my radar that way, even though he was amazingly cute. And nice. And easy to talk to. And always around, with something interesting to say.
Wait a minute. I glanced at Caro, at her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t look at me, just adjusted her perfect jeans in her perfect boots.
Interesting. Caro had braved the stinky farm, no Sam and all, ostensibly to comfort me, but really to make sure I understood something: Sam was hers to hook.
As I said, Caro Alexander was complicated. Which meant she had her nice moments, her not-nice moments, and a confusing mix of the two, when you couldn’t be sure if she was being nice or a total beyotch.
I would never forget the first time she talked to me, that very first day of ninth grade, when I’d walked into Freeport Academy hand in hand with Thom Geller. No one knew who I was. And so I was an overnight sensation, a new, cool It Girl who’d suddenly appeared in school like magic. Caro, in my homeroom, pointed at the chair next to hers when I walked in. And we left that class best friends. It sounds stupid, but it was true. We wrote notes back and forth all during homeroom, starting with So you’re with Thom Geller? He’s hot. Love your shoes.
And I wrote back that I was crazy about Thom and that I’d gotten the shoes in Rome, where I’d spent the summer (and where Caro had been twice), which led to more notes about how incredibly good-looking and romantic Italian boys were. Which led to who else I thought was cute at Freeport Academy. Good, we have totally different types, she wrote. You like dark-haired guys. I like blonds. Back then, she was going out with Andrew Auerman, who every girl lusted after and who later moved.
We walked out of homeroom together. Caro introduced me to Fergie and then Annie and Selena, and then all the other girls they deemed worthy—the other cheerleaders (Selena was one and so was Thom’s ex-girlfriend, Morgan, who’d dumped Thom for a hot junior)—and that was that. I was in. And not just in with the popular girls—in with everyone. Becoming Most Popular had a lot to do with what I’d learned in Rome—about fashion, about food, about style, about European flair, about walking with a certain confidence—and giving other girls advice and showing them what I knew. That eyeliner should be applied to the top lids only—not the bottom. That sheer lipsticks were better for day than heavy mattes. That just the right type of little scarf around your neck could style up a plain white T-shirt. And that boxy cuts, whether shirts or sweaters, were not your friends. I helped with bangs. With shoes. With talking to guys and seeming mysterious, which every girl wanted to be. I was the go-to girl for just about everything. And come May of last year, I’d been voted Most Popular.
That seemed to suit Caro. She was the queen of Freeport Academy, but everyone was intimidated by her. She didn’t expect to win Most Popular when most girls didn’t dare even look her in the eye. So our friendship worked just fine.
The thing about Caro was that I liked her. There was a side of her that was real and deep and honest and compassionate. And our friendship had deepened when Andrew had broken up with her. I’d never seen Caro Alexander at anything less than the top of her game. And suddenly, she was heartbroken.
She’d cried for three days straight. I spent hours with her in her room, bringing her low-fat frozen yogurt and tissues and just listening. She was so sad that she couldn’t summon any anger to do something vicious to Naomi Clark, Andrew’s new girlfriend. She just asked over and over again, Why her? And all the studying of semigothy Naomi revealed nothing but that she had very large breasts for a thirteen-year-old and a penchant for wearing black tights. Caro started changing into Miracle Bras at school. Andrew then dumped Naomi for her, but then redumped Caro. Since Caro considered Naomi to be much less attractive than she was, she finally decided that Andrew’s bad taste was such a turnoff that she got over him almost immediately.
Another thing Caro had done that I’d never forgotten: The day after Thom had asked me if we could be exclusive, Caro had had all the girls over to her house to celebrate. I still had the sparkly red lips keychain she’d given me as a present.
And there was the time Fergie’s mom had been in the hospital with something weird and scary (something about blood pl
atelets). For almost two weeks in ninth grade, Caro accompanied Fergie to visit her every day after school, sitting in the waiting room until Fergie came out of her mom’s room, usually crying. I was there too, but it was Caro who wrote me notes or texted me every day with hospital after school?
Caro was smart and funny and she was very generous when she wasn’t being mean. She’d opened her closet to me from day one. She knew all my secrets and was careful with them. Not that I had anything earth-shattering going on, but she knew everything and I never heard my secrets come out of Fergie’s or Annie’s or Selena’s mouths.
And she trusted me with her secrets.
Like that when Michael Fage, who she’d been totally in love with the year before, had told her he’d dump her unless she had sex with him, she’d dumped him. He then moved on to Naomi Clark, and Caro finally knew what Naomi’s secret was. Still, Caro cried her eyes out, and I was there with the tissues and the frozen yogurt again.
She’d been there for me. I’d been there for her.
But now what if she saw me as a threat?
Caro sat down on my bed. “Okay, so now that we’re settled on who Madeline will be going for, will someone get me a Diet Coke?”
“I will!” Annie said, practically running out of the room and down the stairs. Most Hilarious wasn’t a guy magnet the way the other Mosts were. Annie would do anything for Caro Alexander—to stay in the group.
I checked my cell phone to see if Thom had texted. He had. XXXXXXXX T. I smiled, then shivered when I thought about what Caro had said. Did I have to face cold, hard reality about long-distance relationships? Or was she just being the mean, bitchy Caro who wanted to make sure I didn’t go after the guy she wanted?
“You’re out,” Caro said with a sneer as she applied pinkish red lip gloss in the ornate silver mirror on the inside of her locker door.
“So out,” Fergie added, making a flicking motion at me with her fingers.
“Out, out, out,” Annie and Selena chanted, coming closer and closer. “We—and that means all of us—were only your friends because you were Thom’s girlfriend,” they said in unison. “You were a nobody before and you’re a nobody now.”
The Mosts Page 2
