The Mosts Read online

  “Buh-bye,” Caro said in my face, and then she laughed and walked away, her hangers-on following single file after making that Fergie finger-flick at me.

  I bolted up. I was alone in my room, in my bed. I glanced at the glowing digital clock on my nightstand: 1:43 a.m.

  A dream. It had been just a very bad dream.

  My heart was booming so loudly in my chest I figured my mom would come running in at any minute. After I stopped hyperventilating, I lay back down and stared at the ceiling.

  That was some nightmare.

  And it had spooked me.

  Chapter 3

  “Um, Madeline?”

  I was face-deep in my locker, staring at a picture of Thom. According to his last text, he was heading to his new high school and hoping everyone would be great like at Freeport Academy. He didn’t have anything to worry about. A gorgeous, likeable athlete like Thom would have no problem fitting in.

  “Madeline? Can I … talk to you about something?”

  I knew that squeaky voice. Elinor Espinoza.

  I took one last look at Thom’s green eyes, at his dark hair falling over his forehead, at that delicious dimple in his left cheek. I said my usual silent prayer that he was thinking of me right then and not talking to some beautiful tanned girl in a string bikini at Santa Anita Academy. I was pretty sure all girls in California were both tanned and beautiful and got to wear bikini tops to school.

  With a sigh, I turned around. Yep, there was Elinor. Her frizz puffs popped sideways. She wore a bright orange collared shirt and tan corduroys, and her purple-framed eyeglasses were slightly crooked. The intensity in her face, her eyes, never seemed to match the way she looked or acted, except when she went manic on the monologues.

  “Um, Madeline, I just wanted to tell you I’m really sorry for yesterday. I honestly didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I just didn’t know what to do. I mean, you guys came in, and before I could even make my presence known, you were crying, and so I just figured I should stay out of sight.”

  I glanced at her. “It’s okay.”

  She smiled nervously at me. Then she just stood there.

  Elinor was one of the first girls I met when I moved to Maine. Mac had put up a request for four farm interns on the school bulletin board, and she’d responded right away—to me. She came home with me that day and I went to her house once. We didn’t click. But I was stuck sitting next to her in the few classes we had together, because of the E factor—Echols and Espinoza. She’d ramble on and on about things I didn’t care about, like how different milking procedures used to be at the turn of the last century. I mean, really.

  I had nothing else to say, so I turned back to my locker and hoped she’d go away. I got one more glimpse of Thom’s beyond-cute face, then grabbed my American history textbook and To Kill a Mockingbird and slid them into my metallic leather messenger bag. It was a gift from Caro—which meant she’d used it seven times and was sick of it.

  I heard an intake of breath. Elinor was staring down the hall, and the crowd parted for the coming of Caro and Fergie. Elinor seemed frozen in place, then darted away.

  Caro wrinkled her tiny nose in disgust as she approached me. “God, how do you stand having to talk to those people? I know you’ve got to do some campaigning for Most Popular, since the vote is only like six weeks away, but I would die if I had to talk to total losers like Frizz Puff.”

  “We all have to suffer for our crowns,” Fergie added, bending down to rub the back of her foot. There was a blister visible under the black leather strap of her three-inch slingbacks. “Ow, ow, ow.”

  “That Frizz Puff chick is definitely going on the Not list this year,” Caro said, pulling out her BlackBerry and making a notation. “Most in Need of an Extreme Makeover. Omigod, did you see her shoes? My aunt Daria used to wear those like thirty years ago. And those clown glasses? And come on, cords in May? It’s like she’s asking to be on the list. We’d be doing her a favor, really.”

  “She was on it last year,” I reminded Caro. Elinor Espinoza: Most in Need of an Extreme Makeover.

  As was my sister. Sabrina Echols: Most in Need.

  Sabrina, a year older than I am, made the list every year, which was why I exempted myself from voting when I became eligible (end of ninth grade). Each class had its own little inner circle that created the Not list, so it wasn’t like my friends put my sister on the list, but it was the principle.

  “So? Did she get one? No. Until she does, she’s top contender,” Caro said, swiping Fergie’s brush through her long blond hair. She hip-shook Fergie out of the mirror on the inside of my locker door.

  “Hey!” Fergie complained, but took out a compact and lipstick and refreshed her sparkly pink-red lips.

  “So you can’t even imagine what it would feel like to be on that list?” I asked Caro.

  She looked at me as if I were wearing a bad shirt. “No, I can’t. Because I’d never be on it. No one has to be. People choose to look the way they do.” She pointed her pale pink–tipped finger at Maya Blear, who was coming clearly uncomfortably down the hall, both emotionally and physically, her thighs audibly rubbing together. “She doesn’t have to be two hundred pounds. There’s something called a diet. She chooses to stuff her face with fries at lunch. Yesterday, I heard her ask for cheese on her fries! I eat carrot sticks for a reason. And what about this Fashion Don’t?” she added, upping her chin at Jen Mercer. “No one forced her to buy that ugly weird shirt. She could have chosen a nicer one. I’m sure Wal-Mart has better choices than that.”

  Fergie snickered.

  “I think it’s more complicated than you’re making it out to be,” I told Caro as we headed down the hall to the cafeteria. The crowds in the hallway parted for us, as always, something that had taken me months to get used to when I first became part of their group. There was the usual gushing of “Hi!” and “I love your shoes!” and “I hope you can make the party!” I was the only one of us who smiled back. Caro and Fergie ignored everyone. And that was what made them even cooler.

  “Yeah, we have choices,” I told Caro. “But a lot of stuff gets in the way.”

  “Yeah, if you’re a loser,” Caro countered. “Sam sprained his ankle really bad and still finished the game last weekend—and won it for us. He made a good choice. It’s all about choice.”

  The guy himself, his sandy-blond hair under a Red Sox cap, arrived at the cafeteria from the other direction at the same time we did. His best friends, CJ—who everyone called Ceej—Tate, and Harry, were with him. The crowds parted for them, too. They were all good-looking and junior varsity captains of everything at Freeport Academy. Sam was actually nice. Ceej was okay, but Tate (Most Buff) and Harry (Most Hilarious) could be total jerks. Either Sam or Thom always won Most Beautiful and Most Popular. But they didn’t seem to care about the labels, not the way my friends and I did.

  Sam smiled. He had the warmest eyes, and they twinkled. His gaze lingered on me.

  Caro positioned herself in front of me and linked arms with him. “Lead the way,” she told him. If he led the way to a utility closet and stuck his hands up her top, then went back to the caf and ate a hamburger as though nothing had happened, that would be fine with her.

  I had to admit—if I weren’t crazy about Thom, who was still my boyfriend, three thousand miles away or not, I would be totally into Sam Fray. For all the reasons Caro liked him and more. He was different from most guys. He really was nice. Once, when Mac had sprained his wrist, Sam had stayed all day on a gorgeous Saturday just to help Mac and my mom usher the cows into pasture, when he could have joined all of us at the Coffee Connection before heading to the beach.

  A few days ago, while my mother had gone on and on during breakfast about the cost of protein to add to the cow feed this year, I’d thought about how wrong it was that a nice, gorgeous guy like Sam would never have a girlfriend at Freeport Academy while Caro wanted him.

  That was power.

  “So, have you heard from Thom?” Sam as
ked when he returned to our lunch table with his tray. His friends slid in beside him. As always, girls on one side, boys on the other. Caro liked it set up that way so that she could be on display. She wore a pale pink tank top that accentuated her breasts, her tan, and everything else about her perfect body.

  “Like a hundred times since he left yesterday,” I said, smiling. My phone vibrated. “And I think he just texted me.”

  I pulled out my phone. You’re probably at lunch. Say hi to everyone. I miss you. T

  “Thom says hi,” I said, grinning and holding up the phone.

  Fergie added exactly two tablespoons of dressing to her spinach salad. “You guys should still be on the ballot for Class Couple. I’m going to talk to the principal about that.”

  Caro tossed her long blond hair behind her shoulder. “You totally should. I mean, they’re still a couple. Right, Sam?”

  Oh, so now we were still a couple? Or was that only for Sam’s ears?

  Sam glanced at me and shook salt on his fries. He offered a half-smile nod that seemed to say I want to ask you out but I’m not sure if that’s cool and that sucks.

  “James, Reid, come sit,” Caro called out, waving over the two guys as they approached our table with their trays. They sometimes sat with us, but usually sat at the table behind ours with the sophomore cheerleaders because there was no room at our table. “Guys, you can squeeze in next to Madeline. She totally needs company now that Thom’s gone.”

  Beyotch. I shot her a look, but her attention was on James and Reid.

  I glanced up at James’s cute face. He was very sought-after. Blond, the way Caro liked. But he didn’t do anything for me. And the year before, I’d overheard him and another guy say some really mean stuff about a girl in my history class. And Reid was sort of vulgar, always telling farting jokes. No thanks.

  James smiled, his gaze traveling down to my chest. Then he sat down on my left and hit my pinky with his tray. Smooth. He started going on and on about the past week’s varsity baseball game, which his brother won for Freeport Academy. Caro shot me a look to listen. And care.

  But I didn’t. Not in the slightest. And when James’s thigh brushed against mine, I moved just enough.

  My cell vibrated again. A text from my mother.

  Dad’s invite here! XO Mom

  This was almost as good as seeing Thom’s name on the display. The invitation to my father’s wedding had finally arrived. I’d been hounding my mother for a week about whether it had come. At first my father hadn’t been sure if he and his fiancée were going to have a wedding or just do a quickie thing on the beach with a Buddhist minister and then jet off to Las Vegas for a honeymoon. But then he’d said his fiancée did want a wedding with family, which meant my sister and I were invited. Which meant I was definitely, officially going to California!

  I texted Thom: Start looking for a tux! Just got the invite to Dad’s wedding! xoxo M

  “Oh, look, Madeline, there’s your little friend,” Caro whispered to me. “You can’t tell me she’s not the front-runner for Most in Need of an Extreme Makeover. Her hair alone nominates her.” The whispering was for Sam’s benefit, since Sam didn’t participate in that kind of ragging on people. A few times, he’d gotten up and walked away, and Caro had caught on quickly.

  I looked at Elinor Espinoza. She always walked with her head down, like she was ashamed to look anyone in the eye, so she often tripped—and just did. Something from Elinor’s tray went flying and landed on the floor, and I could see that Elinor’s face was bright red under all that hair. She was fighting back tears, I realized. She just stood there; then she turned and went running, sloshing around what was left on her tray.

  Caro laughed. “Oh, she’s totally taking Most in Need. Forget Makeover. She’s beyond that.” Out came the BlackBerry.

  Mean. Mean. Mean. Another reason I couldn’t wait for my dad’s wedding was that I’d get away from Freeport, away from Maine, away from Caro.

  I glanced up and caught Sam looking at me. Caro, spearing spinach leaves, had that slightly tight expression she got when she was about to rag on something—or someone. She didn’t, though; she just stabbed a cherry tomato and bit into it. Slowly.

  Forget it, I thought. You are going to California in three and a half weeks! And maybe, I let myself think, maybe you’re not coming back.

  My cell vibrated with another text from Thom. Wish you were here. XXXX T

  I wished I were there too. And maybe I could be there.

  I could live with my dad.

  Twenty minutes from Thom’s new house. And Thom was going to a private school that I could enroll in.

  I’d been thinking about it for the past two weeks. At first, it had just been a little daydream, a fantasy. But the more I thought about being without Thom, and the weirder things between me and Caro grew, the more moving in with my dad and his new wife-to-be sounded … perfect.

  Right. Leave my mom and sister. Leave Mac, my stepdad, who was more a father to me than my own father.

  Leave Caro and Fergie and Annie and Selena. Lately? In a heartbeat.

  Chapter 4

  I hadn’t told anyone about my big plan, the one I couldn’t stop thinking about. The one that felt more right by the minute.

  How could I? Um, Mom, when you’re done with the afternoon milking, I need to let you know I’m thinking of moving in with Dad. Permanently.

  I loved my mom, and Mac was a really nice guy. He was one of those perfect stepfathers, the kind who never tried to tell you what to do, but always had really good advice. Plus he was nuts about my mom, and my mom was kind of nuts, a cross between a hippie and a farm girl. She was really into the earth and recycling and being green. Mac was the same. I had seen him cry at least ten times over losing a calf or selling some livestock. They both got really attached to the animals.

  But I wasn’t meant for farm life. I hated everything about it, from the sight of tractors to the smell of poop to the mind-numbing roosters crowing at daybreak.

  I belonged in California. I knew that for a fact. And if I lived with my dad, we could get back how things used to be between us. When he and my mom were still married, we were really close. Not that he was around much, which was one of the reasons my parents divorced. But when he was, he’d make these huge messy meals for me and Sabrina, like sloppy joes and french fries and banana splits, and when Sabrina would go off to study, I’d stay and talk to my dad about stuff, like feeling invisible, and not understanding algebra, and being incredibly annoyed by Sabrina. He’d listen and give funny advice and make me feel heard. But ever since he’d moved to California and found Tiffany, his soon-to-be third wife, it was like he focused on her and forgot about me and Sabrina (not that he and Sabrina were ever very close).

  With my mom and Mac, it was different. They listened—and I totally gave them credit for it—but they didn’t understand me at all. After I came home from visiting my aunt in Rome, I heard them talking in their bedroom late at night, and my mom was saying something like “I think it’s so cute that Madeline is such a sophisticate. She’s really her own person and marches to her own drummer.” In other words, I was normal.

  I didn’t really fit into my family. They were the weirdos, with their thigh-high forest green rubber boots and dinner-length discussions about how cows had four stomachs. To them, I was the freak in the three-inch-high sandals who preferred to read Lucky magazine instead of Livestock Daily.

  My dad? Totally normal. A California architect with a BMW, an iPhone, and a gym membership. Living with him, enrolling in Thom’s school, living the life I wanted seemed so doable. Except for the part about my mom and Mac and even Sabrina being three thousand miles away.

  I wished I could talk to my sister about this, but I couldn’t. Sabrina would call me a traitor. Stop idolizing Dad, she always snapped at me. Look where it got Mom and Deirdre. Deirdre was his second wife, and though the word “homewrecker” was thrown around a lot right after my dad moved into her condo when we lived
in the suburbs of New York City, she was really nice. It had been mostly Sabrina who’d used the word “homewrecker.”

  When I got home from school, Sabrina was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a fish taco and reading a book on animal husbandry. You’d think living on the farm would be enough, but no, Sabrina liked to read up on the care and feeding of livestock in her nonworking hours. She was sporting her trademark look: a bandana around her head (and not in a retro way), baggy overalls (she had them in four different washes), and brown clogs. No makeup. She didn’t even use gel or mousse in her short hair. She just got out of the shower and put on the farmer outfit, and she was ready. She could be cute, if she tried. But she honestly didn’t seem to care.

  The way she dressed wasn’t the main reason she made the Not list every year; it was that combined with the handmade signs she liked to wear around her neck or write on her T-shirts with marker, such as Cows are people too. There were a lot of things wrong with that, but the biggest one was that cows weren’t people.

  She also had a nervous habit of saying weird things when she was uncomfortable. If a popular girl said, “Excuse me,” because, say, Sabrina was blocking the path to the water fountain, Sabrina would get all flustered and blurt out something like “Did you know that cows have four stomachs?”

  So people looked at her like she was a total weirdo, then walked away. Except for the people just like her, and believe it or not, there were a few. Sabrina had a best friend and two other girls she hung around with.

  A dollop of salsa landed on the page of her book, but she didn’t seem to notice, because she was staring out the bay window at the bare-chested hotness of Sam. Crushes on cute guys were definitely something that all girls had in common. But then I saw she wasn’t staring at Sam, but at Joe, a junior farm intern who was so gawky it was a wonder the hay bale he was carrying didn’t send him flying over backward. I’d never heard Joe speak, but then again, I didn’t spend much time on the farm.