Most Likely (Most Likely #1) - Sarah Watson Page 0,73

Ava loved it. Griselda moods. Somehow the name made it sound so much more dignified. And so much less terrifying.

By the time she was done with the book, Ava was sure of two things: (1) Their history teacher had never taught them any of the really important stuff, and (2) it was an absolute shame that the world was a raging ball of sexism at the time, because Eleanor Roosevelt would have been one hell of a president.

Ava flipped to the front of the book and reread CJ’s inscription. A little inspiration in case you ever decide to run for president.

She closed the book and shook Jordan and CJ awake. “We’re here.”

Martha wasn’t exactly jealous that her friends were in California without her. It’s not like they were there for a rocking good time or anything. Still, she wished she was with them. She’d thought about trying to buy a ticket. She’d even looked at flights. The cheapest one was almost four hundred dollars. She wouldn’t even let her brain calculate how many hours she’d have to work at the movie theater to pay for that.

So instead of accompanying her friends on an emotional journey that they would no doubt remember for the rest of their lives, Martha boarded the smelly city bus that would take her as close to her mom’s house as she could get with public transportation. Her mom still hadn’t given her the financial aid form. Her dad’s had been a mess, but at least he’d done it. Her mom, on the other hand, had given her nothing but excuses. Martha decided that the only way she was going to get it was to show up and stand there while her mom filled it out.

The bus ride was long and Martha picked at her nail polish, letting it fall to the floor in little flakes. Her mom was waiting for her on the sidewalk when the bus dropped her off.

“It’s freezing,” Martha said as she came down the bus steps. “You could have waited in the car.”

Martha wished her mom had waited in the car. She wanted to be mad. It was easier to be mad when her mom didn’t do kind things.

“It’s good to see you.” They stood there awkwardly for a second, and Martha wondered if maybe they should hug, but the moment passed. “Come on. The car is this way.”

Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the poorly shoveled driveway of the house. Martha’s mom told her, with some level of amusement, that the twins had done the job for twenty bucks apiece and wasn’t that adorable?

“Adorable,” Martha said. It was more than twice her hourly wage. The house was obnoxiously warm and smelled like cinnamon. Her mom offered her tea, and Martha said okay even though she didn’t really like tea all that much.

“So,” her mom said as she set the kettle on the stove, “how’s your dad?”

“He’s good. He’s on a much more normal work schedule.”

“Good for him.”

Martha shifted on the Pottery Barn stool and drummed her fingers against the marble countertop. “I need those forms, Mom. The financial aid ones.”

Her mom sighed. “I know. We’re working on it.”

“Mom. I really need them. Like now. Like two weeks ago, actually. But I’ll settle for now.”

Her mom grabbed two tea bags from the cupboard and dropped them into matching mugs. “Roger is the one with the information, and I can’t make him move any faster.”

“Well, can I talk to him, then?” Martha never knew if she should call him Roger or Mr. Russell. She got around the whole thing by only ever referring to him as a pronoun.

“I’ve spoken with him, Martha. He’s working on it.”

Martha kicked her feet into the white baseboards of the counter. It would leave scuff marks and drive her mom crazy. She didn’t care. Or maybe she did care and that’s why she was doing it.

When the teakettle whistled, her mom poured hot water into their mugs and set a timer for two minutes. It was a tea timer. A small silver device with only one purpose in the world. To properly time tea. It made Martha almost as irate as the poorly shoveled front driveway.

“Mom. If I don’t get those forms—”

“You will get the forms. It’s complicated.”

“Why is it complicated?”

Her mom set the kettle back on the stove with a bit too much force. “It’s adult stuff. Not your problem to worry about.” She sat on the stool next to Martha. “Now. Tell me what’s going on