the inevitable, it seems, but haven’t yet signed the papers. So I remain hopeful, although my car accident last night did nothing but rip scabs off barely healed wounds.
I leave Mom to nurse those wounds and wait outside for Molly to pick me up for school. She arrives at eight in her VW Bug, and I jump in to escape the late-October chill.
“You don’t look any different,” she says when I slam the door shut.
“I didn’t get hurt,” I reply. “I told you last night, it was just a spinout.”
“I mean, you know, the list.”
Oh, God, the freaking Hottie List. “There was so much going on, I forgot about it.”
“You forgot?” Molly flips a honey-blond strand, making me notice that she’s not wearing her usual ponytail today, and …
“Do you have makeup on?” I ask her, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice.
She shrugs. “I figure we’ll get a lot more attention today than usual.”
I almost snort over that. “Because of that list?”
“Kenzie, don’t you get it? That list makes royalty out of ten junior girls every year and you are on it.” She can’t keep the awe out of her voice and I can’t say I blame her, but not because I am suddenly “royalty.” I’d known the list was coming out this week—every kid in Vienna High knew that. But I never, ever dreamed I’d be on it.
With dark-brown hair that always has an annoying wave despite the flatiron, blue eyes that rarely get much cosmetic attention, and unremarkable features, I’m not a girl who stops traffic. I can’t imagine how I ever landed on a list of the most attractive girls voted on by the entire male population of Vienna High.
“Oh, please. Royalty?” I scoff. “First of all, that list is obsolete, meaningless, and unbelievably immature, starting with the cringeworthy name of Hottie List. I mean, who even says that anymore?”
“They said it in the eighties when they started voting on the list.”
“Started, I’d bet my life, for no other purpose than sexualizing and stereotyping girls, not to mention getting them to do God knows what for votes.”
“I heard Chloe Batista gave blow jobs to the entire lacrosse team.”
I roll my eyes. “My point exactly.”
“And she only got second.”
“Must have given second-rate blow jobs,” I mutter, tucking my bag under the dash.
“Well, Olivia Thayne was kind of a shoo-in for first place, wouldn’t you say? I mean, she’s gorgeous.”
I try not to look south on Route 1 when we turn, relieved we’re going the other way and I won’t have to pass the scene of last night’s accident. “Whatever, Molly. It’s not like being on that list is something I can put on my college app.”
“No, but that list is still a ticket to a better life.”
I shoot her a look. “A better life, Moll?”
“Better than what we have now. You’re going to get to go to list parties, Kenzie. I’ve heard they’re so much fun and every cute guy from miles around goes to them. Don’t you want a boyfriend?”
“Not as much as I want to get into Columbia.”
“Still Columbia, Kenz?” She can’t hide her disappointment. Since middle school, we’ve talked about being roommates at Pitt, but that was before I was old enough to realize that the town of Vienna, where we live, is really a bedroom community of Pittsburgh. The university is less than forty-five minutes away—too close to Mom for me to breathe.
“Oh, I won’t get into Columbia.” I try for casual, but my voice cracks. Because I might get in. “Anyway, we have a year to worry about it.” I don’t want to hurt Molly by admitting just how badly I want to get as far, far away as possible from everything in Vienna. The only way I can justify that is if I get into an Ivy League—no ordinary college would be enough for Mom to let me move away—and live with relatives. My aunt Tina has already offered to let me live in New York with her, so Columbia is my ticket to freedom. Of course, there’s a fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year price tag on that ticket. “Don’t forget, I need a scholarship.”
“You could get one.”
I might be smart, but an academic ride to Columbia is next to impossible unless you’re National Merit, and I’m not. I don’t play sports, either. “I’d have a shot if I won the state and national Latin competitions. Then I might be able to get a classics scholarship, but you-know-who won’t even sign the form