7 Clues to Winning You

by Kristin Walker

  Many thanks go to my family for encouraging me, to my editor for guiding me, and to my agent for believing in me. I wouldn’t have this book without any of you.

  Seven Clues to Winning You

  RAZORBILL

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group

  345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi — 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Mairangi Bay, Auckland 1311, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © 2012 Kristin Walker

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-101-56183-6

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available

  Printed in the United States of America

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  For Mom and Dad

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  CHAPTER 1

  THE PROBLEM WITH SOME OF THE STEAMIEST romances in Shakespeare is that everyone ends up dead. I never saw the point of going through all that anguish and passion and sneaking around just to end up with a pile of corpses. It didn’t seem right. So whenever my dad picked Romeo and Juliet for one of our family Shakespeare readings when I was a little kid, I always changed the ending so Juliet woke up in time. It drove Dad nuts, but I just couldn’t help it. I’m a girl who likes happy endings.

  Family Shakespeare readings were just one of the by-products of having an English teacher for a father. I’m pretty sure I was the only eight-year-old who could recite Sonnet 29. That was years ago, though, long before Dad got promoted to principal of Ash Grove High School, over in the next school district. I wasn’t too thrilled that he was the principal of our rival school, but at least he wasn’t principal here at Meriton. Can you imagine how horrifying that would be? Talk about a tragedy.

  But like I said, I’m a firm believer in happy endings. I wanted my own happily ever after, but I wasn’t about to leave it up to chance. I had everything planned out, step by step. I’d graduate from Meriton High in the top of my class, get into Bryn Mawr (majoring in literature with a minor in classics), and marry a man from Haverford. My wedding dress would be a strapless ivory silk-satin ball gown with a beaded shrug and birdcage veil, the reception would be held in the Rittenhouse Hotel in early June, and we’d live in Swarthmore: north of Yale Road, but east of Chester. I’d get my master’s degree in education and then teach at Swarthmore College, getting tenure in record time, while my husband commuted to the city for his upper-level corporate job.

  We’d enjoy cozy holidays snug in our warm restored historic house. We’d host engaging dinner parties with the university elite. I’d do charity work with underprivileged orphans. We’d be blessed with four darling children of our own (boy–boy–twin girls … but of course I would be happy no matter what we got) who would go to the finest private schools (my husband would come from old Philadelphia money, of course). There would be flowers in the garden, stars at night, and undying love from my handsome husband. We would live happily ever after.

  Everything was right on track by the last half of my junior year at Meriton. I was getting top marks in my honors classes and had an impressive list of extracurricular activities that would demonstrate well roundedness on my college applications. I was also well liked and well dressed. In fact, it was just as I was swapping out my winter wardrobe for spring when things in my plan started to slip a little sideways.

  “Blythe?” Dad called up to me from downstairs. “Can you come down for a minute?”

  “Be right there!” I shouted. I stood in front of my closet, satisfied. “Perfect.” My wardrobe was the last stop on my room organization blitz for spring. “Oops, hold up …” I reached in and plucked a pale aquamarine cami from the line of hangers and moved it to the other side of the nearly identically colored tank top next to it. “Now it’s perfect.” I trailed my fingers down the line of garments precisely organized by color. Spring clothes. Lovely, bright spring clothes. Gauzy chiffons and crisp linens. Pinks and yellows, prints and polka dots. I was so glad to be finished with my heavy winter wardrobe for the year. If I’d had to wear another ribbed cable-neck sweater, I was going to drop dead from asphyxiation. It was time to break out the cap sleeves and capris. Okay, sure, maybe it was only early March, but it was the beginning of spring break, and spring break was when I always organized my room and switched out my wardrobe. Come hell or high necklines.

  I shut the closet doors and headed downstairs, making a mental list of my plans for the week. Shopping with Tara and the girls. Studying for the SATs. Hanging out with Tara and the girls. My weekly volunteer time at Shady Acres Nursing Home. Movie night with Tara and the girls. Sleeping late. Stalking the captain of the basketball team with Tara and the girls (her crush, not mine). And general relaxation.

  When I got to the living room, I could tell something was up. Evidently, it was a Family Meeting. It didn’t look good. Everyone was there, including Zach, my twelve-year-old brother, who almost never shows up for anything family-oriented if he can help it. He was stretched out on the floor playing a game on his PSP. As I stepped over his legs, he yelled, “DIE, YOU MUTANT SCUM!” and bent one leg just enough to trip me. I stumbled over him, and Zach cringed. He’d been talking to his game. “Oops, my bad!” he said as he returned to playing. “Sorry.”

  Dad stood with his back to us, staring out at the damp front yard through the bay window. There was definitely a weird vibe in the room. Zach let out a huge belch and said, “Ooh, that’s better.” Then the vibe became revolting.

  Dad turned around and saw me. He motioned for me to sit on the couch, which I did. I searched my mom’s face for some clue to what was happening. To my horror, she had on her lady look. T
he lady look was this expression of placid friendliness and utmost composure that Mom put on her face whenever she was in an uncomfortable situation. Picture the queen of England getting a wedgie, and that’s the lady look. A lady never shows displeasure on her face, Mom always said. She’d been making that face for so long, I don’t think she even realized when she did it. She’d learned it from her mother and passed it along to me. I’d found the lady look very useful for smoothing over sticky situations. Not that the situations I got in were ever terribly sticky.

  When I saw the lady look on my mother’s face as she perched on the edge of one of the matching sage-green wingback chairs, I knew that the situation was about to go nuclear.

  Dad clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back and forth on his heels. I knew that move too. It was his “I’m about to do something that’s going to make your life miserable, but first I’ll pretend I’m on the fence about doing it” maneuver. He used it regularly as principal at Ash Grove. I knew Zach and I were in for it before Dad even said a word.

  Dad cleared his throat. “Well. We weren’t planning on telling you kids this for a few months, but circumstances have dictated an acceleration in the schedule.”

  “Dumb it down. Please. Principal Mac,” Zach said without looking up from his game. “Try talking like a damn father.” Zach loved to call Dad out for treating us like we were his students or worse—his faculty. Not that I understand why he’d talk like that over there. Ash Grove isn’t exactly the kind of school that Rhodes scholars come from. More like Rhode-side garbage pickers. It may be a neighboring district to Meriton, but it’s on the other side of the academic tracks, if you know what I mean. That’s one of the sources of fuel for our rivalry.

  “Do not swear in this house, young man,” Dad said. Zach started to get to his feet and Dad barked, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Outside. To swear,” Zack said. “Just like you ordered.”

  Dad pointed to the floor. “Park it.” Zach plopped back onto the carpet and went back to his game. He always seems to know just how far to go to annoy our parents without getting in trouble.

  Dad closed his eyes and inhaled deeply and dramatically. “You know how we talked about moving over to the Ash Grove school district after you graduated, Blythe, so that I would have a better shot at becoming superintendent when Hank Bascomb retires?”

  “Yes,” I said tentatively.

  “Well, there’s been a little change in those plans.”

  I lit up. “We’re not moving? Oh thank GOD. The thought of coming back from college to some weird house makes me want to puke.”

  Dad didn’t nod. Instead, he glanced at Mom and they locked eyes for an instant. Uh-oh. I froze, suddenly aware that I’d instinctively put on the lady look.

  Dad cleared his throat again and said, “Well, last month, I got word that Superintendent Bascomb is retiring this year. So if I truly want a shot at his position, I … I mean, we … need to be living in the Ash Grove school district.”

  As he spoke, my stomach tightened and tightened until I found myself struggling to breathe. My fingers were curled into knobs pressing hard into the tops of my thighs. My toes burrowed into the carpet.

  “So we’re moving,” Dad said. “Immediately.”

  Zach looked up from his game without even pausing it. That was serious.

  My head buzzed. “But I’ll get to stay at Meriton, right? I won’t have to switch schools for my senior year, RIGHT?”

  Dad rocked back and forth on his heels again. “Unfortunately not. In fact, you’re going to have to switch to Ash Grove even earlier.”

  “Like how early?” I cried. “What’s earlier than senior year?” Inside, I already knew what he was going to say, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit it, let alone to say it.

  “Junior year. Now. Directly after spring break, that is. I think the best time for you to transition is right at the start of the spring quarter. Luckily, our calendar at Ash Grove coincides with Meriton’s, so you’ll still have your vacation.” He winked at me as though he’d done me some kind of favor on the sly.

  My mother finally chimed in with, “If you think about it, sweetie, this is actually good news.” She raised her eyebrows and tipped her Barbie-doll face to the side. “You’ll have a chance to make some friends before senior year.”

  “That does not qualify as good news,” I said, jumping up. “No, no, no. This isn’t happening. I go to Meriton. All my friends are at Meriton. Meriton is a top school. I can’t graduate from Ash Grove! Ash Grove graduates do NOT get into Bryn Mawr!”

  Dad wagged his finger in the air. “Pardon me, young lady, but many Ash Grove graduates go on to top-rated universities.”

  “Not like Meriton grads!”

  “Well, then you’ll be at the top of the class, won’t you?” Mom chirped.

  “Ooh, that’ll make her popular,” Zach muttered.

  “Hold on. Hold on,” I said, struggling to come up with a solution. A resolution. Some kind of detour that would lead me back on the path to my happy ending. “I know! What if I live with Tara until graduation?”

  Mom shook her head. “Blythe, sweetie, we can’t possibly impose on Tara’s family like that. It’s out of the question.”

  Blood flushed up into my face and my fingers tingled. “I can’t go to Ash Grove! Have you forgotten what happened to me there?”

  Dad chuckled. “Honey, that was a year ago. I’m sure no one remembers it.”

  “Oh, really? Are you sure? Because I remember it. I remember it perfectly. The humiliation. The giggling. Even from a few Meriton kids who saw that awful picture. I can’t imagine facing an entire school that did. Please, Daddy, you can’t do this to me!” I knew that pleading as daddy’s little girl was probably futile or at best a long shot, but I was determined to pluck his heartstrings as hard as I could.

  “I’m not doing this to hurt you, pumpkin. This is my shot. My one shot. I have to take it. I promise the move will be easy, and I’ll make sure things go well at school.”

  It was only really at that exact moment that the full trauma of this horrific ordeal hit me. I’d been focused merely on academic insufficiencies and the lingering humiliation of a bad viral photo of me from last year. But that wasn’t all of it. “Oh my God,” I said. “I’m going to be the principal’s kid. Unbelievable. I might as well start planning a funeral for my social life right now.”

  CHAPTER 2

  AFTER THE FAMILY FIREBOMB FEST, I TOOK OFF TO meet Tara and the rest of my girls for some serious consolation. There were five of us. Four of us had been really tight ever since first grade. You know, like we knew every tiny detail of each other’s dream guy, dream date, dream wedding, dream honeymoon, dream celebrity hottie who we’d secretly make out with if he showed up on our honeymoon. Tara was the kind of girl who didn’t even care about getting married. She hated the idea of being anchored to anything. If I ever said, “Wouldn’t it be cool to do such and such?” Tara would say, “So, duh, let’s go do it.” I swear, if the electric company could tap into Tara, she could power the entire East Coast.

  Cerise and Veronica were tight with each other too. So tight that they could’ve been twins. They even finished each other’s sentences and sometimes coordinated their outfits. They were always jockeying for head of the class and had a running bet that whoever made valedictorian senior year would get to decide where they’d spend the summer after graduation. Cerise wanted to go to Montreal, but Veronica wanted to go to Palm Beach. It was one of the few things they disagreed on.

  Melissa was our new number five. She’d only been at Meriton since the beginning of the school year, but she’d slid right into place like Cinderella’s foot into the glass slipper. She was the one in our group who, if you were just casually checking us out, you might think was the cling-on. She dressed conservatively and didn’t say much. She never tried to impress anyone, but that’s because she didn’t need to. Melissa was literally a descendant of royalty in some small Eur
opean country. Okay, so she was the end of a long, twisty branch of the family tree, but related was related. Melissa’s great-grandmother had had an affair with one of the nephews and got pregnant with Melissa’s grandfather. The royal family flipped out and the nephew eventually sent great-grandma packing to the U.S. with the baby and a wad of cash. The money was gone long ago (thus public school for Melissa), but the lineage was still there. I mean, wow, to know you’re a member of a royal family? How cool would that be? Yeah, Melissa was no cling-on.

  Whenever one of us was having a crap day, we’d meet at the coffee shop in Meriton for large doses of caffeine, sugar, and chocolate or at the mall for some shopping therapy. A problem like switching schools definitely called for the mall. But shopping didn’t make a dent this time. In fact, I pretty much just wandered from store to store in tears.

  “I’m telling you, my mom would totally let you live with us,” Tara said for the fifth time. She gave me a one-armed sideways squeeze and touched her head to mine.

  “I wish,” I said. “My parents would never let it happen, though. Besides, we’d probably start killing each other within weeks.” I forced a hollow laugh.

  “Yeah, most likely,” Tara agreed.

  “You should just emancipate yourself,” Veronica chirped.