Spencer looked up. Hanging out the driver’s-side window of a black Mini Cooper was Andrew Campbell, the tall, freckly, long-haired boy that beat out Spencer for class president. They were number-one and number-two in the class in practically every subject. But before Spencer could brag about her score—telling Andrew about her PSATs would feel so good—he peeled away. Freak. Spencer turned back to her house.
As she excitedly scampered inside, something stopped her: she remembered her sister’s near-perfect score and quickly converted it from the 1600-scale they used to use into the 2400-scale the College Board used nowadays. It was a full 100 points lower than Spencer’s. And weren’t they supposed to be harder these days, too?
Well, now who’s the genius?
An hour later, Spencer sat at the kitchen table reading Middlemarch—a book on the English AP “suggested reading” list—when she began to sneeze.
“Melissa and Wren are here,” Mrs. Hastings said to Spencer as she bustled into the kitchen, carrying in the mail Spencer had left in the box. “They’ve brought all of their luggage to move in!” She opened the oven a crack, checking on the rotisserie chicken and seven-grain rolls, and then bustled into the living room.
Spencer sneezed again. A cloud of Chanel No. 5 always preceded her mom—even though she spent the whole day working around horses—and Spencer was certain she was allergic. She considered announcing her PSAT news, but a twinkly voice from the foyer stopped her.
“Mom?” Melissa called. She and Wren strolled into the kitchen. Spencer pretended to study Middlemarch’s boring back cover.
“Hey,” Wren said above her.
“Hey,” she answered coolly.
“Whatcha reading?”
Spencer hesitated. It was better to steer clear of Wren, especially now that he was moving in.
Melissa brushed by without saying hello and began to unpack purple pillows from a Pottery Barn bag. “These are for the couch in the barn,” she practically yelled.
Spencer cringed. Two could play at this game. “Oh, Melissa!” Spencer cried. “I forgot to tell you! Guess who I ran into!”
Melissa continued to unpack the pillows. “Who?”
“Ian Thomas! He’s coaching my field hockey team now!”
Melissa froze. “He…what? He is? He’s here? Did he ask about me?”
Spencer shrugged and pretended to think. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Who’s Ian Thomas?” Wren asked, leaning against the marble island counter.
“No one,” Melissa snapped, turning back to the pillows. Spencer slapped her book shut and skipped off to the dining room. There. That felt better.
She sat down at the long, mission-style farmhouse table, running her finger around the stemless wineglass Candace, the family’s housekeeper, had just filled with red wine. Her parents didn’t care if their kids drank while they were at home as long as no one was driving, so she grabbed the glass with both hands and greedily took a large gulp. When she looked up, Wren was smirking at her from across the table, his spine very straight in his dining chair.
“Hey,” he said. She raised her eyebrows in answer.
Melissa and Mrs. Hastings sat down, and Spencer’s father adjusted the chandelier lights and took a seat as well. For a moment everyone was quiet. Spencer felt for the PSAT score papers in her pocket. “So guess what happened to me,” she began.
“Wren and I are so happy you’re letting us stay here!” Melissa said at the same time, grabbing Wren’s hand.
Mrs. Hastings smiled at Melissa. “I’m always happy when the family’s all here.”
Spencer bit her lip, her stomach nervously gurgling. “So, Dad. I got my—”
“Uh-oh,” Melissa interrupted, staring down at the plates Candace had just brought in from the kitchen. “Do we have anything other than chicken? Wren’s trying not to eat meat.”
“It’s all right,” Wren said hastily. “Chicken is perfect.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Hastings stood up halfway. “You don’t eat meat? I didn’t know! I think we may have some pasta salad in the fridge, although it might have ham in it….”
“Really, it’s okay.” Wren rubbed his head uncomfortably, making his messy black hair stand up in peaks.
“Oh, I feel terrible,” Mrs. Hastings said. Spencer rolled her eyes. When the whole family was together, her mom wanted all meals—even sloppy cereal breakfasts—to be perfect.
Mr. Hastings eyed Wren suspiciously. “I’m a steak man, myself.”
“Absolutely.” Wren lifted his glass so forcefully that a little wine spilled on the tablecloth.
Spencer was considering a good segue into her big announcement when her father laid down his fork.
“I’ve got a brilliant idea. Since we’re all here, why don’t we play Star Power?”
“Oh, Daddy.” Melissa grinned. “No.”
Her father smiled. “Oh yes. I had a terrific day at work. I’m going to kick your butt.”
“What’s Star Power?” Wren asked, his eyebrows arched.