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“
SMELT
IS NOT
a word,” Phoebe yells out.

“It is too! Look it up,” Joey tells her. “He who
smelt
it dealt it.”

“It's a type of fish,” Peyton Randall says from across the room, where she and Erin Monroe are playing Trivial Pursuit.

“Yeah, that too,” Joey says, and laughs.

“Joey,” Phoebe whines. “Sometimes I wonder about you.” But then she laughs—yes, it's almost becoming a normal thing for her—and looks at him from the corner of her eye. It's a little uncomfortable to watch.

In the month since the election, Phoebe and Joey have been getting along rather well. Too well. Delia nudges me, and we laugh to ourselves, even though it's a little creepy.

“What's funny?” Phoebe asks. Her eyes flash at us. Then she turns bright pink and quickly tries to change the subject. “Who's next? Where's Mandy, anyway?”

“With Mister
Presidente
,” I say. After Caleb was elected, he chose Mandy as his vice president. In my rich and growing fantasy life, he's done this to get closer to me.

“She's really been spending a lot of time with him,” Phoebe says, her voice all syrupy with suspicion.

“They're going over the results of their poll with Vander-Pecker,” I say quickly. “It's just
business
.”

“Hmmm,” Phoebe says.

She may be getting on my nerves a little now, but I take a deep breath and remind myself of what life was like without her. Without
them
. And I'm glad all of that's getting further and further behind us.

“It's not like they're going out or anything,” I say.

She looks at me, eyebrows raised. “No one said they were.” Now
she
looks amused, and
I'm
turning red.

Just as she says that, Mandy and Caleb walk into the room. “That was
productive
,” Mandy says, and smirks, settling into the seat next to me that I had been secretly saving for Caleb.

He turns a different chair around and sits behind both of us. Mandy continues. “I think just about everyone we asked for ideas for improvement said they wanted better-looking teachers. And I had to go report that to Vander-Pecker.”

Ms. Greenwood stirs. We all gasp. I wish it wasn't so easy to forget that she's in the room.

It's my turn to read out the list of words I found in our Boggle round. One of them is “done,” but I'm nervous because I can practically feel Caleb's sweet peppermint breath on the back of my neck. I can't focus, and I end up saying it with a long O, like “Doan.”

“
Doan
?” Delia says. “What's a
doan
?”

“I'm not sure,” I say, puzzled by my own find.

Then Mandy peeks over my shoulder. “That's
done
, genius. Like finished.”

Everyone laughs. Now I wish I hadn't worn my glossy hair in a ponytail, because despite the joyous breeze of Caleb's mint-breath, I'm sure my neck is flame red.

The door opens again. We all look up to see Brynne. My breath becomes stuck in my lungs.

“Hey,” she says. She looks right at me and gives me a sideways smile. “Can I—? I mean, I brought Clue.”

My friends and I had discussed this, after our reunion. We knew all her friendships had dissolved, and her campaign speech didn't win her any votes. We knew that one day she'd be here, wanting to move on, wanting to have some friends.

Mandy thought it might be good karma to let her in the club. Delia thought it might be the right thing to do. Joey thought it might be good for games that require partners. And after some persuasion, Phoebe, being Phoebe, decided it could be a good investment. “I suppose in a year or so,” she said, “everyone will have forgotten about eighth grade, and she'll probably be even prettier. Which could rub off on the rest of us.”

And me, well, I learned that underneath the bark and the bite is just a girl. One who wants to be accepted, just like me—just like any one of us. One who wants to play board games and eat M&M's and cuddle puppies. And, oh yeah, go out with Ryan Stoles. But I'm keeping that to myself. I owe at least
that
to her.

“Hey,” Mandy says to her. “Come on in.”

Brynne walks in and sits down in the space next to Phoebe, who wiggles her chair aside—in the direction of Joey—to make room for her.

This might not exactly be pack-leader mentality, but maybe there are times when everyone just needs to be a part of the pack.

MANY THANKS TO:

Casper, for being my (irresistibly cute) muse. And to Friends of Homeless Animals, for letting us adopt him.

Kylie and Stew, for making my life richer, funnier, and more meaningful. And for giving me time, space, love, and lots of karate moves.

Michele Nesmith, for helping me survive middle school and all things beyond. This is “our” book.

Lois Nason and Uschi Schueller, for your boundless friendship and constant support.

Mom and Dad, for taking away the TV when I was six (I know, right?) and surrounding me with books. You did say one day I'd thank you. You were right.

My agent, Holly Root, for picking me out of the slush, polishing me up, and making my dream come true.

My editor, Abby Ranger, for limitless (though well-tested) supplies of patience, kindness, encouragement, and talent. I could quote from a song involving wind and wings and heroes and such things, and while it would all be applicable, it might get awkward. Many thanks also to Laura Schreiber for her keen eye and great editorial insight, and to Marci Senders for her creative genius. If you really can judge a book by its cover, I hope to live up to it.

Also thanks to Hailey Slaton, Debra Ginsberg, Erika Robuck, and Michael Neff for various and sundry great things that went toward helping me complete this book.

And if you're reading this? I especially thank you. You'll always be Best in Show in my eyes. Because there wouldn't be a show without you.