Plucking my best lipgloss from the excessively organized drawer of makeup, I puckered up and slid it on. Stuff like that comes naturally when you live the life I lead. You learn how to put on makeup, how to do your hair, how to walk, how to talk, and how to dress like you stepped out of a magazine.  I guess you could say it's drilled into your head at a young age as a coping mechanism. After all, how else is one able to navigate those treacherous four years of high school if you're not one of the social elite?

         It's kind of insane how altered I can look in an hour. I'm not sure if it's a blessing or a curse knowing how to paint, polish, powder, and brush myself into being conventionally "hot", especially since I actually prefer those Saturday mornings spent in a bare face and baggy sweatpants. Forget the whole 1-hour morning bathroom routine, I think what I like the best about Saturday mornings is the ability to pretend my avoidance of being social is because I'm "sleeping in" like the rest of the cool kids. Those blessed few hours are amazing because I don't have to deal with the beautiful people I call friends.

         And now 20 bucks says I've lulled you all into believing I'm some cynical, narcissistic misanthrope (thanks for that one, SAT prep!). Well, it depends on the people I guess. And look at me go, I haven't even introduced myself.

        "Madison Carlisle," I said quietly to the mirror, "Poster girl of the rich and popular."

         People say I'm beautiful and you'd have to be blind not to agree, but they don't know about the personal trainer, the frequent visits to the dermatologist, the dietician, and the years at fat camp.  I mean, I'm only 17 and I've morphed into some sort of Stepford Wife! But seriously, I don't think my parents have any ambitions for me that go beyond marrying me off to one of my loaded guy friends after college.  Every time I bring home an A+ report card I wonder if they're secretly debating whether I'm spending too much time studying instead of socializing.  After all, according to them my lofty goal in life should be to grace the arm of some billionaire CEO or high-flying lawyer.

        The sad thing is that three years ago I shared that view. Three years ago I'd started the cross training, lost the 40 pounds, gone for the makeover, and bought all the right clothes with daddy's precious plastic. Three years ago I'd idolized my brother and his popular high school friends.  After my mom had put me through my paces the summer before high school, I'd morphed into a mini-Barbie.  Now that's not to say that I don't love my blonde hair, green eyes, and the few freckles that pop up on my cheeks when I'm in the sun too long, but to put it bluntly, the novelty's worn off. I want to go back to the cookie-eating, guilt-free, fast-food munching days.

        Yes, that fateful summer was the turning point.

        "Madison, honey! Rosa's cooked you breakfast and you're going to be late!" Mom called. It was a miracle I heard her. My room is obscenely large. It's like a little apartment: bedroom, sofa, TV, full bathroom...if I had an Easy Bake oven I would never have to leave!

        Tucking the few stray strands of my blow-dried hair behind my ears, I checked out my new silver drop earrings before making my way out of my room.  Bouncing down the stairs, I rummaged through my Marc Jacobs bag to make sure I had everything I needed to get me through the day. Pulling out my phone, I set it on silent and stowed it away again, ignoring the text messages already popping up on the screen.

        "Sweetie, would you like your omelette or pancakes? Your brother wanted pancakes," my mom offered, doling out a stack of pancakes 5 inches high to my brother. I rolled my eyes with a smile. Brett had a lightning-fast metabolism, probably because of the grueling two-a-day football workouts they held multiple times a week.

        Star running back on Clairview High's elite varsity football team, he was as buff as a football player should be. Like me, he had sandy blonde hair, but his eyes were more of a deep hazel than green. He was tall at 6'3, compared to my 5'7 frame, and he seemed to adore looking like he stepped right out of an Abercrombie catalogue. My mom always tried to dress him up in fancier designer stuff, but despite all her nagging Brett stuck with the All-American, laid back look.

        "Maddie'll go for the omelette," he said between mouthfuls, "I want the rest of the pancakes!"

         "Have them," I said, "I'm not that hungry,"

        A common phrase in my vocabulary, especially as my mom started scanning down the list of "appropriate" foods the dietician had given her after my appointment last week.

        "Good choice honey," she said, absently pushing a flat, rubbery egg-white omelette loaded with veggies towards me, "Pancakes would fill up two-thirds of your calorie allowance for the day, especially if you eat them like your brother,"

        We both looked over to Brett, who was now simultaneously shovelling pancakes into his mouth as he doused the rest in yet more syrup. My mom shook her head.

        "What?" Brett asked thickly through a mouthful of pancakes, "I have practice today!  Oh," he checked his watch "And I have to go pick Vicky up in like five minutes,"

      Victoria Carrington was Brett's on-again-off-again girlfriend of a year and a half. She, like Brett, was a senior and a very good-looking one at that. She was the queen bee of all queen bees and had a temper to match. I didn't mind her in all her gorgeous blue-eyed brunette glory, but some days she just rubbed me the complete wrong way. Vicky looked a lot like an underage Megan Fox, something she knew and never allowed anyone to forget.

        "Gotta blast," Brett said, shoveling one last forkful into his mouth before thanking Rosa for her excellent cooking and snatching up his messenger bag.

        "Bye sweetie, have fun today!" my mom called, her eyes riveted hungrily on the syrupy remains of Brett's pancakes. Forcing down a few forkfuls of my rather rancid omelette (what can I say, I really hate veggies), I decided to leave early and swing by Starbucks.

        "I'm gonna go too," I said, standing and grabbing my bag and big binder. Unlike most of my friends, I don't actually mind the learning part of school, which is why I equipped myself with the nerdy multipurpose binder.

        "Okay, call me if you're going anywhere after school," my mom said, coming around the kitchen island to tug at my shirt and adjust my hair.

        "Honestly mom!" I said, pulling away. She always liked to fuss with my clothes as if she misses the days she could dress me up. I offered her a hug, then made my way towards the front of the house. I paused by the mirror in the hallway to reapply my lipgloss on and do one final check before I left. Not that it mattered though, I had the inventory of a MAC store in my bag for any between-class touchups.

        "See you later!" I yelled, so the could hear me in the kitchen.  I snatched my keys from the dish by the door and slid on my favorite Dior sunglasses.  Stepping outside, I unlocked my car.  My wonderful, beautiful, sleek black leather-trimmed car.

        Of all the things I owned that were expensive, my car was the one thing I didn't feel bad about. It also happened to be the one thing I couldn't live without. The makeup, the clothes, the gadgets, the house, they could take it all away and I'd be more than happy to just have my Audi. It's kind of crazy how much I loved that big hunk of metal.

        Tossing my bag and binder onto the passenger seat, I slid into the driver's side. The engine purred to life as I cruised down our winding driveway towards the street.

        I only switched off the radio as I sailed into the Clairview High parking lot, sipping my iced chai latte.  My eyes slid over the mass of students on the quad as I pulled in to my usual spot. Before I'd even switched off the ignition I already felt the stares, but I was used to them by now. Freshman year I'd adored all the attention I'd gotten for being one of Clairview's honorary A-listers, Brett Carlisle's sister. Nowadays I thought the slack-jawed gawking was stupid and overrated.  But alas, in order to maintain the veneer of popularity one must never question the worshippers.  Yanking my bag over my shoulder as I got out,I slammed my door a little harder than usual in hopes of snapping a gaggle of freshman boys from their reverie.  Rolling my eyes at them (the only acceptable reaction to freshmen), I sipped my latte and locked my car.

        Now, the one thing of any importance about Clairview High is the relatively simple social map that is the quad. That grassy lawn just outside the school's main entrance was one of the most defining social scenes, next to the cafeteria of course. A-Listers like me, my brother, and my friends had one place in particular, while everybody else is left to duke it out on the first day for the rest of the pickings. Our spot extended from the stairs leading to the main doors down to the two side-by-side picnic benches on the lawn, underneath a pair of ancient oak trees. The jocks liked the big open space just beyond our spot, but seeing as most of them are A-Listers too, it's kind of an overlap zone. Oddly enough the cheerleaders fall under the sub-heading of B-listers (as in wannabes) thanks to the ever-so-lovely Victoria Carrington and her unexplained hatred of everything to do with the team captain.  I guess you could say that when Vicky hated someone, they were guaranteed to never ascend the social ladder high enough to merit an invite to one of the clique-defining parties.

        As I approached the shady grove of Clairview's rich and beautiful, I was hailed by a few squeals.  I plastered on my best fake smile in an attempt to mask my aversion.

        "Maddie! Ohmigod you totally just missed the funniest thing!" Katie sang as she waltzed up to me, strawberry blonde hair bouncing. Katharine MacIntyre, better known as Katie, was the typical blonde bimbo of the junior year A-listers. With bright blue eyes and boobs that totally didn't match her slender 5'3 build, Katie was the one most likely to be found kissing 5 separate guys at a party. Her indispensable skill, however, was her mean memory for gossip. She was the one you went to when you wanted a life-ruining factoid about pretty much anyone.

        "Seriously, it was like wicked hilarious," chimed Tierra, walking up beside Katie. Tierra Marie Wright was one of the more level-headed junior A's. She had flawless chocolate skin, surreal (and totally real) purple eyes, and was built long and lean. A 5'9 track star and fashionista, she was one of the few jocks that could pull off being a true, bona fide A-lister.

        "What happened?" I asked, only slightly feigning interest.  If there was one perk to my position, it was being one of the first to hear what the rumor mill churned out. As much as it pains me to say it, I have a wicked soft spot for gossip.

        "Dakota Schneider," Katie hissed, her eyes positively glowing with evil intent, "She got pulled over last night and arrested for drug possession!"

        "No freaking way!" I gasped. This was gold, pure gold.

        "What'd she have?" I asked eagerly as we three made to sit down at the junior A's picnic table.

        "I dunno, something soft, but still!" Katie said, sliding in next to Brad and Olivier who were in the middle of a heated arm wrestling match. Bradley Brighton, the much-hyped and much-loved receiver of the Clariview football team, was a brown-haired, blue-eyed marvel. Not even I could resist his flirtatious charm when he turned it on me. Despite being a womanizer and all-around sleazeball, Brad was still one hot object. As for Olivier Beaulieu, he's the Junior State Champion in tennis and a Parisian export. Tall and blonde, he's relatively mild-mannered compared to the rest of the A-List guys, unless you got him riled up.  Some attributed his temper to his French background, but the only hint of Europe I'd ever detected in him was his habit of swearing at freshmen in French.

        "They don't even know what it was?" I continued, a little less enthused as I turned my attention to the arm wrestling, "That doesn't sound so bad..."

        "Oh come on Maddie!" Tierra said, rolling her eyes, "You know it's gold,"

        "Hey, who's that?" Katie asked, perking up as she looked towards the parking lot. I turned around as Tierra glanced over my shoulder.

        "New meat," said a curvy, dark-haired brunette as she slid in next to me. Deanna Allister was the plotter of the Junior A's. She had a wickedly sharp mind and no deed was ever too nasty for her to plot and carry out. Her busty 5'7 frame and decidedly Mediterranean facial features made her a catch and a half. Coupled with her coy, catlike demeanor, she was irresistible to any guy in school, a fact she was intimately aware of.

        "Interesting," Tierra said, leaning on her hand as she surveyed the newcomer the way a hawk would stalk an injured mouse. I, on the other hand, was looking at this newcomer without any venom in my gaze.  I was intrigued.

        He wasn't dressed to the nines or anything, but he was wearing well-cut jeans and a nicely fitted tee.  He needed some polishing up, but he definitely had A-list potential. What gave him away as a newbie was the blatant way he was looking over a course schedule as he walked up to the school.

        "So Katie, tell me about this Dakota business," Deanna purred, ripping her eyes away from the new guy.  I turned back around to face the girls, watching as the wheels began to turn in Dea's head.

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