Winning (12 page)

When I get home, post-mall excursion, it is to an empty house. I don't mean that metaphorically speaking, either. I mean that no one is here. Natalie isn't at home. She was here when I left, after our pageant practice. So where is she now?

I wander through the living room and into the kitchen. There's no note there. None in my bedroom either. There aren't any text or voice mail messages—I didn't even miss a call.

It occurs to me that I should be worried. After all, my mother doesn't own a car anymore. I mean, technically my car is her car—
was
her car—but she pretty much stopped driving not long after my father's accident. Her decline in driving was proportional to her escalated boozing, so this turned out to be a good thing.

I could play Nancy Drew and try to figure out where she is and what she's doing, but I don't have it in me. Besides, I can't remember the last time I had the house to myself. It is deliciously quiet. I need to take advantage of it while I can. Surely Natalie will be home in the next hour or so. It's nearing ten o'clock.

Within the next hour, I've breezed through my homework
and
cleared out my email. Matt's and my YouTube video now has more than 27,000 views; it's more than doubled in the last two days. You can't buy that kind of PR.

Eleven thirty comes and goes; still no Natalie. I'm going to pay for staying up so late anyway, so I decide to sneak in a quick run before bed. I can feel the steel in my muscles, the blood pumping through my heart. With each mile, my head grows clearer.

Natalie
still
hasn't returned by the time I hit the shower. I send my mother a text letting her know that I am worried about her. She doesn't answer. By the time I slide into bed, quarter past midnight, I am honestly a little scared. I call Natalie's cell; it goes direct to voice mail.

“It's me,” I say. “And it's really late. I hope you're okay. Call me if you need anything.”

As tired as I am, I can't fall asleep. I head down to the kitchen for some warm milk and a Benadryl when I hear the key fumbling in the lock. I run to answer the door. Natalie is standing on the stoop, illuminated only by the full moon. Her hair has been pulled into an impeccable chignon and her makeup is magazine-perfect.

“Where have you been?” I ask her, and not in a disappointed parent kind of way. I am genuinely curious.

She gives me a long, long look. Then she steps over the threshold, pushes past me, and walks straight upstairs without so much as a simple explanation.

What the fuck
ever
.

“I don't know what happened. I swear I followed the instructions.”

A tearful Ivy Proctor stands before me, looking like a drunk sorority girl who just burned herself trying to light a cigarette backward. Her newly dyed hair is both limp and frizzy at the same time. Her makeup is cartoonish; I have to wonder if she applied it in the dark. And she's wearing that dreadful black hoodie of hers, the one that has thumbholes in the cuffs so that they always cover half the hands, over the new teal sweater dress my credit card purchased last night.

In other words, she is the hottest of hot messes.

“Take it off,” I say.

“The hoodie?” Ivy asks.

I shake my head. “All of it.”

“You want me to . . . strip?”

“God, no,” I say. “I want you to get back in the shower. Wash your face. Put on your old clothes. Now.”

More tears spill down Ivy's cheeks, making black tracks through rouge-red circles. To Sam I say, “Didn't I tell them we wanted waterproof everything?”

“I'll return it,” Sam says, not missing a beat.

Ivy stands there, her narrow shoulders shaking as she cries. She's a quiet crier, and for whatever reason this infuriates me even more.

“Get in the shower!” I snap. “Now!”

She runs off without another word.

I am seething. Only Ivy Proctor could fuck up a thousand-dollar makeover.

“You could've warned me,” I say to Sam. She doesn't respond.

After a minute, Sam sets about straightening the messy room. There are bags, tags, and clothes all over the floor. She is very Sam about the whole thing. Slow. Deliberate. Methodical.

Also infuriating.

“Any new dirt on Erin?” I ask as Sam folds clothes neatly on the foot of Ivy's bed.

“Nope,” Sam says. Her tone is clipped. She can't possibly be angry at me. Can she?

There are only three weeks until the election. Three weeks in which to turn Ivy into a viable candidate before I posit myself as the front-runner once more.

Have you figured it out yet? My plan? I'm building Ivy up, placing her on a sky-high pedestal, only to push her off it at the eleventh hour. And in the wake of her destruction, I will arise, a phoenix forming from her ashes.

It's a brilliant plan, and one Erin Hewett would never see coming. Hell, you didn't see it coming, did you?

I would understand it if you are struggling to keep up. There are sophisticated machinations at work. The only thing you really need to know, right now, anyway, is that this whole process is going to be a
bitch
.

“Three weeks isn't enough,” I say, more to myself than anything. “We need more time.”

“Or less,” Sam offers. “Is Matt hosting this year's Puritan Party?”

“Of course. The captain always hosts.”

The Puritan Party is a tradition that stretches back to before Natalie was a student at Spencer High. After several years of the Spartans not winning a Homecoming game played on their own turf, the then-coach issued an edict: For two weeks immediately prior to the game, no player was allowed to indulge in drinking, drugging, smoking, or screwing. Anyone caught violating those rules would be kicked off the team. The party-hardy boys decided to have one last blowout the Saturday before restrictions went into effect—which by all accounts was a bacchanalia of epic proportions. Afterward, the team followed their coach's instructions to a T, and two weeks later, they slaughtered the Spirit Lake Lions, our long-term rivals. Prior to the game, the Lions had been having an undefeated season, so this was an extra-big coup.

A second Puritan Party was held the following year; again the Spartans were victorious. By year three, it had become a Spencer High tradition. The Puritan Parties continued, the players cooperated, and our high school hasn't lost a single Homecoming game in the past twenty-four years. If we win this year, we'll even break some sort of Indiana record.

“Why are you asking me about a social event?” I say. “We're in crisis mode.”

“The guest list for the Puritan is pretty elite,” Sam replies. “As a cheerleader, Erin will automatically be on the list. But Ivy won't.”

“So?”

“So you should bring Ivy.”

Just like that, I get what she's trying to say.

“You're fucking brilliant,” I tell her. “I could kiss you right now, that's how brilliant you are.”

Ivy reenters the room wrapped in a beige towel, with a second one turbaned on her head. So I don't know if Sam's turning red because of what I said or because she's in such close proximity to a semi-naked girl.

“I don't know what I'm supposed to be wearing,” Ivy says sheepishly.

“Change of plans,” I tell her. “We're going to wait a week before unveiling your new look. So for now, do everything like you normally do. Or like you did before I came along.”

Ivy looks stricken. “You said we didn't have a single day to waste. You said—”

“I know what I said. Now I'm saying something different.”

“What about my hair?”

Sam answers for me. “You need a hat. What about that old brown one you wear sometimes?”

Ivy roots around a pile of clothes that Sam hasn't folded and fishes out a knit skullcap. She takes off her turban and tucks her wet hair inside of the hat. “Like this?”

“Jesus,” I say. “You look like a marshmallow wearing a woolly condom.”

A quick glance at my watch tells me that if Sam and I leave now, I'll have at least fifteen minutes to make the rounds before first bell.

“Another change of plans,” I announce. “We're going to head
out now and meet up with you later.”

“But I already missed the bus.”

“So get your mom to take you. I'll bring you home after school. Late, of course. We have a
lot
of work to do.”

“But—”

I grab Sam's hand and pull her toward the door before Ivy can continue her protest. We need as much time as possible before homeroom. There are seeds to be planted, and I know exactly where to start.

I am stationed near the school's entrance, partially hidden by a tall carton of cast-off shoes people have donated to the homeless. I am lying in waiting for one Alexandra Miles. Or, if I can't find her, lying in wait for Samantha Schnitt. But if they're together, then it's Alexandra, definitely.

And together is how I first spot them, whispering conspiratorially as they walk through the double doors. My plan is to wait until they pass, then slip out from my hiding place and call out Alexandra's name. Only, for whatever reason, Samantha is looking over my way. I panic and dip down into the box, trying to hide my face.

It doesn't work.

“Making a deposit or a withdrawal?” Alexandra says. I can practically hear the smirk in her voice.

I pop up and flash Alexandra a smile. Sam is nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, hey,” I say brightly. “Good morning. How are you? There's something I wanted to—”

“I need you to run the meeting for me today,” she says, cutting me off.

“Key Club?”

“No, our mutual AA meeting. Yes, Key Club. I have things I have to take care of after school.”

“But . . . But you always run the meeting,” I say. “You never miss.”

“There's a first time for everything.”

Typically, this would be when Alexandra would turn on her heel and walk away. In addition to running meetings, ruining relationships, stealing volunteer opportunities, and not answering emails, Alexandra really likes to have the last word.

But today she doesn't do this. Instead, she says, “You wanted something?”

“I did? Oh yeah, I did.”

“So what is it?”

I swallow hard. “I wanted to apologize. For what I said the other day. I was just—”

“Hurt,” she finishes for me. “I know. And I'm sorry.”

My shock must register on my face, because the next thing I know she's laughing and saying, “Don't be so surprised. I know how to apologize.”

“It's just—”

“Listen,” Alexandra says, taking a step closer to me. “I've been thinking. It makes sense that you and I clash from time to time. For one thing, we have a lot of the same . . . interests. Like the acting thing, and Key Club, and you know, lots of stuff.”

This list of things we have in common is starting to sound like an offshoot of a humblebrag. Because, hi, everything she's naming is stuff she's beat me at.

“What's your point?” I say.

“I don't want there to be bad feelings between us. High school's too short for that.” Alexandra reaches out and squeezes my hand with hers. There's an earnestness in the way that she's looking at me that makes me wonder if she's actually being sincere.

“Give me a call this weekend,” she says. “Maybe we can make plans to get together. I'm working with my pageant coach on Saturday, but I can always make time for a friend.” She offers a final warm smile and a little wave before turning and heading off down the hallway.

Fact: I am 100 percent dumbfounded. I stand there, speechless, watching her disappear in the distance.

What just
happened
?

Or, the bigger question: Why did that just happen?

I almost—almost—believed that little performance of hers. Right up until she called me her friend.

We have never been friends. Not really.

And more than that: we will never be friends. Ever.

So why is Alexandra Miles suddenly trying to make nice with me? Is it because of what I said the other day? Does she suddenly see me as some sort of threat?

Maybe I don't suck at this scheming thing after all.

Ivy eats lunch with Lexi and me now. This is a thing. A temporary thing, but a thing nonetheless. I know this is happening, and when Ivy sits down at the table with an apologetic smile—it's the only way she knows how to smile, I think—it feels almost normal.

What doesn't feel the least bit normal is who else decides to invade our lunch table today.

“Hey, friends!” Sloane Fahey says in her breathless, over-the-top way of hers. “Mind if I join you?”

She doesn't wait for an answer. She sits, puts her pink plastic Hello Kitty bento box down, and lifts off the lid.

I brace myself for Lexi to blow, but she doesn't. Not even when Sloane starts eating some sort of tofu-and-vegetable concoction with a pair of flowered chopsticks. Instead, she says, “Sloane, you know Ivy, right?”

“Of course,” Sloane says. “Everybody knows Ivy.”

Ivy's face turns red in an instant.

“She means because you're up for Homecoming Queen,”
Lexi says, rescuing her least-favorite redhead.

“Yes!” Sloane chimes in, sounding one step down from frantic. “That's exactly what I meant!”

“Oh” is all Ivy can say in return.

We pick at our food in awkward silence. What is happening here? Everything about this scene feels wrong.

Then Matt approaches, almost as if on cue, and breaks the tension. “Hey, babe,” he says, nuzzling Lexi's cheek from behind. “Can I steal you for a sec?”

“Of course,” she says. “What's up?”

“Can't a guy just miss his girl?”

Gag
.

I hate it when they act like this.

“Come sit with us for a few,” Matt says. “You too, Ivy. I want you to meet my friend Bobby.”

“Um,” Ivy says. “Sure?”

She says it just like that, too. Like it's a question. But, ever the puppy, she follows the golden couple over to Matt's table of football players. It's one of the long ones with the built-in bench seating. The guys squeeze together to make room for Ivy, who slips neatly in between Bobby Jablonski and Chick Myers. She's so tiny that Chick's body looks like it might swallow her up.

This must have been preplanned. Part of Lexi's scheme to get Ivy ready for her debut at the Puritan Party. Or maybe she's trying to get Bobby to take Ivy to the dance.

I don't know because she didn't tell me.

There are a lot of things she hasn't been telling me lately. This is not like Lexi. I am her closest confidante. I am the one who knows her better than anyone else on the planet. Me, not Matt.
Me
.

For instance, I know for a fact that she has never talked to Matt about losing her father. Whereas I was there, at his funeral, holding her hand when her mother wouldn't. I was the one she cried in front of—real tears, not the fake ones she can summon on command. I was the one who listened to her stories about him, and how he spoiled her. “Not with money,” she said, “though clearly there was plenty of that. It's his attention I miss the most.”

Natalie has always treated Lexi as an extension of herself. A baby doll she crafted in her own image. But her dad truly adored Lexi. You could see it in the way his face lit up whenever she walked into a room. They'd go on these long runs together, and afterward, while they were protein-loading, they'd talk about, well, everything.

I wasn't there for these conversations. So maybe Lexi is rewriting the past. Lord knows Natalie does enough of that.

But I knew Mr. Miles, and I don't think she's making anything up. I think when he died, she lost the only real parent she ever had.

When I turn back to my lunch I catch Sloane staring at me. She's been doing that a lot lately. Just looking at me. If I didn't know any better I'd think that she was suddenly into me or something, but everyone at Spencer knows she's . . . uh . . .
super
into guys. Well, according to Lexi's rumors, that is.

So why would she be looking at
me
?

“I never realized how pretty she was,” Sloane says, apropos of nothing.

“Who, Lexi?”

“No, Ivy,” Sloane says. “I guess I never paid that much attention to her. It's amazing how one day you can look at someone and see something that wasn't there before.”

When she says this, her eyes lock onto mine, and she runs her tongue over her bottom lip. I think,
Holy shit, she's trying to flirt with me!

I stifle a laugh. Oh, man, if only Lexi were here to see this. I decide it's too good an opportunity to pass up.

“I know what you mean,” I say to Sloane, casting my eyes downward. “You can think you have a person all figured out, but then one day, they say or do something different, and you just . . . see them in a whole new light.”

I slowly raise my eyes to meet hers, and a shy smile forms on my lips. At least, I hope that's what it looks like.

“So,” Sloane says, “do you have a date to Homecoming yet?”

“No,” I say, which is the truth. “You?”

“Not yet,” she says. “There's someone I'm thinking of asking, though.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sloane says. “Trying to figure out if this person is interested.”

Time to bring this thing home.

“You should just ask,” I say. “You might be surprised by who'd say yes.”

I spend the rest of the day thinking up ways to toy with Sloane Fahey. I don't have a problem with her, per se, but I do find it kind of amusing that she's suddenly so into me. It would be one thing if her interest were genuine, but it comes off as just another example of Sloane trying to be more like Lexi—and failing miserably.

“Can you believe the nerve?” I hear Hayley Langer say behind me. I turn to see her toss her bottle-blond hair over one shoulder. “Who does she think she is, anyway?”

“She shouldn't be allowed to run,” says Carissa, her top minion.

Carissa's cousin and fellow minion Steph chimes in, “You're so right. She only got here, like, five minutes ago. There should be a rule or something.”

They are talking about Erin. And only a few feet away from me.

“It's not about how long she has or hasn't been here,” Hayley says. “It's about what she said. About our school. About what it means to be the Homecoming Queen.”

I frown. When did Lexi leak this? And why didn't she have me do the leaking to begin with?

“Where did you hear that?” I say.

“Excuse me?” Carissa says. “We're talking here.”

“You're talking about Erin Hewett, right? Sorry, didn't mean to eavesdrop.”

“Why do you care?” Hayley asks.

“No reason,” I say with a shrug. “You might want to keep your voices down, though. You definitely don't want Frick to overhear you.”

“Why not?” Hayley says, jutting out her Reese Witherspoonian chin. “She'd probably be as outraged as we are. She might even disqualify her.”

“I wouldn't bet on it.” I pretend to turn my attention to the contents of my locker. Then, as casually as I can, I add, “Considering their connection and all.” I swap out books until I have what I need for this weekend's homework. When I turn to face the girls I see that they're giving me the same irritated-but-still-puzzled look.

“You
do
know about Erin's connection to Frick, don't you?”

“Sure,” Hayley replies, looking anything but.

Carissa echoes, “Everybody knows that. Duh.”

“Oh, okay. Just wanted to make sure.”

I shut my locker and start to walk away when I hear Steph whine, “What is she talking about, anyway?”

Hayley shushes her and says, “Wait until she's out of earshot.”

“Too late,” I feel like calling out to them, but don't.

When I reach the gymnatorium, I see Lexi and Ivy embroiled in some sort of drama. From the distance, it looks like Ivy is crying into her forearm. Lexi keeps trying to reach out and touch her, but each time Ivy bats her away. I cheat to the right a bit and sidle up as quietly as I can.

“I can't do this anymore!” Ivy wails. “It's all too much!”

“Ivy, please,” Lexi says, her voice saccharine-sweet. “Calm down. Let's talk about this.”

“There's nothing to talk about! It's over. We'll return the clothes and the makeup and hair products, and I'll pay you back for the cut and color.”

“I don't want your two hundred dollars,” Lexi says, causing Ivy to gasp audibly.

She starts to cry even harder. “Oh, god, oh, god, how did I let this
happen
?” Ivy buries her face in her hands, sobbing so intensely she starts to hiccup.

Now I'm close enough to see Lexi's jawline harden. She doesn't have the patience for Ivy's particular brand of weakness. I half expect her to slap the girl across the face, just to snap her out of it. Instead, she opts for a different approach: the hug.

Lexi steps forward and wraps her arms around Ivy, squeezing her close. “Go ahead and cry,” she says soothingly. “Let it out, Ivy. Let it all out.”

I'm so confused by this act of kindness that I just stand there in the shadows, completely transfixed.

After a few minutes, Ivy's sobs subside. She lifts her head and takes a few steps away from Lexi. “I'm sorry,” she says. “I shouldn't—”

“Please don't apologize,” Lexi tells her. “I get it. I'm sure all of this attention makes you uncomfortable.”

Ivy nods, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her gross black hoodie.

“Look,” Lexi says, her voice soft as butter, “I don't know why you had that breakdown, and I'm not asking you to tell me. But whatever the reason, it's clearly left scars beyond the ones on your wrists.”

Ivy's eyes widen. Instinctively, she pulls the cuffs of her hoodie even farther down her hands.

“You may be able to hide them from everyone else,” Lexi says, “but I know they're there. And I don't care. I mean, I care about
you
, Ivy.
This
you. The girl you are now. That other girl—the one who sliced herself just so she could feel something? That girl is gone now.”

Ivy doesn't look convinced. I debate whether now is the time to make my presence known—if me entering will defuse the tension. But then I catch Lexi's hand, hanging at her side. She flicks it backward as if to tell me to stop. How did she—

The mirror. Of course. She's known I was here the whole time.

“You may not see it yet, but we do,” Lexi says. “Me. Sam. Bobby. I think he likes you, Ivy. But even if it turns out that he doesn't, you have to know that
I do
. I believe in you. The way you've turned your life around? You're an
inspiration
, Ivy. That's why I'm fighting so hard to make you queen.

“I just hope that when they put that crown on your head, maybe, just maybe, you'll start to see yourself the way that I do.”

She's sold it. She's sold it so well, I am starting to think she means the things that she's saying.

“Go wash your face,” Lexi instructs. “And then we'll get started.”

Ivy smiles, and nods, and obediently trots off to the girls' locker room. When the gym door slams, Lexi says, “You can come out now, Sam.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I didn't want to interrupt. You and Ivy . . . you were having a moment.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Please. You can't possibly be jealous, Sam. Not of
Ivy
.”

“I'm not,” I say. “I was just commenting on the fact that you two seem to be getting . . . closer.”

“Because that's what it's supposed to seem like,” she says with a sneer. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

The words have a surprising sting. It must register on my face, because then Lexi says, “Jesus, are you going to start crying now, too? Toughen up, Schnitt. You know the first step to escaping Spencer is nailing this competition. And we've got some serious work to do.”