Winning (14 page)

My days no longer belong to me. They belong to
her
. Alexandra. My benefactor. My coach. My . . . friend?

When school ends, my training continues. She teaches me how to walk, how to dress, how to act. We have practice conversations in which I am me and she is everyone from Principal Frick to Bobby Jablonski. When I cracked a joke the other day about Pygmalion, she frowned at me and said, “Cut it with the nerd humor. You have to be just smart enough, and not a single IQ point more.”

I do not know what she means by that. But I do not question the things she tells me. I figure that you do not get to be in her position without knowing a few tricks.

The schedule is insane, but that is not the most difficult part of the process. No, that would be my mother.

My plain, sweet, simple mother. I have put that woman through hell. This is what her sister, my aunt Gladie, tells me every time she sees me. Even when it is paired with a sort of compliment. “You're looking well, Ivy,” she will say. “Thank God,
after all that hell you put your poor mother through.”

We do not talk about
why
I did what I did. The events that led to my breakdown. We do not have to, now that Gladie's “perfect” little Sean has gone off to college. With him away, my nightmares have stopped. It helps that he does not come home very often. In fact, I have not so much as seen him since last Christmas.

It is better this way. Even my mom says so.

She is not happy about my new hair. Where did I get the money, she wanted to know. I lied and said that Sam's cousin's friend did it for free. The made-up cousin's friend is in cosmetology school. She is just far enough removed from the situation that my mother cannot confirm this fact.

The makeup, I hide. Each night before I go to bed I practice the techniques that the lady at the MAC counter and Alexandra have taught me. I wait until my mother is asleep to do this. Then I wipe it all off, right there in my bedroom, before lights-out. When it comes time for me to wear it to school, I will put everything into a makeup case and pack it all in my school bag. She might be able to see it on my face but she will not know which brands I am using or how much each item costs.

The clothes are a different story. Those I have hidden in various places around my room. I have cut the tags off and washed the pieces a few times. This is so I can convince my mother that they are lightly used hand-me-downs or thrift store finds. That was Sam's idea—a way for me to explain why I suddenly have a whole new wardrobe. I got some money from my dad to cover
the thrift store part. I tried to give this to Alexandra, to pay her back, but she waved me off.

“Keep it,” she said. “You need it way more than I do.”

I did not know whether I should be grateful or offended.

I chose to be grateful.

Even though my big debut is not until Saturday, at the Puritan Party, I am already starting to get a small taste of what it is like to be popular. Or, at least, what my version of popular is. I no longer eat lunch alone. I have plans after school. I get text messages from people other than my mom and dad and Aunt Gladie. When I walk down the hall at school, I look at where I'm going, instead of at my feet.

Is this what normal feels like?

I am nervous about the party. The last one I went to that did not involve members of my extended family was Liza Humphrey's fifteenth birthday, spring of freshman year. She had it at a bowling alley. There was pizza and soda and Liza pretended like the only reason she invited me was because her mom made her and not because we were friends. We were, though. Friends. But even then—even before my breakdown—people had already started to distance themselves. I already reeked of loser. Another gift from Sean, perhaps.

Now they look at me differently. It is not with admiration—yet. Alexandra says this is only a matter of time. I have not been around that long, she says. No one knows what to make of me. The last time I was on the radar was for something bad.
Now it is for something good.

“You need to show them that you're worthy of the crown,” she says, at least once a day.

Crowns are a big thing to Alexandra. I do not know exactly how big until the day of the Puritan Party. This is the first time she has invited me over to her house. Her bedroom is a huge palace of pink. Pale pink, like a flower petal. There are about six floating shelves along one wall. They hold nothing but trophies and sashes and crowns, so many crowns. The rhinestones are blinding.

“You won all of these?” I ask.

Sam smirks at me. “No, she stole them. Of course she won them!”

“Those are just the pretty ones,” Alexandra says. “The rest are boxed up in the guest room closet.”

“How many are there?”

She shrugs. “A lot. Natalie entered me in my first pageant before I knew how to crawl.”

We are here to “pre-game.” I do not know what pre-gaming is, but I do not tell Alexandra this. I assume it means getting ready for the party. After the party, we will come back here, and Sam and I will spend the night. This is because my mother does not know about me going to the Puritan Party. She would not approve. There is no parental supervision at Alexandra's house; her mother gives her free rein to come and go as she pleases.

Alexandra is an only child, like me. I cannot imagine being an only in a house this big with one parent who barely pays
attention to you. It seems like a really lonely way to live.

Sam is using the flat iron on my hair but Alexandra does not like what she sees. She sends me off to take a shower in her personal bathroom so we can “start over.”

This is not a burden. Her tub is really wide, like the kind you think only exists in the movies. A glamour tub. Alexandra tells me which shampoo and conditioner to use, hands me a couple of cloud-soft towels and a robe, and leaves me to it.

What I really want to do is take a bubble bath. It is definitely a bubble bath kind of tub. But there is too much to do before the party. The hair, the clothes, the makeup. Plus, Alexandra wants me to practice making conversation at parties. “We need to help them see the real you,” she says.

What I think but do not say is this: Why must I do so much work to show them who I “really” am?

“Think she's ready?” Sam asks me when I return from shuttling Ivy into the shower.

“Not entirely,” I say. “But she will be.”

“Oh? Is there a plan?”

There is, but it's another one I won't be sharing with Sam. There are some lengths to which I go that would appall even my loyal Samantha. This, I fear, may be one of them.

“Right now, I plan to go downstairs and raid the liquor cabinet,” I say. “Back in a few.”

I'm practically giddy as I run down the steps. Tonight will be Ivy's coming-out party. No one will expect to see her there. Or even if they do, no one would ever expect her to show up looking so hot.

In the living room, I kneel down next to the once overflowing liquor cabinet. It hasn't had a proper restocking since my father died, and I've been slowly chipping away at its contents. Natalie never goes in there; the only thing she drinks is her Blanton's.

There are two things I need for tonight: a decent rum and
a syrupy sweet liqueur. I score half a bottle of Captain Morgan and an almost-full one of butterscotch schnapps. It's not until after I've closed the cabinet door and am standing up, one bottle in each hand, that I realize Natalie is lying on the sofa, staring at me. She doesn't say a word.

“Sam's driving,” I say, my voice steady.

Natalie blinks. Her eyes look so dead they send a shiver up my spine. She rolls over onto her side, facing the back of the couch. Thanks for the conversation, Mom.

There's a strange part of me that wants to scream, “Wake up, Natalie! Your underage daughter is stealing booze so she can party with a bunch of wasted football players. Shouldn't you care just a little?”

But I already know the answer. Yes, she
should
care. But she doesn't.

The only thing she really cares about is me winning my next crown.

My next stop is the kitchen, where I retrieve two of Natalie's Xannies. There are enough in there that she won't miss them. I take the pill crusher left over from when I was too afraid to swallow pills of my own and pulverize them into a pale blue dust. There's a small silver flask that was my father's; I use the funnel it came with to carefully pour the powdered pills into it. This I top off with the butterscotch schnapps. It's got a little burn but mostly tastes like sugar. Definitely sweet enough to cover the bitter taste of the pills.

The flask is my insurance policy. I need buttoned-up Ivy to
get a little wild tonight, and I don't know how many Captain and Diet Cokes it will take to get her there. A few nips off my special flask should do the trick.

My arms are full as I head back to my room—I've got the rum, the schnapps, the flask, a two-liter of Diet Coke, three glasses. I knock on the closed door with one elbow. Sam opens it and immediately relieves me of the bottles. I place everything else down on my dresser and Sam gets to work. I'm not exaggerating when I say that Samantha is an exceptional bartender. She's so precise and deliberate. Just another reason why I keep her around.

I am taking my first sip as Ivy reenters my bedroom, her pale cheeks flushed pink from the hot shower. I hand her a drink. She takes a sip and almost instantly spits it out.

“I don't drink,” she says.

Sam tells her, “Don't worry. You'll get used to the taste.”

“No,” Ivy says. “It's not just that I don't drink. I
can't
drink.”

I know what she means without saying it: she's on medication you aren't supposed to mix with alcohol. So's Natalie, but it's never stopped her.

“Drug companies have to put that on the labels,” I say, “because most people are too stupid to know how to handle both. But you can mix them. You just need to down a glass of water in between each drink.”

Ivy does not look convinced.

“They'll notice,” I say, “if you're the only one there sober.”

“What about Sam?” Ivy points out.

Without flinching, Sam says, “I'll have exactly two drinks while we're at the party, but they'll be weak and I'll stop a minimum of ninety minutes before we leave.”

“Oh.”

Now Ivy looks terrified. What did she think happened at the Puritan Party? We've been talking to her about it for more than a week now.

I'm irritated, but don't let it show. Instead, I say, “You know, Ivy, I think it's really cool that you're straight edge like that. We could use this to our advantage.”

“We can?” she asks, suddenly hopeful.

“Sure,” I say. “But you'll have to work extra hard to show everyone how fun you can be. Oh, and I almost forgot—I got you something.”

I hand her a bag from Victoria's Secret. Inside is a black satin strapless bra and a fitted long-sleeved shirt that bares both shoulders and a little bit of cleavage to boot.

“It's a sexy shirt,” I say, “even with the really long sleeves.” I say this last bit to her rather pointedly. I see the lightbulb go on over her head.
Really long sleeves hide really noticeable wrist scars
.

“Thank you,” she says in her whisper voice.

Touches like this—picking out a shirt to keep her secrets hidden—buy me Ivy's loyalty. I can see it in her eyes. She still fears me a little, as well she should, but there is love mixed in with that fear. Gratitude. Hell, at this rate I could probably ask her to throw the election and she'd do it.

If Sam and I play our parts perfectly, I may be able to get out
of this completely unscathed.

Am I that good? We'll just have to wait and see.

Sam and I get to work, she on hair and me on makeup. Sam trades the flat iron for a round brush and manages to give Ivy's caramel tresses some serious wave. Like a starlet from the 1940s, or a blond version of Dita Von Teese. I enhance the retro glam look Ivy's features are made for with a teensy bit of liquid eyeliner on her lash line, a hint of blush, and deep red lips.

“Holy shit,” I say. “You don't even look like you anymore.”

Ivy frowns.

“You look like the movie version of yourself,” I clarify. “You, but the best possible version of you.”

“Totally,” Sam agrees. “Complete hotness. They aren't going to know what hit them.”

Ivy's body relaxes visibly. The frown is replaced with a hint of a smile.

“Okay,” she says with what feels like grim determination. “Let's do this.”

Ivy's bravado lasts about as long as the walk from my bedroom to my car. Before she climbs into the backseat, she clutches my arm with her hand and says, “I think I'm going to be sick.”

“You aren't,” I say. “You're going to be
fine
. Trust me.”

Sam and I have outdone ourselves. Truly. Even though she's more skittish than a class hamster in a room full of kindergartners, she looks stunning. She's wearing a high-waisted teal-blue skirt that puffs out like the bottom of a party dress. This coupled
with the form-fitting black shirt shows off a tiny waist that makes even me a little bit envious. Ivy's legs are lengthened by a pair of three-inch heels, and our after-school lessons have paid off—she's walking in them like a champ.

Even Sam has made an effort tonight. She's wearing her nice jeans, the ones that give her a little bit of booty, and a green V-neck sweater that makes her eyes pop a bit. She did some complicated braid thing I've never seen on her before, and it looks almost pretty. When she swipes on a little lip gloss, I start to wonder if there's someone she's making an effort for. Someone other than me, I mean.

In the car, I pretend to take a hit off my flask, then offer some to Ivy. She shakes her head. A polite refusal. I hope Matt picked up something I can mix the butterscotch schnapps into. What would that even be? Ginger ale? Root beer? Root beer would work. I could call it Butterbeer and sell it to her as a mocktail.

There is a sound track to our drive, lots of girl power pop mixed with a little hip-hop for good measure. Ivy nibbles at a cuticle.

“Don't,” I tell her as I turn to face her. “You'll ruin your manicure.”

“Sorry.”

“Just relax,” I say. “You're walking in with us. You're walking in Spencer High's front-runner for Homecoming Queen. You're going to make this party your bitch. Just do what we talked about, okay?”

She nods grimly.

I wiggle the flask at her. “You're sure you don't want a drink? Even a little sip? It'll take the edge off.”

This time, Ivy doesn't say no. She doesn't shake her head. She just looks at the flask. I can see the gears turning. Finally, she says, “Maybe. Not yet. Let me see how it goes first.”

“Sure. Just let me know.”

We arrive fashionably late, but not as late as I'd arrive if it wasn't my boyfriend throwing the party. Things are already in high gear though. The music thumps from Matt's parents' state-of-the-art sound system. They're not here, of course. Officially, they can't condone the Puritan Party and what goes on there. But Matt's dad's a big football booster and former state champion. Hell, he probably bought all the booze himself.

Ivy is at my heels with Sam trailing a comfortable margin behind, holding on to our liquor. As luck would have it, the first red-blooded guy we walk into is none other than Bobby Jablonski himself.

“Holy sheets,” he says. “You ladies are looking
fine
.” He leans toward me and whispers in my ear, “Who's your hot friend?”

I am not making this up. He actually said that. I couldn't write this scene any better myself.

“Bobby!” I say with a playful poke to the chest. “It's Ivy. Ivy Proctor.”

His jaw drops like he's in a cartoon. “Fuck me,” he says, under his breath but loud enough that I can hear it. I place a hand on his shoulder, stand on my tippy toes, and say into his ear, “She has a crush on you, you know? Play your cards right and she
could be your date to Homecoming.”

Bobby shakes his head. “Already have one,” he says.

“Who?” I demand, already knowing the answer.

As if on cue, Erin Hewett sidles up to Bobby, lacing her little-girl fingers through his beefy digits. “Hi, Alexandra,” she says in a saccharine-sweet voice. “Great to see you.”

“I didn't know you two were a thing,” I say.

“We're not,” Bobby answers. If the look on her face is any indication, this comes as a surprise to Erin. “We're just friends.”

“Good friends,” Erin says, a hint of bitterness in her words.

“Yeah,” he says. “But we're not, like, going out.” He says this last thing while looking at Ivy, who's looking at the floor again. There's hope, I think, to get him and Ivy matched.

I mean, it's not like Bobby's the only eligible player on the team, or even the only single hot guy at Spencer. It's more the principle of the thing. I had him earmarked for Ivy; Erin snatching him wasn't part of my plan. So now the plan has changed. It'll take a little more work, but it will be totally worth it. Stealing Erin's date out from under her? That's the cherry on top.

“Have you been eating spinach?” I ask Erin.

“No. Why?”

I tap my pointer finger to my mouth. “You've got something green stuck up in there. You should go check it out in the bathroom.”

Okay, I'll admit it: that was not my smoothest moment. But it did the trick. She scuttles away, picking at her teeth with an acrylic nail.

“Now, Bobby,” I say. “Why would you get yourself a date for Homecoming without giving me a chance to set you up?”

He shrugged. “She just asked. No biggie.”

“She asked you? To Homecoming?”

Bobby nods.

“Then it's not a real date,” I say. “And you're still available.”

For the record: I have absolutely no problems with a girl asking a guy out on a date.

Ivy is still standing behind me, still staring at the floor. I reach out and grab her hand, pulling her in closer.

“Bobby, I desperately need to use the ladies' room. Can you be a sweetie and show Ivy around the house for me?” In one deft move, I place her hand in his, and exit stage left. Sam follows me without any prompting.

Before I can say a word, she tells me she's on it. I take the bottles from her, and she heads off to find Erin. Then I make my way into the kitchen so I can whip up my special cocktail for Ivy. She's going to need the assist. I'll have to be careful, though. I want to get her loose enough that she can shine, but not so loose that Bobby gets the wrong idea. Sluts don't win Homecoming Queen. Nice girls do. Nice girls who boys wish they could fuck, but aren't given the chance to, because the only one they'd dream of giving it up to is their long-term boyfriends.

Suddenly, I have another idea. Maybe I shouldn't be slipping Ivy my special cocktail.

Maybe I should be giving it to Erin Hewett instead.