Winning (16 page)

Erin Hewett is a little drunk. No, she's more than a little drunk. She's practically
wasted
.

I followed her into the basement, holding a drink that Lexi mixed for her. There's something in it, but I don't know what. Lexi said, “Don't drink the one marked for Erin. Trust me on this.”

At first I thought she just spit in it or laced it with a laxative or something. But after Erin had a few sips, her cheeks got really red, and she started to slur her words a bit. By the time she finished the thing, she was wobbling when she walked.

“We should sit,” I tell her.

“What?”

“Sit,” I say more loudly. There's different music in the basement, louder music. It's dark down here but with neon party lights flashing. I half expect someone to have a seizure.

It's clear that this is the place where most of the people are going to hook up. There's a huge L-shaped couch that takes up a big chunk of the room, plus a double-wide chair, a couple of
beanbags, and two video game rockers. Hayley Langer is taking advantage of one of them; she's straddling this guy Brent, practically sucking his face off while his hands make their way up her skirt.

Erin is watching the Hayley Langer spectacle, too, only she looks more sad than disgusted.

“I want to kiss somebody,” she tells me.

“Oh?”

“Don't you ever feel like that? Like there's this ache inside of you, and you just . . . Never mind.”

I want her to keep talking but I don't know how to tell her that and not sound like some sort of perv.

“It's hard to talk in here,” Erin says. “Wanna go somewhere else?”

I nod. She starts to walk away and motions for me to follow.

We find a door that leads to a walk-in closet. This must be where Matt's family stores all of their sports gear. There are shoulder pads and skis and basketballs and about half a dozen pairs of sneakers. The whole room smells like feet.

Erin locks the door behind us. Interesting.

“Can I ask you something?” she says, her voice thick with whatever cocktail Lexi had me pump her full of.

“Sure.”

“Why does she hate me?”

“Who, Lexi?”

“Yes. Her. Why?”

“She doesn't,” I lie.

Erin shakes her head. “She totally does, Samantha. It's so obvious. And she doesn't even know me!”

“She's threatened by you,” I say before I can stop myself. I regret the words even as they're leaving my lips. If this ever got back to Lexi . . . I'll just have to deny it. Who's Lexi going to believe anyway?

“No, she straight up hates me. I don't know what she said to Bobby, but now he's trying to wiggle his way out of Homecoming. It's so humiliating.”

Erin kicks some shoes out of the way and plops to the floor in a decidedly ungraceful move. She reaches up and tugs on the bottom of my sweater. “Sit with me,” she says.

So I do.

We sit side by side on this cold, stinky floor, so close that we're practically touching. The air crackles around us. I have to keep reminding myself that I must be misreading the situation. She likes Bobby, after all.

“It's hard being new,” Erin says. “I really liked my old life. I had the most amazing friends, a super-cute boyfriend, and, you know, the whole Homecoming thing. There's a really good chance I would've won. And I know it's stupid, but, like, who doesn't want to win a crown?”

“Me,” I say, holding up one hand. Erin chuckles. “And you could still win a crown,” I point out. “That part hasn't changed.”

“No, no, no,” she says, shaking her head too hard. “I won't.”

She starts to cry. Tears actually fall from her eyes, her head bobbing around like she's a floppy rag doll.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.”

Erin buries her head into my shoulder. I let my right arm reach around her in a side hug of sorts. She snuggles in closer, crying more quietly now.

She's sad, I remind myself. She likes Bobby. Not you.

“You're so nice,” Erin says, her words muffled by my sweater. “So, so nice. And so pretty, too.”

Okay, there's no mistaking that. Why is she commenting on my level of attractiveness? And lying about it?

Erin lifts her head slightly, her emerald eyes latching on to mine. “I really wanna kiss someone,” she says again, staring straight at me. “I really want to, like, so bad—”

My mouth lands on hers before she can finish the word. She parts my lips with her tongue, gentle and firm all at the same time. She tastes salty-sweet.

She tastes like heaven.

We kiss for a long, long time. There are hungry kisses, soft kisses, sweet kisses. She touches my face. I touch her hair. We press closer together. I can feel her breasts against my own.

And then, just like that, it stops.

“Oh god,” she says. “Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god.” Erin's head drops into her hands, and she rocks back and forth. “I can't,” she moans. “I can't— I'm not—”

“Gay?” I finish for her.

“No,” she says. “It's not that. I'm not . . .
out
.”

“Oh.”

“I'm not
ready
.”

Of course she's not. “I get it.”

This closet feels hot. I can't take the stench. I start to stand up, but Erin pulls me back down.

“Don't go,” she says. “Not like this.”

Erin reaches for my hand, clasping it in both of hers. “Gimme time,” she says, still slurring her words a bit. “I do like you, Samantha. I just need a little time.”

I know what she's going to say next before she says it.

“Can you wait for me? Just until after the election.”

I don't know whether to be excited or insulted. But I look at her, this girl I just made out with, this girl I kissed for longer than I've ever kissed anyone, even Lexi—

I decide on excited.

With one quick move, I put my hands on both sides of Erin's face, pull her close to me, and kiss her deeply. I try to say what I am feeling with the kiss: You are adorable. I want to keep kissing you. I don't care if it makes my best friend hate me. You might just be worth it.

“Wow,” she says when we part. “You're really good at that.”

“After the election,” I say. “I can wait until then.”

As I slip out of the walk-in closet, the significance of this isn't lost on me.

Erin Hewett isn't out yet, but she will be. She all but said so.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll end up with an actual girlfriend, instead of a friend who's a girl who lets me make out
with her once in a while. A girl I know doesn't love me, not the way I love her.

And, really—I can be loyal to Lexi and lust after Erin at the same time, can't I?

Can't I?

It's well after midnight by the time the Puritan Party starts to wind down. The event has been a success by all counts: Ivy was a hit. Bobby Jablonski is totally hot for her. Sam kept Erin busy for a big chunk of time. When Hewett resurfaced, she was trashed, and let me tell you: Erin Hewett is a sad, ugly drunk. The girls who told me how much they admired what I was doing for Ivy were the same girls who looked at Erin Hewett like she was some rando skank that crashed their sacred party.

It gets better.

When I'm ready to leave, I can't find Ivy. I search the basement. I search the first floor. I check outside. I knock on bathroom doors. Matt's parents' bedroom has been marked off-limits, but I sneak in there anyway. It's the last place I can possibly look.

She's not in the room, but the door to the master bath is cracked open. I walk in to find Ivy Proctor passed out in the tub, skirt smushed up around her thighs. I can even see her panties.

But that's not all I see. Right by her hand, on the lip of the tub: a pink Lady Schick. Was she . . . ? Or is Matt's mom's razor
just in the right place at the right time? It's up to me to make the most of this situation. As carefully as I can, I wedge the handle of the razor into Ivy's clenched fist.

I whip out my phone, make sure it's on silent, and start taking pictures. This is beyond perfect. It's bad enough she's so obliterated at a party, but to be passed out in a stranger's bathroom? Flashing her lady business? Holding a
razor
, no less? Frick will shit her pants.

When I'm satisfied with the number of pics I've taken, I tuck my phone away and start to rouse Ivy. “Sweet pea,” I say. “Time to go home.”

Ivy's eyes flutter open. “Oh, shit,” she says, before promptly vomiting all over herself.

I don't hold back her hair. I just take more pictures.

I could clean Ivy up all by myself, or with Sam's help. Instead, I reach out to Matt.
Come quick,
I text him.
It's Ivy. Your parents' bathroom. Don't tell anyone.

When Matt comes to my rescue, I lock the door behind him. “You can't say anything about this to anyone,” I say. “Please, Matty. She'd be so embarrassed. She was just nervous, is all. She drank too much on an empty stomach.”

“It's okay, babe,” he assures me. “It happens. Look at me last weekend.”

“I know you understand,” I say. “But the others might not. And she's so close, Matty. I think she might actually win Homecoming Queen!”

He snags a long-sleeved T-shirt of his mom's and turns around, ever the gentleman, when I swap it in for Ivy's vomit-covered top. It's about two sizes too big and hangs low enough to hide the wet spot left on her skirt from me cleaning up the puke.

“How am I going to sneak her out of here?” I say.

“Wait here,” Matt says. “I can clear everyone out in fifteen.”

At times like this, I wish I loved Matt for real. He's a good guy. Not the brightest bulb in the box, but definitely decent. Plus, he's so damned good-looking. And buff. And totally in love with me, which may be his most attractive quality of all.

When Matt returns, it's with Sam in tow. “Jesus, Lexi,” she says. “What the hell was in those drinks you were making?”

Leave it to Sam to screw up a near-perfect situation.

“Root beer,” I say. “Like, ninety percent root beer.”

“And what—ten percent crack?”

“She's fine, Sam,” Matt says in a soothing voice. “We've all been there.”

When he turns to lift Ivy out of the tub, I shoot Sam a warning look.
Shut up
, it says.
Don't blow this
.

She nods wearily.
Message received
.

It takes the three of us to get Ivy safely down the stairs and into the car. She's so tiny, but passed out, her entire five-foot-one-inch frame is nothing but deadweight.

“She's sleeping over at my place,” I tell Matt. “I'll get her hydrated before I bring her home. I promise.”

“You're such a good person,” he says, before kissing me good night.

After he says this, I swear I can see Sam rolling her eyes.

Sam is the first of us to get up in the morning. I awake as she's putting her shoes on.

“Were you about to sneak out?” I ask, joking.

“I just need to go home,” she replies. No joke there.

Something is up with Sam. I knew it from the minute she called me out in the bathroom. She was weird on the ride home, didn't want to recap the party with me last night, and now, this.

I could ask her. I could say, “What happened to you last night?” But it doesn't mean she'd tell me.

Better to give her some time to cool off.

“Take my car,” I tell her. “You can pick me up on the way to church.”

She considers this for a second, then says, “You have to get Ivy home. I'll just meet you there.”

“But how are you getting home?”

“Wyatt,” she says. “He's probably already on his way.”

I don't like this. I don't like how she's talking to me, or how she's not looking at me, or how she's behaving with me. Seriously, what the fuck happened at that party?

I push back my comforter and slide out of bed. I'm wearing a tank top, no bra, and a pair of cotton boy shorts. Sam's eyes are drawn to my rack, same as always. I go to her and slip my arms around her in a hug.

But Sam doesn't melt into me like she normally does. She stiffens up.

Now I know something is wrong. I just don't know what, or how to fix it.

I whisper in her ear, “Thank you for last night. You were a rock star. I don't know what I'd do without you. But I know I never want to find out.”

My plan is to let my lips graze hers as I pull away. It's a move I've perfected over the years. Only this time, Sam turns away. My lips land on her cheek, not her mouth.

I stand back, my eyes wide open in horror.

“I don't want you to do that,” Sam says quietly. “Not unless you mean it.”

She turns and walks away before I can even respond.

It's nearly noon before Ivy stirs. I consider waking her up hours earlier, as I usually attend the eleven-o'clock service at Second Presbyterian, but she was stone-cold out. I even texted her mom from her phone, to tell her that I (Ivy) would be staying late for pancakes. I don't need Mrs. Proctor getting all suspicious or worried.

Skipping Sunday-morning service the day after the Puritan Party is kind of a no-no. In Spencer, it's the day that gets the second-highest teen attendance all year long (the first being Christmas, of course). But it would've been worse showing up with Ivy so completely hungover. Matt's family attends the Family at Five service at Grace Journey; I'll just go with them later tonight.

I'll be honest: I don't give a crap about God. He certainly doesn't give a crap about me. Between stealing my father and saddling me with Natalie, I know for sure I've been forsaken.

But I'm a Midwestern pageant girl. God is not optional. So I play the part, and I play it well. Just the right mix of sinner and saint.

Just the right mix of everything.

While Ivy struggles to get conscious, I go brew a fresh pot of strong coffee. I bring her a mug with two Tylenol and four Tums. She takes these things silently, swallows the pills and chews the tablets, and drains half the mug. Then she digs into her purse, takes out a small handful of other pills, and slams those down, too.

“For my broken brain,” she says. “I should have taken them hours ago.”

“Your brain's not broken!”

“You don't know,” Ivy tells me. “You barely know me at all.”

“I know that you're a good person,” I say. “And last night, you were the hit of the party. Seriously, Ivy, you've got this election in the bag.”

She shakes her head like she's trying to clear cobwebs. “No,” she says. “I did bad things last night. I'm not supposed to drink, Alexandra. These pills I'm on? I'm not supposed to drink
ever
, let alone get drunk. I
told
you that.”

“Listen,” I say, “I kept an eye on you the whole time. I would never have let you hurt yourself. When I found you with that razor, I took it away and everything.”

At the word “razor,” Ivy's eyes fly open and the color drains from her face. “What razor?” she asks.

“When I found you in the bathroom, you were holding a razor. But it didn't look like you cut yourself or anything. Believe me, I checked.”

Ivy tugs the cuffs on the T-shirt even farther down her hands. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Sure,” I say. “Okay.”

I ask Ivy which church she and her family attend. They don't go every week, she tells me, but when they do, it's Grace Journey.

“We used to be regulars,” she says. “Before . . . you know. The incident.”

“You have to stop calling it that,” I say. “‘The incident' sounds like something shameful.”

“It
is
shameful.”

“No,” I say. “You need to own it. This bad thing happened, but you can't let it define you. You were hurting. You got help. You rebooted your life. Now you're on your way to becoming Homecoming Queen. You're a success story of epic proportions.”

Ivy is looking down at her feet, but I see a small smile form on her lips. “I had fun last night, didn't I?”

“Yes,” I say, beaming. “You one hundred percent did. I couldn't have asked for a better coming-out party for you.

“Now,” I continue, “you just have to keep it going for two more weeks.”