Winning (18 page)

There are nine days until the Homecoming dance and I do not have a date.

Correction: I do not have a
proper
date. Instead, I have a horndog freshman who has asked me to said dance no less than four times since the Puritan Party. Apparently there is a clock on his invitation now. This morning, I found a note in my locker that read, “3 freshman honies [sic] have asked ME to Homecoming. If you don't say yes by 2morrow, I'm going w/ 1 of them. PEACE.”

I'll admit, I find it kind of charming that James told me this via an old-school analog locker note and not, you know, a text message. But. Taking Matt's little brother to the last Homecoming dance of my high school career would be social suicide. It'd look desperate, for one thing. Although I don't know why, exactly. Plenty of senior guys date “freshmeat” girls (they actually call them that, too—I didn't make that up) and nobody says boo. But an older woman with a younger guy? Somebody call Olivia Pope, because that is a SCANDAL.

There is a part of me that wishes I was gutsy enough to just
say yes to James. I mean, I didn't even
go
to Homecoming last year, because I didn't want to fly stag. It's too depressing to be at a dance all by yourself, unless a bunch of your girls are going by themselves, too. But even then we all sit around looking for some boy, single or not, to ask us to slow dance.

That was what happened freshman year. The following year, when I was a sophomore, Jonah Dorsey and I were already a thing, and I went with him. We had the best time. He asked me what color my dress was (sapphire blue) and bought a tie to match. He got me a wrist corsage of baby white roses and blue satin ribbon. He took me to dinner at Olive Garden before the dance. He didn't stop staring at me the entire night. At one point he whispered to me, “You're the most beautiful girl in the entire school.”

I still miss having Jonah as a boyfriend. He was, like, the
perfect
boyfriend
. Until Alexandra had to screw everything up, that is.

My plan to exact revenge on Alexandra has stalled. Nothing is going the way it should be. The idea to seduce Sam into giving up the goods on her has fallen flat, even though I've tried everything short of flashing her my boobs. Maybe she isn't really into girls.

Of course, just as I am about to give up, Sam invites me to have lunch with her. Well, “invites” is a strong word. It was more along the lines of her saying “See you at lunch?” in passing. But she was smiling when she said it.

So maybe my plan isn't dead after all.

As luck would have it, Sam is sitting alone at her usual lunch table when I make it through the checkout line. I scan the caf and see that Alexandra is cozied up to Matt (retch) and Ivy is somewhere altogether different, chatting with Jen Tyner and a bunch of juniors. Now is definitely the time for me to make my move.

“Hi, there,” I say, casual-like, as I put my tray down.

“Hey, Sloane. What's up?”

I shrug. “Same old, same old. You?”

A slow smile spreads across Sam's face, lighting her up head to toe. Seriously, you've never seen a girl go from plain to pretty that fast. “Ditto,” she says, but I'd bet money that's a total lie. Something is definitely up with her.

Neither of us is particularly good at small talk, which makes for an uncomfortable start to lunch. It doesn't help that I keep catching Alexandra eyeing us up.

“So,” I say, “are you going to Homecoming?”

Sam nods. “Probably. Yes.”

“Taking someone special?”

She doesn't respond to this. Instead, she arches one eyebrow in my direction.

“Sorry,” I say. “I didn't mean to pry.”

Sam creates a tall stack of Oreo cookies, then unstacks them in strange patterns, almost like she's creating shapes with checkers. It's weird, is what it is.

“Do you always play with your food?” I ask, trying to keep things light.

“Nervous habit.”

“Why are you so nervous?”

Sam shrugs. “Homecoming, I guess.”

“What about it?”

I watch Sam do an eye-sweep of the caf, like she's looking for hidden federal agents amongst the Spencer High student population. Then she turns to me and says, “Cone of silence?”

“Sure. Yeah. What is it?”

“I'm kind of worried about Ivy Proctor,” Sam says. “Please don't tell anyone I said that. It's just . . . Well, she's been through so much already. I'm worried that the pressure of Homecoming is getting to her.”

We both look over to where Ivy is sitting. Her face is animated as she talks to Jen. She must've said something funny, too, because Jen starts laughing in that loud, braying way of hers.

“I know she
looks
okay,” Sam says. “But think about who's trained her.”

Our gaze turns to Matt's table, where Alexandra is practically glowering at us.

“Sam?”

“Yes?”

“Why the sudden interest in Ivy? Alexandra, I mean.”

Sam crams one of the Oreos into her mouth whole and crunches down. Then she pops another, which she chases down with a big drag off her juice box.

“I don't know for sure,” she says, her voice so low I have to
lean in to hear her. “But I think it might have something to do with Erin Hewett.”

“Really?”

She nods. “Like I said, I could be wrong. But Lexi was really irritated when she found out Erin made the ballot. She said she would never let her win. I thought, when Lexi dropped out of the race, she'd chosen to be the bigger person. But now . . .”

“Now you think she's running Ivy to make sure Erin doesn't get the crown,” I finish for her.

It's a solid theory. Alexandra Miles is exactly the kind of person who would sacrifice herself to make sure the enemy goes down. Only, in this case, it's not even a sacrifice. Sure, she may not win Homecoming Queen, but if Ivy does, then Alexandra will be branded a saint. And as long as she doesn't squander everyone's goodwill, she'll be a shoo-in for Prom Queen in the spring.

“Genius,” I say.

“It would be,” Sam says, “if it didn't mean hurting Ivy.”

I don't follow this line of thinking.

“Lexi's really pushing Ivy to talk about what happened sophomore year,” Sam explains. “Her breakdown. What led up to it. The time she spent in the mental hospital. She keeps telling Ivy that this is what's going to win her the election, and maybe it will—but then she'll win out of pity, and Ivy will realize that. Can you imagine what this will do to her self-esteem?”

I shake my head in disbelief. “She's that vindictive? Alexandra?”

“I've already said too much,” Sam replies, before shoving another cookie into her mouth.

I think back to that day at play rehearsal, when I told Alexandra that she was due for a takedown. At the time I'd thought maybe Erin Hewett was the perfect person to do it, but I had no idea that Alexandra had it in for her. I just thought that, being new and all, she was the person most likely to give Alexandra a run for her money.

But now Sam's dropped this handy piece of knowledge straight into my lap, gift-wrapped and everything.

I knew my flirting was working.

I can use this to my advantage. I can campaign on Erin's behalf—use what Sam told me about Ivy and how she's concerned for her to help bolster the vote.

I can steal this election out from under Alexandra and her fake protégé, and I can stick it to her in the process.

“Don't give it another thought,” I tell Sam confidently. “I've got this.”

Nine days. Not a lot of time to accomplish something so big. Except, I know exactly where to start.

Guess I'll be going to the dance with James after all.

Erin's house looks like something out of a Pottery Barn catalog. At least, I think it does. I don't get to look very long before she takes my hand and starts running up the stairs. I follow her into her bedroom, where she closes the door behind her. She was right—there's no lock—but she moves a pair of hand weights against the bottom, like some kind of hillbilly security system.

“Hi,” she says, grinning.

“Hi,” I say back.

“I want to see you.”

“Hello?” I say. “You
are
seeing me.”

“No,” she says. “I want to
see
you.” She steps closer to me and starts unbuttoning my shirt, slowly and deliberately, until my bra is fully exposed. Then she steps back, grabs her sweater by the hem, and pulls it off over her head.

We kiss, bra-to-bra. Her hands are on my bare skin. Mine are in her hair. When we break, Erin kicks off her shoes and yanks her skirt down. She's standing there, clad only in her lavender lace bra and matching panties. It's not all that revealing—no
more than a typical bikini at the pool—but I can't take my jeans off fast enough.

There is more kissing, more touching. Erin guides me over to her bed, gently pushes me down so that I am on my back, wastes no time climbing on top of me. My heart is racing so fast I'm afraid it might explode. She leans over to kiss me, her bra in my face. This is when I realize that Erin's bra hooks in the front. Without thinking it through, I reach up and start to unclasp it. We both gasp when I am successful.

“I'm . . . I'm . . . I'm sorry,” I say. “I—”

“I'm not,” she says. She reaches down for my hands and moves them to her. She is soft and warm and I want to do more, so much more.

We kiss again.

This goes on forever. Long enough for the sun to go down and the room to go dark. At some point, we both take off our underwear. I don't know if what we're doing is considered sex or not, but it certainly
feels
like sex.

And yet it's so much more than that.

What it really feels like is
love
.

“I'm hungry,” Erin says after a while. “Let's go heat up some dinner.”

We put our clothes back on in the dark. I don't know about Erin but I feel sort of . . . I don't know. Bashful? I've never even let someone see me this naked before, not even Lexi.

Downstairs, Erin roots around the fridge and offers up a
bunch of leftovers: pizza, freezer lasagna, some chicken noodle soup. “Or,” she says, “I could make you one of my semi-famous grilled cheese sandwiches.”

“That,” I say. “I want that.”

I sit on a stool at the breakfast counter, watching Erin slice cheese, butter bread, and put it all together in a hissing-hot skillet. She is beyond adorable. I see the small brown mole on the corner of her neck and think,
I've kissed that mole. My tongue has been on that mole.

“Did I tell you that I am officially not going with Bobby Jablonski to Homecoming?” Erin says.

“No. What happened?”

She turns and shoots me a look that says
you know exactly what happened
.

“Does this mean you're going solo?” I ask hopefully.

“No,” she said.

No? Does she mean she's going with me?

“This kid Jake asked me,” Erin continues, her words like little knives in my heart.

“Jake Tosh?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Bobby was trying to orchestrate this weird double date with Jake and Ivy and him and me, but I know he wants to go with Ivy, so I just let him off the hook.”

This shouldn't hurt as much as it does. Erin was always clear about us needing to be a secret until after Homecoming. And I knew she was planning on going to the dance with Bobby. What's the difference if it's Jake instead?

“Besides,” Erin says, “it doesn't really matter who I go with, when the person I wish I were going with is you.”

My heart doesn't warm when she says this. In part because it totally sounds like a line Lexi would drop on someone. It just has that air of calculation to it. Of unreality.

I clear my throat. “We could go together,” I say.

“I thought we agreed to wait.”

“We did. Until after Homecoming. But the thing is, at Spencer, the vote for king and queen takes place within the first half of the dance, so that they have time to tally the votes. Once it's closed, there's nothing anyone can do to change it.”

Erin doesn't respond right away. She flips the sandwiches, lays the spatula down, and turns to face me.

“It's not about the votes,” she says. “It's not like I'm going to win anyway.”

“But you could,” I say.

“How?”

“You could start by making a surprise killing at the Q&A tomorrow. Principal Frick approves the questions ahead of time—can't you get them from her?”

“No,” she says. “I can't and I won't.”

Erin grabs two plates from the cabinet, puts one sandwich on each, cuts them on the bias, and hands one over to me. The outside of the bread is crisp and toasted perfectly. I bite in, releasing tons of hot, oozing cheese. Some of it drips down on my chin, but I don't care. It really is the best grilled cheese sandwich I've ever had, and I waste no time in telling Erin this.

“You're amazing,” I say. “And you deserve to be queen.”

Erin grins. “You're only saying that because I let you get to third base.”

“No,” I assure her. “I'm saying it because it's true.”

Here, I pause. Every fiber in my body wants to tell her about Lexi's plan—about what she has in store for Ivy—but if I do that, there's no turning back. I will be declaring my loyalty to another. And despite what just happened upstairs, I can't shake this niggling feeling that it all seems a little too good to be true. Erin, I mean. Or, rather, Erin and me.

Is there really an Erin and me? Or is that just part of
her
master plan?

Is she capable of being that devious?

“What are you thinking?” Erin asks, breaking my train of thought.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” she says. “I can see it on your face. There's something you want to say. So, spill it.”

The desire to tell her everything wrestles with the part of me that's afraid it's all a lie. Desire is winning by a narrow margin.

“To be honest, I'm worried about what this whole competition is doing to Ivy,” I say carefully, not sure how much of Lexi's plan to reveal. “You didn't see her at the Puritan Party. She was . . . different. Not herself. And after everything she's been through . . .”

Erin nods. She takes a bite of her sandwich and chews thoughtfully. “You're a good person, Samantha Schnitt.”

This, I think, is the worst possible thing she could say to me right now. Because I am so
not
a good person.

I tell her, “You don't know me as well as you think you do.”

“I'm getting to know you.”

“True.”

Erin looks at me, not saying anything, with an intensity that makes me feel more naked than when I was actually naked.

“Stop,” I tell her.

But she doesn't stop. She barely even blinks.

It makes me squirm.

“Am I the first?” I blurt out, not even sure where the words are coming from. “Girl, I mean. Am I the first one you've kissed?”

“No,” Erin says. “Am I yours?”

“No.”

She nods. “Full disclosure? I did know that you were gay. Before we even met.”

“Frick told you?”

She nods again. “But she failed to mention how utterly adorable you are.”

Erin says this last thing with a disarming grin, punctuating the sentence by biting into a triangle of grilled cheese. And just like that, I
know
. She's for real. This—whatever is happening between us—it's for real, too.

“She's setting her up,” I say. “Ivy. Alexandra's setting her up big-time.”

The story pours out of me before I can stop myself. Lexi's plan. Why she felt she needed a plan in the first place. The
lengths to which I know she'll go, just to make sure she secures that crown. The path of destruction she'll leave in her wake. What I think it will do to Ivy Proctor.

“That poor girl,” Erin says when I have finished.

“I know. Ivy doesn't deserve to be treated like this.”

“Agreed. But I wasn't talking about Ivy.”

“Surely you don't mean Lexi.”

“I surely do,” she responds. “I mean, yeah, she's hard-core evil. There's no denying that. But, like, people aren't
born
that kind of evil. That's learned behavior.”

I think about Lexi's mom, who she was before Mr. Miles died, and who she became afterward. I think about how she's always tried to craft Lexi in her own image, and how even Lexi's way of rebelling—by becoming the anti-Natalie—is still pretty much a reflection of her mother.

But then I think about some of the truly terrible things that Lexi has done over the years, even before her dad passed away. I think about what she's got in store for Ivy, and how I was prepared to help her execute the scheme, just like I always do.

Like I always
did
.

“It has to stop,” I say. “Lexi's reign of terror. We can't let her destroy Ivy Proctor all over again.”

Erin arches an eyebrow, like she's asking me a question.

“I'm serious,” I say. “We can do it if we work together. You. Me. Sloane Fahey. Nothing would make Sloane happier than being part of a plot to take Lexi down.”

“So you want to fight evil with evil?”

I have a feeling I'm supposed to say no, but I can't. This is Lexi we're talking about. I swallow hard and say, “Is there any other way?”

Erin doesn't respond at first. Instead, she chews through the last of her sandwich. Then she wipes the grilled-cheese grease from her hands with a paper towel and sighs a weary sigh.

“Okay,” she says finally. “When do we begin?”