Winning (2 page)

By the time the bell rings, our list is fairly complete. And it is long.

In addition to creating and distributing campaign posters, there are several events for which we'll need to prepare. The nominations go live about a month before the Homecoming dance, which is where the voting takes place. In between there's the pep rally assembly, where each of the candidates is interviewed onstage, and the Homecoming game itself, where the candidates make short, unscripted speeches during halftime, on a prompt pulled randomly from a box.

The Q&As aren't where queens are made, though. That all happens outside of the spotlight. Casual conversations in homeroom. Circulating the tables at lunch. Sucking up to the right people during after-school activities. Harnessing the power of social media.

“Looks like we have our work cut out for us,” Lexi says, and by “we” I know she means “you,” because—let's face it—
I'm
the one who will be doing 90 percent of the work for her
Homecoming Queen campaign. Just like
I'm
the one who'll be writing her paper on
A Streetcar Named Desire
for AP English tonight, while she's off logging time with Natalie.

Matt insists on walking us to class every day, even though his next one is in the exact opposite direction. Then he lingers so long that he literally has to run the length of the school if he wants to make it to World History before the final bell.

The halls are fairly wide, but so are Matt's shoulders. I imagine he has to take out a few people on his way.

He suctions himself to Lexi's side, wrapping one heavily muscled arm around her and hoisting her Marc by Marc Jacobs backpack onto the other. Together, and despite Lexi's slender frame, the two of them take up a lot of space—so much so that I always end up trailing a few steps behind.

Everyone's so busy waving at Lexi and fist-bumping Matt that no one ever notices me. They're like Power Couple Camo.

But it's fine. I can see more from here. And there is so much to see.

Matt's on the shorter side for a QB, only about five foot ten, but what he lacks in height he makes up for in genetically perfect everything else. Dark caramel hair he keeps military-neat for football, then grows out in the off-season. Big brown eyes framed by lashes almost as long as Lexi's. A pouty poem of a mouth that always seems to be smiling, even when it's not.

Just Google “Channing Tatum high school pictures” and you'll get a pretty decent idea of what I'm talking about.

And then there's Lexi. Lexi, whose legs go on for days, despite
the fact that she barely clocks in at five foot six. Whose long, raven mane flows down her back like shiny black water. Whose sapphire eyes look photoshopped even when she's standing a foot in front of you. Whose lollipop pink lips are plump and perfect even when they're naked, without so much as a hint of gloss.

They taste pretty sweet, those lips.

When we reach Mr. Banerjee's class, Matt and Lexi assume their standard position—Lexi leaning against the wall, Matt leaning into Lexi. I duck around them and head inside. I've seen that show too many times to need another encore. Here's how it goes: things will be whispered, giggles will be exchanged, and if there are no teachers in the hallway, spit will be swapped. It happens, exactly this way, every. Single. Day.

What
doesn't
happen every single day is a New Girl sighting. So I'm beyond surprised to see Mr. Banerjee deep in thoughtful conversation with a pint-sized prepster who does not look at all familiar. She has chin-length, strawberry-blond hair and two dimples punctuating the sides of her smile.

They're too far away for me to read their lips, and I don't want to get caught staring, so I pull out my copy of
Streetcar
and pretend to read, sneaking glances whenever I can.

Lexi slides into the desk next to me. “Who the hell is that?” she whispers.

I shrug. “Never seen her before.”

“Is she wearing a
skort
?”

I stifle a snicker. “Yeah, I think so.”

Lexi never loses her sunny smile, but her eyes have darkened.
She doesn't like surprises, and we've somehow made it all the way to sixth period without hearing a single word about this particular New Girl. That's on me. Lexi's made it very clear; it's my job to keep an ear to the ground at all times. With a mom in the PTO, that's usually pretty easy.

I start to whisper an apology when Lexi lifts her hand to silence me. “She's cute,” she says mildly.

“I guess.” I shrug. “If you like that sort of thing.”

She turns to me, the corners of her lips quirking upward. “Not your type?”

I blink, not sure I want to respond. The bell rings then, ending the uncomfortable exchange.

Mr. Banerjee and the New Girl move to the middle of the room. “Class, I'd like you to meet Erin Hewett. She is a new senior and comes to us by way of San Diego, California. Erin, please introduce yourself.”

Erin's cheeks pinken just a smidge. Despite what I said to Lexi, I
do
think she's kind of adorable, skort and all.

“Hi, everyone,” Erin says with a little wave. “I, um, just moved here, like Mr. B. said. My mom's family is from Indiana, though, so I used to visit lots when I was younger. Um, I was supposed to start the school year here, but there were some real estate . . . issues? Anyway, I'm happy to be here now. Oh, and I might be cheering for the Spartans! I'm, um, a tumbler.”

There's something totally disarming about the way Erin delivers this monologue, and it's immediately apparent that more than one boy takes notice.

Lexi raises her hand, and Mr. Banerjee calls on her. “I just wanted to say welcome. I'm Alexandra, and if there's anything you need, I want to personally offer my assistance.”

“That's really sweet,” Erin says. “Thank you, Alex.”

I flinch. Lexi hates it when people call her that. “Do I
look
like a boy?” she's apt to snark, as soon as they're out of earshot. Of course,
she's
the one who got everyone to call
me
Sam back in second grade.

“Alexandra,” Lexi corrects in a friendly tone, never once breaking character.

“Alex
andra
,” Erin repeats. “Gotcha.”

There's something almost dismissive in the way she does this. Just a whiff of condescension, but I can tell it's there, and, if that diamond edge in her eyes can be believed, so can Lexi.

Erin takes a seat in the middle of the room. Lexi and I exchange glances. I can tell she's thinking the same thing:

We are going to need to keep our eyes on this one.

About halfway through eighth period, it hits me how little time I have to prepare for this year's Homecoming race. Between my schoolwork, college applications, play rehearsal, Key Club meetings, and a somewhat needy boyfriend (albeit one of super-hottie proportions), I do not have a ton of free time. And what little free time I do have is claimed by my mother. Or, more accurately, my mother's plans for me.

Becoming Miss America was Natalie's dream. When she stalled out before ever making it to the big show, and then got knocked up with me before she could have a second at-bat, becoming Miss America became her dream for me.

Competing in pageants was never optional. It was just something I did, even before I started to crawl. Natalie was fanatical about my “career,” too. She wasn't like those fame-hungry moms on TV, entering their kid in any pageant that offered a crown. No, she was picky. Natalie doesn't believe in glitz pageants, especially not for little girls. I never had a flipper of fake teeth, never wore a wig of someone else's human hair. My talent never
focused on something exploitative, like those poor creatures whose mothers stick them into Shirley Temple skirts and teach them how to shake nonexistent tatas.

No, I always sang, always dressed in something respectable. My pageant gowns were more glamorous than sexy. And I have yet to compete in something that had a swimsuit competition, though I have had to do fitness and active wear.

I started working with my pageant coach, Craig, about five years ago. He preps me for almost everything—talent, evening gown, interview, presentation, platform development, modeling, dance, hair and makeup. You name it, Craig covers it.

Except for The Walk. That's Natalie's area of expertise, or so she believes. The Walk, she says, is what made her famous. And it's The Walk that would have carried her all the way to Miss America, had she not been the victim of pageant sabotage.

The way Natalie tells it, on random nights when the magic combination of booze and pills turn her confessional, she was the odds-on favorite for Miss Indiana the year she competed. But then she took a turn too fast during the evening gown competition and landed on the side of her right ankle. She claims that someone put bowling wax on the soles of her shoes, but that was never proven.

Natalie started to recover mid-fall; she landed softly and didn't break anything, but she did end up with a bad sprain. Despite the pain, she kept going. By the time she came out for swimsuit, her ankle had swollen to almost twice its size. She got a standing O during her final lap around the stage—at least,
according to Natalie—but it wasn't enough to rescue her score. She was named the second runner-up. Before she could work her way back the following year, my still-legally-married-to-his-second-wife father managed to get her knocked up with me, prohibiting her from competing for (and winning) that ultimate title: Miss America.

By effectively ending her pageant career I involuntarily signed up for mine. She entered me into my first competition when I was just shy of six months old. When I won the 0–12 months division, she knew she'd made the right decision in keeping me.

Thursdays have always been Natalie Nights—the one night each week that she gives me quality face time. The fact that it takes the shape of pageant training doesn't faze me anymore. In fact, I almost wish she'd go back to the time when she'd berate me about my lack of a thigh gap instead of just drunkenly recounting her glory days, which is what our practices often devolve into since my father died two years ago. It's better than nothing.

Señora Gonzalez prattles on about the various idioms used to describe weather
en español
as I begin to run through a mental end-of-day checklist: girls' room for touch-ups, locker for books, pharmacy for drugs. That should do it.

My legs cross, uncross, recross. Class can't end soon enough. If I don't arrive at home by 3:30 on the dot, Natalie will be on edge. She will deliver her umpteenth speech on Professionalism and how I am Not Taking My Career Seriously Enough.
And then our weekly practice session will become a rant-a-thon, stretching four hours past the amount of time Natalie can handle sober. And a sober Natalie is one of the only benefits to our Thursday sessions.

Señora stops in front of my desk and points to my foot. “
No rebote
,” she says. “
Me estás poniendo nervioso
.”
No bouncing
;
you're making me nervous
.

The few classmates who aren't completely brain-dead titter in response. There are some other things I can think of to do with this foot as it relates to Señora Gonzales, but—

“
Lo siento
,” I say automatically.
I'm sorry
.

Señora offers a curt nod, then goes back to talking about the weather. I'm distracted by the ill-fitting nature of her poly blend skirt, a tea-length, A-line number that's so tight in the ass, it shows the outline of her enormous granny panties. The skirt's a particularly drab shade of olive that casts Señora's marshmallow legs a ghastly green hue. I must remember to tell Natalie about this later. It will give her a good chuckle.

After the final bell, I head for the bathroom. There I retrieve the MAC Naked Liner from my makeup bag. I use it to carefully draw a line just outside my top lip (to make it look fuller) and just
inside
my bottom one (to slim it up). Then I turn the pencil on its side to lightly shade them both in. Next, I draw a lip brush across the top of Myth, my go-to MLBB lipstick (My Lips But Better), and with short, feathery strokes, paint over the liner. I blot on a scratchy paper towel, then add a second coat. As a final touch, I gently dot some clear Lipglass in the very center of my
mouth using the pad of my pinkie.

Perfect
. Natalie will be pleased. She has always admired a subtle lip.

I quick-walk to my locker, trying my damnedest to look as if I am moving at a normal, everyday pace. Matt is standing there, waiting for me. Odd. He usually heads right to practice.

He's wearing his jersey over his school clothes, which is also odd. His hands are clasped together in front of him, and he keeps shifting his weight from side to side. Almost like a teenage version of the pee-pee dance.

When I'm only a few feet away, Matt lifts one fist and raps it twice against the bank of metal lockers. Then he bellows, “Let's do this!”

A handful of Matt's teammates stream toward him from different directions, all carrying different things. Chick Myers, the widest wide receiver in all of Indiana, pops a fedora off his head and places it on top of Matt's. Then Bobby Jablonski, the super-tall running back, hands him an acoustic guitar. Matt threads himself through the strap and, much to my horror, begins to strum.

There's a crowd forming around us, no doubt curious as to why my boyfriend has picked this moment in time to make a complete ass out of himself. Instead of pouring out the school's doors and into the warm late-September afternoon, they're all just standing there, staring. A few are even whipping out their phones.

It takes me a few blinks to realize that Matt plans on singing
to me. Right here, in front of everyone. As he warbles the first few lines of Jason Mraz's “I'm Yours,” I force my jaw to drop a little, trying to look appropriately stunned and touched at the same time. Inside, though, I am furious. This little stunt of Matthew's is going to cost me. How much, I'm not sure. It all depends on exactly how late I am getting to Natalie.

The gawking crowd swells, second by cheesy second. I don't tear my eyes off Matt, of course, so I can't make out many distinct faces. Still, I can
hear
the squeals of delight from my female classmates. I almost feel sorry for the boyfriends of Spencer High who, as a result, will now be held to ridiculously high standards of romance.

Matt's voice grows louder and more confident with each verse. He's not a bad singer. And he's definitely easy on the eyes. Is that my Grinch heart growing just a smidge?

As Matt coos, “This is our fate, I'm yours,” I realize that there's a very good possibility we will end up on YouTube. In fact, we may even go viral. I cover my face with my hands, careful not to smudge my eyeliner, then look up, partially masking my smile behind my fingertips. A gesture I hope reads as “I'm both amazed and humbled by your outpouring of emotion. How did I ever get so lucky to find someone like you?”

My boyfriend's grin grows even wider, threatening to split his beautiful face in half. I have played my part well.

With one final “I'm yours,” Matt finishes strong. The crowd erupts in cheers. He holds up one hand to silence them. “Give me a sec,” he says. “There's more.”

Two of his teammates unfurl a paper banner, the kind that the cheerleaders make before each game to psych the players up. Only, this one reads, “Happy 1st Anniversary, Alexandra.” Another hands me a dozen red roses wrapped in brown paper and tied with a raffia bow.

“I've had a crush on you since kindergarten,” Matt says, eliciting a chorus of “aww” from the girls in the audience. “But it wasn't until last year that I finally got up the courage to ask you to Homecoming.”

It's a good thing he waited, too. It wasn't until the summer after sophomore year that Matt transformed from awkward-bordering-on-ugly to oh-my-god-hotness.

“You said yes,” he continues, “and every day since, I've felt like the luckiest guy in the world. I love you, Alexandra Miles. Someday, I'm going to marry you.”

I'd like to see you try
, I think, as every girl in earshot has a complete fucking meltdown. I manage to muster up some tears, my eyes brimming with unspilt drops. In a move I perfected when I was ten, I squeeze out exactly one. No one will ever accuse
me
of being an ugly crier.

Matt swaps the guitar for a football. Before I can figure out what it's for, Matt says “Catch” and lobs it toward me.

Without thinking, I drop the roses to reach for the ball. It lands against my chest with a dull thud.
What the shit, Matt?
I think, my inner fury returning. Surely there's a more graceful way he could've done that. And what am I supposed to do with a football, anyway?

“Turn it over,” Matt instructs, as if he's read my mind.

On the other side of the ball, spelled out in rhinestones, is one word, followed by a question mark: “HOMECOMING?”

Oh, he's
good
. A few dozen more IQ points and we might have made a formidable team.

Matt kneels down in front of me, and for a heartbeat I fear he's about to actually propose. But then he says, “Alexandra Miles, will you tackle one last Homecoming dance with me?”

“Yes,” I say, nodding for the iPhone cameras. “Of course I will!”

More cheers ensue. Matt rises, throws his arms around my waist, and lifts me up, squishing the football between us. I giggle appropriately. When he puts me down, he takes my face in his hands and lays a deep kiss on me. All of that work I did in the girls' room? Ruined.

“What in the Sam Hill is going on out here?” a familiar, cranky voice brays, breaking the mood entirely. It's Principal Constance Frick, the proverbial thorn in my side. Her sheer presence parts the throngs of admirers who surround us. I turn and see her standing there frowning, manly hands planted square on what Natalie calls “birthing hips.”

“Alexandra Miles,” she says in a voice oozing disapproval. “I should have known you'd be at the center of this little spectacle.”

“You can blame
me
for that,” Matt says cheerfully. “Sorry, Ms. Frick.”

Frick's face softens a bit as she drinks him in. You can practically see the impure thoughts dance across her old-lady brain.

“Let's clear out now,” she commands. “School's over.” She tips her head in Matt's direction before clomping toward her office.

Matt pulls me closer and whispers in my ear, “You make me so happy, babe.”

“You too,” I murmur, trying to figure out how quickly I can extricate myself from his grasp without causing drama. Doesn't he realize it's Thursday? And that he's making me inexcusably
late
?

“Sorry to interrupt,” I hear Sam say from behind me. “But I need to steal your girlfriend.”

Samantha
. Here to rescue me, like the loyal little sycophant she is. Thank God.

“What's up, Sam?” Matt asks.

“It's, um . . . well, Alexandra promised me a ride,” she says, stumbling over her words. “I have a thing I have to get to. Like,
now
.” She swoops down to pick up the fallen flower bouquet, then thrusts it at me.

“Right,” I say. “Matty, I'm so sorry. I have to run. Call you tonight?”

“Sure.” His eyes are locked on Sam. He's managed to hide his irritation well, but I can see it simmering under the surface.

I plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth to placate him. “Tonight,” I say again.

“I'm counting the minutes,” he replies, devoid of any sarcasm.

We head to the senior parking lot. Once out of earshot, Sam says, “You're welcome.”

Her tart voice strikes the wrong nerve. “Thank you,” I say, a
little more sharply than intended.

“You'd think that Matt would know by now that Thursdays are off-limits. I mean,
I
do.”

“It's our anniversary,” I shoot back. “It's not his fault it fell on a Thursday.”

“But it
is
his fault that he waited until after school to surprise you.”

Why is she goading me when she already knows I'm running late?

I stop dead in my tracks. Sam stops too, confused.

“I think I like you better when you're less needy,” I say icily. “And oh—I hope you don't mind taking the bus tomorrow morning. I have some things I need to take care of before school.”

I turn on my heel and walk away, leaving a stunned, speechless Sam in the parking lot as I speed off toward the pharmacy.