Winning (4 page)

I decide to skip dinner altogether. Instead, I head to the basement and run five miles on the treadmill. It takes about fifteen minutes for the endorphins to kick in, but once they do, they set my brain on fire. I've always loved to run; that's one thing my father and I had in common. When I was younger, we used to head over to Banning Park and race each other around the paved trails.

But then the running trend hit Spencer, Indiana, and even Frick, that miserable frump, became a Couch to 5K convert. That's when I took my running indoors. Now I do my miles in the basement instead of out in the open air. It's not nearly as satisfying, but it saves me from having to make small talk with all of the sneakered sheep in this town.

After a cold shower—great for the hair and skin—I settle in at the kitchen table with my laptop and check email. My in-box is clogged with the usual noise, including another request from Sloane Fahey to run lines together this weekend. It's the third time she's asked, and the third time I've hit delete without
responding. Ever since Mrs. Mays named her my understudy for
Evita
, Sloane has operated under the delusion that she can make demands of me. Clearly, she's learned nothing since sophomore year.

I put that little wannabe in her place once, and I can do it again. Only this time, I won't be as kind.

There's also a message from Liz Brookover, the director of the Hoffman County Library, looking for a student to take over a story time program in the children's room. I couldn't care less about reading to a bunch of sticky, screaming toddlers. But what
does
interest me is the part about Brookover wanting to expand the program to the branch over on Williams Street—a small, run-down library that doesn't even
have
a children's collection.

Craig and I were recently discussing the possibility of me changing my platform from the dangers of texting while driving to something with a little more heart. And just like that, I know exactly what my new platform will be: providing underprivileged youth with access to books. That shit is pageant
gold
.

I dash off a quick application and send it to Brookover, along with a reminder that after all of the work I did on last winter's book drive—and how I failed to report the accounting inconsistency I uncovered—she owes me one.

If I teach you nothing else, let it be this: Never waste a moment of your effort serving someone else's goals. Always use their machinery to pave the road to your own success.

Next, I head over to YouTube, to see if anyone's uploaded a video of Matt's serenade earlier this afternoon. Nothing yet. I'll
have to get Sam on that task tomorrow. If she can track down the footage, we can leak it ourselves. Sam's got a million aliases. Her computer geek brother, Wyatt, sets up fake profiles for us as needed. He even routes the uploads through a complicated system of proxies so the videos can't be traced back to us.

Is it overkill? Maybe. But as my father always said, better safe than snared in a scandal. Wyatt gets a half chub every time I say his name; it's come in handy on more than one occasion. All I have to do is have some faux-confessional late-night chat with him once in a while when I spend the night at Sam's house. It's enough to keep that fish on the line.

Finally, I pick up my phone to call Matt. That's when I see that I've missed a handful of texts from Sam. She claims to have some interesting information about the New Girl. I message her back:
You can tell me about NG on way to school. Pick you up @ 7:45.

She couldn't have discovered anything too juicy. If she had she would've been on the phone before she and what's-her-face had barely parted ways. Still, I find it useful to reward good behavior. Especially when it comes to Sam.

I roll up to Sam's house at exactly 7:52, knowing full well she's been waiting on the curb since at least 7:40. She's learned to be ready before I arrive, and I've learned that it's good to keep her guessing. I don't enjoy being late to anything—punctuality is a hallmark of a great leader—but in this case, my lateness is strategic. Better to let Sam squirm, wondering if I'm actually
going to show up, than to allow her to think I've forgiven her so easily.

Sam slides into the passenger seat and hands me a travel mug full of coffee. “No sugar, extra cream, dash of cinnamon,” she says, my eager-to-please puppy.

I offer her a tight smile as a thank-you. Then she reaches into her backpack and retrieves the AP English paper she's written for me.

“What's it about?” I ask.

“The light motif, and how it reflects Blanche's truth.”

“And what's yours about?”

“Shadows, and how they symbolize Blanche's descent into madness.”

I nod approvingly. This way, it looks like we
talked about
the assignment with each other, but worked on our own papers separately.

“I even printed them on different stock,” Sam points out. “Yours is bright white. Mine's recycled.”

“Smart,” I say. I reach over and give Sam's knee a little squeeze. “I appreciate you helping me out with this.”

Sam's eyes cast downward, lasering in on my hand. When I go to remove it, I make sure to let it graze a few inches up her thigh.

It takes so little to keep my pet happy. Just a few strokes here and there.

“So,” I say, pulling away from the curb. “You have information?”

“Right. Yes.”

After a brief pause, I prompt, “May
I
have this information as well?”

“Of course. Sorry, I was a little distracted.”

I bet she was
.

Sam gives me the bullet points on Erin Hewett: cheerleader, peer counselor, student government rep. In other words, nothing remarkable.

“She was the fund-raising chair of her school's Key Club,” Sam continues. “She's planning on attending today's meeting.”

I'm instantly irritated. Isn't it bad enough that I have to deal with Sloane Fahey every Friday afternoon?

Then she says, “Erin was working on this project back home—raising money for a community bookmobile—and she wants to start one like that at Spencer. I think she's going to pitch the idea today.”

“How bold of her—planning events before she's finished her first week,” I drawl.

Sam nods in agreement.

“And what did you say,” I ask her, “when she informed you of this?”

“I played dumb. Pretended I didn't know how things work in Key Club.”

“Good.”

The way I'd like to handle this situation is vastly different from how I probably should handle it. I'd
like
to give Erin a smackdown—preferably publicly—for daring to think she could
walk into
my
school and take over
my
club. But I
probably
should employ a much lighter hand. No, better to find an indirect way of teaching her how things work.

“Track her down before lunch,” I instruct Sam. “Make it known that all new Key Club business needs to go through Sloane.”

“Does it?”

“Obviously not. But I want her to
think
it does.”

Sam smiles. Such a smart little puppy to boot.

Heave. Heave again. One final spew. Flush. Brush.

Reapply lipstick.

I perform my anxiety-fueled morning ritual in the small, second-floor girls' bathroom located outside Ms. Hanna's classroom.
Her
morning ritual consists of taking a massive dump in the stall to the far left. She does this before a single student arrives on campus, but the stench lingers until well after third period.

Result: no one ever uses this bathroom before lunch.

Correction: no one
except me
ever uses this bathroom before lunch.

So I am beyond shocked when I exit the far-
right
stall to see one Alexandra Miles touching up her mascara in the mirror over the sink.

“Hi, Sloane,” she says, like this is an everyday occurrence. “You feeling okay? Sounds like you're . . . a little sick.”

“Just getting over a stomach bug,” I lie.

She nods sympathetically. “I'm glad I ran into you. I've been
meaning to talk to you about Key Club.”

I do not want to have a conversation about Key Club. I want to brush my teeth. But I also do not want to brush my teeth in front of Alexandra. So I say, “What about Key Club?”

“I'd like you to take on more of a leadership role,” she says, turning back to the mirror and her mascara.

“In what sense?” I ask, trying to mask my surprise.

“Well,” she says, “I feel like we've been a little . . . scattered. The club's doing too much, don't you think? If we cut back on new activities, we could focus our energy on existing projects. Strengthening them. Making them better.” She screws the cap back on the tube and swaps it out for a lip gloss that I know for a fact costs more than fifteen dollars a pop. Whereas the “gloss” I use is a mentholated ChapStick knockoff I picked up for fifty cents.

“Do you agree?”

I answer yes, even though I know she wasn't really asking a question. What Alexandra wants, Alexandra gets.

“How can I help?” I say. No sense tiptoeing around the fact that she's about to issue an order.

She pats some lip gloss on with her pinkie finger before replying, “What if you put forth a motion at today's meeting to table all new business until after, I don't know, Homecoming?”

And there we have it. Alexandra's true motive: refocusing her
own
attention on a bid for Homecoming Queen. It's a lot of wasted energy, if you ask me. We all know there won't be any other viable contenders. Especially not after the way Matt Leitch
publicly declared his love for her yesterday afternoon.

If I had a boyfriend like Matt, he'd be all I need.

And yet—

“You'll have my full support,” Alexandra continues. “
If
you decide to make that motion, that is.”

Translation:
do this or incur my wrath
. Since I don't really care either way I shrug. “Sure. I'll do it today.”

“Excellent! Maybe then I'll have more time to run lines with you!”

So. She
has
been getting my emails.

“Great,” I tell her, because what else is there to say?

Alexandra moves toward the door.
Finally
. There's a sour burn in my mouth I need to get rid of before homeroom. I start to reach in my satchel for my toothbrush when she turns around and says, “You might want to be careful, Sloane. I've heard that ‘stomach bugs' can damage your vocal cords over time.”

Bitch,
I think as she exits stage left.

Thank God there's only eight months until graduation. Then I'll be rid of Alexandra and this podunk town forever.

There's an undercurrent of energy flowing through the halls of Spencer High.

I don't like it. Or, should I say, I don't like
her
.

Erin Hewett. She's all anyone can seem to talk about today.
Have you met the new girl? She's so incredibly nice! She's from San Diego, can you believe it?
As if growing up in California was some sort of personal accomplishment, and not just a fact of geography.

As the day progresses, more details emerge about Erin. She knows how to surf. She's spent the past two summers as a lifeguard. She once dated a swimmer who won two gold medals in the Junior Olympics.

“Is she an actual person,” I seethe, “or will the next thing I hear be that she's really a mermaid who made a deal with an evil octopus for some human legs?”

Sam laughs quietly at my kind of joke.

When she's not submerged in water, Samantha informs me at lunch, Erin is, apparently . . . nice. She's a Nice Girl. People
seem to genuinely like her.

“For now,” I say. “Once that shiny, New Girl smell wears off, she'll be no different than Taylor Flynn or Alyssa Fields or any of the other wannabes of absolutely no consequence.”

“Maybe,” Sam says, unpacking her lunch bag in her slow, methodical way. “But then again, maybe not.”

There's something she's not telling me. I know this because she's taking an extra-long time to arrange the components of her meal.

Sam does this thing where she assesses her food and places it in order of consumption, eating the things she likes least first and saving the things she likes best for last. Sometimes, when she's torn between where to place two things—in this case, a plastic sandwich bag of baby carrots and a green apple—she'll move them around a few times. The apple emerges ahead of the carrots, but lingers behind a foil pack of Oreos her mother has included as a treat.

I stab a fork into my sad, wilted salad and say, “Spill it, Sam.”

She nods. “It's probably nothing. A rumor, maybe.”

“Rumors can seem like truths to the less intelligent,” I say.

Sam takes a deep, dramatic breath. “Okay. So, the school Erin transferred here from—Poway High—their Homecoming is in the beginning of October, about three weeks earlier than ours. Actually, they do
everything
about three weeks earlier than we do, including going back to school. I confirmed this with Google.”

I stare at her, silent.

“Anyway,” she continues, “because they're so far ahead of us, they'd already announced the Homecoming court before Erin moved away.”

I stop. “And she was on it?”

“This is what I heard from Hayley Langer,” Sam says, “whose cousin lives, like, one school district south. Crazy, right? But I can't confirm that part with Google.”

Across the room, at a table smack in the center, I see Little Miss Sunshine herself, giggling with Hayley and her gaggle of girly-girls. Even though they aren't technically sitting with any guys, all the hetero boys at the surrounding tables keep sneaking peeks at her.

But that's
all
they do—take a quick, curious look. They're not lingering. She's not hot enough for that. It's a shame, really. A hot chick would be easier to take down, because head-turning hotness would piss off Spencer's female population in a major way.

But nice? Cute? These things aren't threatening to them.

They're threatening to
me
.

“Rumor or not, we need to shut this kind of chatter down,” I say. “Now.”

Matt and I are lingering outside of Mr. Banerjee's classroom when I see Erin approaching from afar. Instinctively, I pull Matt a little closer.
Mine
.

My boyfriend is whispering something in my ear when Erin reaches the doorway. She stops, turns to the left, and looks
straight at us. It's weird.

I'm about to introduce her when she says, “Matt? I thought that was you.”

I fight the frown on my face as Matt responds, “Yo, Erin. How's it going?”

“Good,” she says. “Everyone here is
so
nice.”

There is a clog of students building up behind Erin, but not a single one of them complains about how she's blocking the doorway. What is
happening
around here?

“Oh my gosh!” Erin exclaims. “I'm totally holding up traffic. I'll see you later!”

She disappears inside the classroom without once acknowledging me directly.

When Erin is fully out of earshot, I give Matt an artificially playful poke to the ribs. “How do you know the New Girl?” I ask.

He shrugs. “She's a cheerleader.”

“She got here, like, five minutes ago.”

“Babe, we practice on the same field,” he says, grinning. “But keep talking. Jealousy looks adorable on you.”

“Jealousy? You wish.”

Matt's expression—a mixture of rom-com mooniness and bald lust—tells me that he either doesn't believe me or he's too busy picturing me naked. He leans in for a kiss. I duck.

“I have to go,” I say, peeling myself off the wall and out from under Matt's muscled chest.

He gives me a pouty face. “No kiss?”

“Later,” I say. “
If
you're a good boy.”

His smile is real, and it is blinding.

Sometimes I wish I actually felt something for Matt. But love requires far more energy than I'm willing to allow.

In addition to English, Erin also has AP Physics with me and Sam. Before the bell rings, I watch her work the room. And make no mistake—that's exactly what she's doing. She even exchanges a few words with Ivy Proctor, who looks nearly cheerful for a change.

Nobody talks to Ivy anymore. Not really.

A little background: Ivy Proctor used to be a minor-league somebody. Granted, this was back in the fourth grade, when popularity required little more than wearing the right clothes, throwing a decent slumber party once in a while, and not being fat. But then something changed, and slowly but surely, Ivy faded into the background.

Until sophomore year, that is, when she went full-on psycho in biology. One minute, we're sitting at our desks, listening to Mr. Barksdale drone on and on about primordial ooze; the next, Ivy leaps up from her desk, lets out a bone-chilling scream, and punches her fist through a window. Everyone was pin-drop silent for about five seconds before all hell broke loose.

It was terrifying. Girls were screaming and crying, boys were cursing and yelling. Barksdale was the worst, though. He didn't go to Ivy. He didn't even call for help. He just stood there, gawping, his jaw practically scraping the floor.

And in the center of it, Ivy stood, still as a statue, staring at her shredded hand. The blood gushed down her arm and formed a dark red pool at her feet. There was blood everywhere, actually, including spatters on Ivy's pale cheeks. An unforgettable spectacle of epic proportions.

The girl didn't shed a tear. Not a single one.

Finally, Wes Fetterolf ran out for help. Barksdale woke up from his temporary coma and ushered all of us out of the classroom and down the hall to the library, leaving Ivy alone until a scared-shitless Mrs. Martindale, the school nurse, was summoned to the scene. We heard the ambulance arrive and crowded around windows trying to catch a glimpse of Ivy being carried out on a stretcher.

And that was the last anyone saw of Ivy Proctor for the next sixth months, even though people didn't stop talking about what happened in all that time. Ivy's mid-year meltdown rocked our entire community; it even made the front page of the
Herald-Gazette
. Things like that just don't happen in the sleepy town of Spencer, Indiana.

Losing her sanity restored Ivy Proctor's popularity, but in the worst possible way: everyone speculated over what happened, why it happened, and where Ivy ended up after it happened.

When she returned to Spencer for the start of junior year, she only made it through two and a half days before withdrawing for the second time. It was too much pressure, I suppose, to withstand that kind of spotlight. She didn't transfer either. Rumor has it her mother homeschooled her.

No one knows why Ivy decided to come back again now—or what in the world possessed her to start dressing like an uglier version of Wednesday Addams. You'd think someone who wanted to blend into the background would sport far less eyeliner and wear a little color.

Regardless, this time people aren't asking her any questions, or even making rude comments. They just steer clear. She may be a psycho, but the sad, haunted look in her oversize watery blue eyes keeps the student population of Spencer High on their best behavior. They're not antagonizing Ivy; they're pretending, as much as possible, that she's not there.

Instead of paying attention to what's going on with parabolas and projectile motion, I spend the period replaying the Erin Hewett Highlights Reel in my head. The only way anyone would've learned about Erin's previous Homecoming court appointment would be from Erin herself. It's not the sort of thing that naturally comes up in conversation, either. Not within twenty-four hours of enrolling in a new school.

No, people heard about that because Erin
wanted
us to. Given that information, I don't care how nice everyone else seems to think she is. I know the truth.

Erin Hewett is making a bid for Homecoming Queen, and she'll do whatever it takes to win it.

I know, because she's using
my
playbook.

I turn to Sam, who of course is watching me watch Erin. “Whatever it takes,” I mouth.

She nods.
Message received.