Winning (6 page)

By the time the first bell rings on Monday morning, Matt's and my YouTube video has more than 13,000 views.

I knew that boy was good for something.

Even better, everyone is talking about it. People whom I know for a fact weren't even in school that day are claiming they were there to witness his grand romantic gesture firsthand.

In homeroom, the Homecoming ballots are passed out. Technically, we are all nominating senior class princesses. Five princesses will be selected, and those will become the candidates for Homecoming Queen. The queen vote doesn't take place until the dance. The four runners-up get itty-bitty tiaras as their consolation prize.

I've never been a runner-up, and I don't intend to start now.

Even so, I do not write my name in the box for senior class princess. I never write my own name. In years past, I nominated Sam, and she nominated me, effectively canceling out each other's votes. It's an acceptable loss. There's just something so crass about writing your own name on that dotted line.

But this year's different. There's someone who needs my vote even more.

It took me hours to select the just-right outfit for today: ivory lace minidress over heather-gray tights and worn, reddish-brown boots, all tied together with a soft charcoal cardi and a fluffy, floral infinity scarf. It's a little bit soft, a little bit pretty, and a little bit sexy, without looking like I was trying to be any of those things. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to pull off a combination like that?

Natalie does. She was awake uncharacteristically early this morning, having one of her rare “up” days. As I headed out for school, I found her reorganizing the kitchen and guzzling black coffee out of an antique shaving mug that used to be my dad's. It makes my heart drop into my stomach, seeing her clutch that mug. She's never gotten rid of any of his stuff.

“Good call on wearing your hair down,” she said, nodding approvingly. “You look warm. Approachable.”

“That's what I was going for.”

She set the shaving mug down and walked toward me. For a second, I almost flinched. But then my mother—in a move she hasn't made in more than a year—leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.

“Good luck today, honey,” she said. “Not that you'll need it.”

I hate how good that made me feel.

The absolute best part of today is this: I don't hear a single person mention Erin Hewett until AP English, when Mr. Banerjee says her name during roll call.

Like I told Sam before: it wouldn't take long for that shiny, New Girl smell to wear off. Matt's Homecoming proposal just helped get rid of it a little faster.

Frick won't post the Homecoming candidates for another forty minutes, so I don't know for certain that my thunder has completely drowned out the Erin Hewett Fan Club. But I'm sure I've silenced it enough to matter.

In Spanish, the clock hands move along at a glacial pace. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

After what feels like an eternity, the final bell rings. Students pour out of the classroom, but I take my time packing up. I can't just run to the bulletin board outside of Frick's office. Better to have Sam do that and report back to me.

I go to my locker. I trade out the books I need for homework. I wait to get a text from Sam.

It doesn't come.

My pulse quickens. I'm not worried about making the ballot—I know my name will be on the list. But will hers? This is what I need to know.

I type a single question mark into iMessage and press send. Sam reads the message.

Still no response.

I'm about to head over to play rehearsal when I feel Matt's thick arms around my waist. He nuzzles my neck and gets a little side boob action with his forearm. “Congratulations, my future queen,” he whispers into my ear.

I grin despite myself. “What about you?” I ask over my
shoulder. “Are you my future king?”

He presses closer. “You know it.”

Matt spins me around and pins me against the locker, kissing me long and deep, with a hunger that's not entirely familiar. It's kind of hot, actually.
Too
hot. If Matt doesn't cool down soon, we're going to end up getting naked right here in the hallway.

“You might want to slow down,” I say. “You've got practice. I've got rehearsal. This—whatever this is—has to wait.”

“What if I don't want to wait?” he growls.

I'm tempted to pull him into the janitors' closet, but that directly conflicts with my personal rules of engagement. I'm actually debating whether or not I need to relax those rules when I hear the sharp bray of Frick: “That's enough, Miss Miles.”

Matt pulls away a bit, but not entirely. “Sorry Ms. Frick,” he says, and gives her one of his patented grins. “Guess I got a little carried away.”

“This isn't behavior befitting a Homecoming Queen, now is it, Miss Miles?” she says, ignoring Matt entirely. “It'd be a real shame to have to disqualify you for conduct unbecoming.”

I'm sure she'd be heartbroken.

“I have to go to rehearsal,” I tell Matt. “We'll pick this up later.” I cut my eyes away from his face and let them lock on Frick's. “When we're off school property.”

“Hate to tell you, Miss Miles,” Frick says, “but those rules of conduct apply off-campus, too.” Her thin lips curl upward in what I think is supposed to be an evil smile. “You should
ask your mother about that sometime.”

She turns on her heel and walks away.

Sloane Fahey is on top of me the minute I enter the theater. “How about Friday?” she suggests. “We can just hang after Key Club.”

I'm too irritated by Frick's comment about my mother to think of a valid reason why Friday won't work. “Fine,” I say. “Friday.
Whatever
.”

Sloane looks taken aback by the sharpness in my voice. This only proves to irritate me more.

“Damn it, Sloane, I said yes!” I snap at her. “What more do you want from me?”

“Don't do me any favors,” she huffs.

Ordinarily I wouldn't care—this is, after all, Sloane Fahey we're talking about. But it's poor form for me to act so bitchy the day the nominations are posted. I decide to toss her a bone.

“It's not you,” I say, by way of an apology. “Frick just chewed me out in the hallway. I'm a little on edge.”

“What did you do now?”

“Nothing. I was just talking to Matt.”

Sloane snorts. “Yeah, I'm sure
that's
what you were doing.”

“I'm sorry,” I say, “but what I do with my
boyfriend
isn't really any of your concern, is it?”

She looks me straight in the eye and says, “Nothing you do is any of my concern, Alexandra.”

So, the kitten has claws. Interesting.

“I'm going to chalk this up to good old-fashioned jealousy,” I say in a tight, even tone. “Everyone knows you can't get a boyfriend to save your life. And honestly? I feel bad for you.”

Her right eye begins to twitch. I've struck a nerve.

“But I would advise you to watch your tone with me,” I continue. “Because we both know what happens when you cross that line.”

We stand there, staring at each other, in a game of chicken. Finally, Sloane's gaze breaks away and she shakes her head slightly. “You think you're Teflon, don't you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing ever sticks, right? You can do or say whatever you want, and you always walk away a winner. Well, guess what, Alexandra. You're about due for a takedown.”

Where is this coming from? Even after everything that went down sophomore year, Sloane Fahey has kept her nose glued to my ass. This? This is new.

My amusement seems to irritate her even more.

“Someday somebody is going to make you regret how you treat people,” she says.

“Oh, really? And who's that going to be? You?”

“Probably not,” she says with a shrug. “Doesn't mean it won't happen.”

Something about Sloane's words unnerves me. It's not like she wields any sort of social status at Spencer. And she's not someone I'd ever be threatened by, not in a million years.

Honestly, it's not even what she said, but
how
she said it. Like
she's been harboring some deep-seated resentment toward me stretching back to the Jonah Dorsey scandal sophomore year. I mean, yes, that situation got really ugly. But Sloane never stopped clinging to my shadow. She never stopped trying to get me to be her friend again.

People like Sloane Fahey—who, let's face it, have little to lose—can become dangerous variables in a heartbeat. They're not easily controlled because their actions are far too erratic. On the other hand, a Sloane vying for my attention, trying to insinuate herself into my social stratosphere, is predictable. Pathetic, but predictable.

I'm going to need to keep my eye on her. There's just too much at stake.

This year's senior class princesses are (in alphabetical order):

        
•
 
Ashley Chamberlain

        
•
 
Erin Hewett

        
•
 
Hayley Langer

        
•
 
Alexandra Miles

        
•
 
Ivy Proctor

The printout hangs on the bulletin board outside the main office. I stare at it in disbelief.

Lexi isn't going to like this.

Not one bit.

It's bad enough that Erin made the ballot, though I presume that was Frick's doing. I mean, the girl's been a student here for literally three days. People like her, sure, but Homecoming court? It's a stretch.

The real head-scratcher is
Ivy Proctor
. What is
that
about?

There are 327 kids in the senior class. So it's not like Ivy got
that nomination on the basis of a couple of stray votes. At the very least, she had to have gotten a couple dozen. That's not an accident.

Twenty votes is a coordinated effort.

Lexi texts me a question mark. She's dying to know the results. I debate whether or not I should give them to her. If I tell her she's on the ballot, she's going to want to know who the competition is. And if I tell her
that
without having some good intel, all hell will break loose.

Think, Samantha. Think
.

What I need is to know the number of votes that went to each candidate. Frick wouldn't have done the count herself, would she? That's what she has peons for.

Peons like Iris Testaverde.

Iris has been Frick's secretary for years, long before we were freshmen. She looks like a character from
Saturday Night Live
, all baby-blue eye shadow, loud floral prints, and augmented boobs bursting out from her blouse, even though she's a long way from the right side of forty. Her husband, Greg, owns this dinky Italian restaurant on the edge of town that's popular with the geriatric crowd. It keeps him pretty busy—or at least busy enough that he hasn't noticed his wife's banging the football coach behind his back.

To be fair, most people don't know about Iris and Coach Dawson. Lexi and I only found out after we convinced Wyatt to rig up a tiny spy camera in the main office. She was looking for some dirt on Frick, I think, but was just as shocked as I was
to find some on Iris instead. Let's just say that girlfriend knows how to get her freak on. Wyatt threatened to burn out his own corneas just to try to unsee the footage.

Iris doesn't know about the tape. She doesn't even know that we know about her affair with Coach.

It's a handy card to have, and one we haven't played . . . yet.

I can't think of a better time to pull it out.

My plan is simple: I'll wait until Iris clocks out for the day, and then follow her to her car. There will be fewer witnesses that way. Less chance of someone overhearing.

At four on the dot, Iris exits the main office and heads out the front doors. I shadow her to the faculty lot. She's fumbling for her keys when I call out, “Excuse me, Mrs. Testaverde?”

Iris jumps about ten feet high, then whips around to face me. “Good Lord in heaven, child. You scared me half to death!”

“Oops,” I say. “Sorry.”

“Well, what do you need, Samantha?” Iris asks. “There's a turkey breast in my Crock-Pot waiting for me to tend to it.”

“I'm glad you asked,” I say. “I have some . . . questions . . . about the Homecoming ballots.”

Iris arches an eyebrow. “What kinds of questions?”

I bite my bottom lip and look down at my feet, like I'm really struggling.

“Well?” she prods. “What is it?”

I let out a slow, measured sigh. “I'm a little . . .
concerned
. . . about the nominees for senior class princess.”

She snorts. “You're not the only one.”

“Oh?”

Iris looks around the parking lot. There's no one in the immediate vicinity. She steps closer to me and leans in. “That poor Proctor girl. Hasn't she been through enough?”

“My thoughts exactly,” I say. “How many votes did she get, anyway?”

“Enough. More than enough, actually.”

“More than Erin Hewett?”

Iris purses her lips so tightly together that they form a thin, magenta line. “I've already said too much, Samantha. I really need to be going.”

She turns back toward her car, and I blurt out, “Erin didn't have the votes, did she?”

No reply.

“Is it the turkey breast you're running off to, or is it Coach Dawson?”

I cringe even as I say the words.

Iris's cheeks are brick red, and her eyes are burning craters into my face. “She had . . . votes.”

“But not enough to get on the ballot.”

“Let me repeat: She. Had. Votes.”

“Where are the forms? The ones we filled out this morning.”

“In the recycling bin.”

“Your office?”

Her eyes narrow into thin slits. “If your mother only knew what a snake you were . . .” she says, her voice trailing off.

“She'd be proud,” I say quietly.

Iris continues to try to burn holes through me with her angry stare.

“I need those ballots, Mrs. Testaverde. We should probably go get them now. If you hurry, you can still make it back to your turkey breast on time.”

There are nearly eight hundred half sheets of copy paper spread across every available surface in my room. I have them divided by grade, which isn't difficult since Iris ran the ballots off on different colors for each class. Freshmen are pink, sophomores are blue, juniors are green, and seniors are goldenrod. Even though I'm really only interested in what's going on with our class, I have meticulously sorted the ballots for each of the grade levels. I don't want to miss a single thing.

I'm sitting on the floor, using my bed as a seat back, with the senior class ballots fanned out around me. It doesn't matter how many times I recount them (six, for the record), the results are always the same:

Ashley Chamberlain: 27

Erin Hewett: 11

Hayley Langer: 31

Alexandra Miles: 89

Ivy Proctor: 23

There are one- and two-off votes for various other seniors, celebrities (JLaw, really?), and rando made-up names like Butterface McGee—a total of twenty-one. That leaves nine classmates' votes unaccounted for. I'd have to get Wyatt to hack into the
school's system to verify the number of absences from today, but it's a reasonable enough number that I don't feel like going to the effort.

The good news is that Lexi's ahead by a clean enough margin that she
should
have this Homecoming race locked up.

The bad news is that I am utterly clueless as to who's behind the twenty-three Ivy Proctor votes. The fact that she earned almost as many as Ashley did confirms my initial suspicions: this is a coordinated effort. But who orchestrated it?

And here's an even better question:
Why
?

I've been ignoring texts from Lexi all afternoon, and I can tell she's starting to get pissed. My phone dings again.
I'm coming over.

Perfect, just . . . perfect.

I don't even bother to tell her not to; I've put her off long enough. All I can do is prepare my mother for Lexi's impending arrival. She won't be happy either.

I stand up, careful not to disturb my piles of paper, and step over them. There's a circle of blank carpet marking where I was sitting. At least she'll see how hard I've been working.