Winning (8 page)

It's only been a day since nominations were announced, and the buzz on Erin is already building serious momentum. This, despite the surprising inclusion of Ivy Proctor on this year's ballot. Keep in mind that most people aren't privy to the exact number of votes each of us got. No, to the students of Spencer High, the five of us are starting on equal footing.

I don't need a flash poll to tell me what I already know: it's quite possible that Erin Hewett will threaten everything. I was smart to build in a backup plan; now it's time to put it into action.

Tuesday, after final bell, I slip out of the side entrance and cut across to the student lot. Sam is stationed outside of the front of the building so that she can alert me when Ivy has left. I have a very small window in which to intercept Ivy before she boards her bus, so the choreography here is crucial.

I've just started the car when I get Sam's text:
GO TIME
. I peel out of the lot and squeal around the corner. Sam is saying something to Ivy. At least she had the good sense to stall her.

I beep the horn twice as I pull up to the curb. Both Sam and Ivy turn in my direction and I offer up a friendly wave. Ivy just blinks at me. I realize almost too late that she probably thinks I'm waving at Sam.

I roll down the passenger-side window and call out Ivy's name. She pokes a finger at her own chest—the sitcom equivalent of “Who,
me
?”

Smiling, I nod my head profusely and wave her over.

Ivy is half frowning as she walks down to meet me. She bends so that her face is framed in the open window. “Hey,” she says. Such a conversationalist, this one.

“I just wanted to thank you again for last night,” I say. “You really helped me out. I was hoping I could offer you a ride home.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“I know I don't
have
to,” I say. “Hop in. It'll give us a chance to talk.”

Ivy hesitates. It takes a lot of effort to mask my annoyance. I had to skip an
Evita
rehearsal just to take her home, which meant lying to Mrs. Mays about having an appointment to get my flu shot. The longer I stay here, the greater the possibility one of my castmates will spot me and say something to Mays. Like Sloane.

“Come on,” I say. “If nothing else it'll get you home a little quicker.”

She climbs in, almost reluctantly. Sam takes this as her cue to head toward the car. I peel away from the curb before she can claim the backseat. I can't risk spooking an already skittish Ivy.
Sam will just have to understand.

“I've been thinking a lot about our conversation last night,” I tell Ivy as I make a right out of the parking lot. She doesn't respond.

“I mean, I'd like to think I'm a good person,” I continue, “but you were right. I should have been there for you after your . . . incident.”

“I never said
that
.”

“No, not in those exact words.”

“Not in any words,” she shoots back.

I need to disarm her somehow. After a pause, I say, “I guess what I'm trying to tell you is that I feel guilty, Ivy. I feel like I failed you at a time when you needed people the most.”

More silence. Jesus, no wonder Ivy Proctor doesn't have any friends.

Finally, I say, “Can you forgive me?”

“There's nothing to forgive.”

“But—”

“Can we
not
talk about this?” Ivy asks. “I do not want to talk about this.”

“Of course.”

We drive, not speaking, for a few minutes. Then she says, “You're being really nice. I still don't think there's anything that you need to be forgiven for, but it means a lot to me that you said that. So, yeah. Thank you. And sorry.”

I smile my warmest smile. “You're good people, Ivy Proctor.”

“You are too, Alexandra Miles.”

For the next few minutes, I make light chatter—asking Ivy
about what kind of music she listens to (femme country, though I was totally expecting her to name some emo head case), what TV shows she likes to watch (mostly sci-fi—not surprising), and what she likes to do in her spare time (play video games and read comics). For a second, I think that she's actually kind of the ideal girl for Wyatt. You know, if he wasn't wet dreaming about me 24/7.

Then, at the next stoplight, I pop the big question:

“Have you picked out your dress for Homecoming?”

Ivy gives me a look that I can only describe as disturbed mixed with perplexed. “Uh, no.”

“Oh! Neither have I. We should go dress shopping together.”

This makes her chuckle. “I'm not going to Homecoming.”

I feign surprise. “Really? Why not? It's your senior year!”

“First of all, I don't have a date.”
Yeah
, I think,
no shit
. “But even if I did, I mean, it's not really my . . . thing.”

“What, are you too good for high school dances?” I tease.

She shakes her head at me like a semi-amused, semi-annoyed younger sister.

“How about this,” I say. “You go dress shopping with me, and if we find you something fabulous, you agree to go to Homecoming. And if you don't end up with a date, I know Matt can wrangle you one. We can even split a limo!

“Trust me, Ivy,” I continue. “I can make Homecoming the most memorable night of your high school life.”

If only she knew just
how
memorable it will be.

“Walk me through it one more time.”

I sigh heavily. I hate it when Sam acts dense. I'm starting to wonder if it even is acting.

“You get to school early tomorrow. Start taking down some of our Homecoming posters. Not all of them—but a few in high-profile locations. Definitely the one outside of Frick's office, preferably when Frick can see you.”

“And what do you want me to do with them?”

“Place them gently in the recycling bins. Sticking up so people can see what they are—see my face. This will get people talking.”

“I don't know, Lexi,” Sam says. “I'm just not sure they'll buy you dropping out of the race.”

“It's our job to make them buy it,” I say in a tight voice. “But if you're not up to the task, I'll just deploy Sloane or one of the other drama queens.”

Sam snorts. “Right. Like
that's
ever going to happen.”

“I need that rumor going strong before lunch,” I say. “I know
you can do this, Samantha. I'm counting on you.” I say this last bit in an almost-purr. Sam goes crazy when I use her full name, especially in a soft voice.

“I've got this,” she says. “Good luck with Corporal Crazy.”

I pick Ivy up before school the next day. Instantly I register some changes. She's wearing a pale purple top under her black cardigan—some of the first color I've seen on her this year. And her eyes aren't rimmed in black, either. Just a little kohl on the lash line, and a pale, shimmery shadow on the lids.

It's working. And faster than I expected.

On the ride over, I ask, “What are you doing tonight?”

Ivy shrugs. “Homework. The usual.”

“Let's skip the usual,” I say. “I have rehearsal until five, but after that—let's go to the mall. We can grab some dinner, look at some dresses. It'll be fun.”

“I can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“I don't have any money with me.”

I wave her off. “It's fine. I can cover dinner. And we wouldn't be
buying
any dresses tonight anyway. Just trying them on and taking pics. I mean, it's not like you marry the first guy you date, right?”

“Actually,” Ivy says, “my parents are middle school sweethearts.”

No wonder she's so messed up. I ignore this comment and press on.

“I'm not going to take no for an answer,” I inform Ivy. “If you say yes now, it'll save us both a lot of time and energy.”

She gives in.

They always do.

And now I start to lay the foundation for the next stage of my plan. The one Sam is simultaneously carrying out on campus at this very moment.

“Can I confess something to you?” I say.

“Sure.”

“I'm kind of thinking about dropping out of the Homecoming race.”

I swear, the girl's jaw literally drops three inches. “What? Why?”

“It just doesn't seem fair. I mean, I've been class princess three years running. Isn't it someone else's turn to shine?”

“You're kidding me with this, right?”

“No,” I say. “I'm dead serious. Besides, I have a couple of big pageants coming up. How many crowns does one girl need?”

All of the crowns
, I think.
ALL OF THEM
.

“But you're a shoo-in to win,” Ivy tells me. “You know that, right?”

Now it's my turn to shrug. “Maybe. The New Girl seems to have some fans.”

“No,” she says firmly. “Not like you do.”

I don't respond, letting silence do the work for me.

“Look,” Ivy says after a bit. “You could be
Homecoming Queen
. It's, like, almost every little girl's fantasy.”

“Exactly,” I say. “And I just think it's time to let some other little girl's dream come true.”

I sound so earnest that I wonder if there's some tiny part of me that actually believes the shit I am spewing.

Ivy says, “You're crazy, you know that? And this is coming from someone who's
actually
crazy.”

I've got to give the girl credit. She takes herself a lot less seriously than I'd imagined.

“You shouldn't talk about yourself that way,” I say. “You know, you're up for Homecoming Queen, too.”

And there it is. The elephant in the car.

“That's just somebody's idea of a sick joke,” she says. “It's not real.”

“Maybe,” I concede, because it would be foolish
not
to acknowledge the truth in what she's saying. “But it could be.”

We don't say anything else until we pull into the school parking lot a few minutes later. I cut the engine and turn to Ivy. But before I can utter another word, she blurts out, “I don't know why you'd voluntarily give up the chance to be Homecoming Queen, but that's totally your decision. Just . . . leave me out of it. I don't need to be humiliated any more than I already have been, okay?”

She starts to get out of the car.

“Wait,” I say, touching her shoulder.

“What?”

“I just want to be your friend,” I tell her, in the most sincere voice I can muster.

“But why?” It comes out in an almost-whine.

“Because you need a friend. A good one. And because I genuinely like you, Ivy Proctor.”

This, perhaps, is the biggest lie of all.

Ivy sighs. I can tell I'm wearing her down, and it's taken a lot less time and energy than I had imagined.

“Have lunch with us today,” I say. “Me and Sam. We can talk more about tonight. Okay?”

She nods. It's a grim gesture, but I'll take it.

“Great,” I say. “See you then.”

If Sam has done her part as well as I've done mine, in a few short hours I will no longer be the front-runner for Spencer High School Homecoming Queen.

Ivy Proctor will be.

The rumor mill churns overtime; by the start of third period, everyone is whispering about me and whether or not I'm officially dropping out of the Homecoming race. Sam has played her part very well. When I see people sneaking glances in my direction, I offer them a Mona Lisa smile. You know, with just enough mystery to keep them talking.

My plan is to make the announcement near the end of my lunch period. This is assuming that Ivy takes me up on my invite. I need people to see us together, enjoying each other's company. That way I don't have to officially endorse Ivy Proctor when I step down. They'll just know. Or, at the very least, they'll speculate that my new BFF is a factor in the decision.

I run to the girls' room for a quick touch-up before lunch—“quick” being the operative word. Typically I show up to the caf right before the bell rings. But not today. Today I need to beat Ivy there so I can make sure she lands at our table.

And then
she
shows up. Principal Constance Frick. Standing
in front of me like the tall tank of ugly she always has been and always will be.

“Miss Miles,” she says in a loud, flat voice. “I need to speak with you for a moment.”

I nod, artificially wide-eyed and agreeable. “Sure. I don't have a free period today but I can come by your office after—”

“Now,” Frick says sharply. Her lips curl upward like a Disney villain's just before something bad happens to the princess. “It should only take a moment or two.”

Fighting Frick could extend this interlude further, so I give in. Thankfully, she doesn't want to drag me all the way back to her office—just to the other side of the hallway.

“Alexandra.”

“Yes, Ms. Frick?”

“I just . . . I wanted to know how you were doing. How
are
you, Alexandra?”

I'm not buying the syrupy tone in her voice. “Fine,” I say. “Why do you ask?”

“Mrs. Mays and I were chatting earlier, and she mentioned that you missed rehearsal yesterday. Something about a doctor's appointment? I couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with . . . Well, you know.”

“My mother?” I finish for her. “Yeah, no. I told Mrs. Mays that I had to get my flu shot. That's all.”

“It's just so
unlike
you to skip a rehearsal. I think that's why Mrs. Mays was concerned. I told her I'd look into it.”

Bile rises to the back of my throat. Does Frick think she's
actually fooling me with this caring principal bit? She's counting down the days until I graduate; we both know she can't get rid of me a day too soon. Time to shut this down.

“Thank you for your concern,” I say, “but I assure you that I am absolutely fine.”

I'm about to bolt when Frick reaches out and puts her hand on my shoulder. Instantly I stiffen. Why is she
touching
me? Isn't that illegal these days?

“You have a lot on your plate, Alexandra,” Frick says, her hand still connected to my arm.

I stare at the hand like it's an evil, icky thing, but Frick doesn't move it. Instead, she says, “I am concerned that you may have overextended yourself this semester. Especially with your mother's current state of health.”

That's twice now that she's dragged Natalie into the conversation. Not okay.

With a swift move, I lift Frick's hand from my shoulder and push it back in her direction. “I don't have any idea what you're talking about,” I say coldly.

I start to walk away before Frick can say another word, but then think better of it. I turn around again so that I'm facing her and say, “But you know what, Ms. Frick? I do feel a little overextended right now, what with college applications and preparing for fall pageant season. I already put some plans in place to cut back. I think you'll be pleased.”

Frick's eyes narrow. If there was closed captioning for her thoughts, the words would likely read something along the lines
of, “Just what exactly are you scheming, little girl?”

“Thanks again for your concern,” I say. Then I turn and walk toward the cafeteria, letting my hips switch as I sashay away.

You may be wondering about my mother's complicated history with Frick. It's actually not that complicated. Frick was her teacher. She was married to Crazy Dave back then. My mom had an after-school job as a receptionist at Crazy Dave's dealership. Crazy Dave liked hot young blondes wearing tight little skirts.

You do the math.

So now Frick's got it in for me, even though my mom wasn't Crazy Dave's first or last. She was just the only one Frick had to deal with on a near-daily basis.

Fuck Frick and her vendetta bullshit.

I've got an election to throw.