Winning

by Lara Deloza

  “See?” she says. “That’s how it’s done.”

  She has a list of twelve questions for us to practice with—all questions that have been used in a previous Homecoming Q&A. Three are starred; those are the questions that were used more than once.

  We run through each question until I am able to give an answer Alexandra finds satisfactory—not once, not twice, but three times in a row. It is exhausting. I cannot remember the last time I had to talk about myself this much. Maybe in the hospital, but even there, I preferred to listen more than I did talk.

  This goes on for hours. So long that my mother ends up inviting Alexandra to stay for dinner. I expect her to decline but instead she says, “I’d love to. Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Proctor.”

  My parents are thoroughly charmed by Alexandra and her pageant-perfect performance. I study her as she answers their questions and realize that she is adopting many of the techniques she was just coaching me on. Repeating the question in the first part of her answer. Smiling a lot, but not too broadly. Saying things she knows they want to hear.

  Alexandra helps my mom clear the table. When she is out of earshot, my mom leans over to me and whispers, “Your friend is delightful!”

  There are a lot of words I would use to describe Alexandra. “Delightful” is not one of them.

  Back in my room, she is once again all business. “Now, where were we?”

  Before we call it a night, Alexandra asks me to consider thinking about how I can talk about my past in a positive way.

  “Everybody knows what happened,” she says. “To not address it in some way would be foolish.”

  I tell her I do not want to talk about that time in my life. “I thought the point was to focus on who I’ve become.”

  “It is,” she says. “But to do that the right way, you need to acknowledge just how far you’ve come.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look,” she says. “Your story could absolutely be your most powerful weapon. You just have to learn how to use it.”

  The idea of “using” my story makes me feel a little sick. I wish I had passed on a second helping of my mom’s mashed potatoes.

  “Trust me,” Alexandra says. “And practice. Tomorrow’s Thursday, so you’re on your own. Make every second count. You’re definitely going to need it.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Sam

  My lips are bruised from kissing. Hot kissing. Secret kissing. The kind of kissing that is so intense, when you’re not doing it the only thing you can think about is when you’ll get to do it again.

  I wasn’t sure there’d be a repeat performance of what happened between me and Erin at the Puritan Party, but there was. The first time was at church, no less. We saw each other just before the service began. Erin caught my eye across the pews and nodded her head toward the doors. Then she got up, and thirty seconds later, I followed her into the ladies’ room. It was empty, and after checking for feet, Erin pushed me into the handicap stall, locked the door, and stuck her tongue in my mouth. She was completely sober, too.

  “I have to see you,” she whispered.

  “You’re seeing me now.”

  “Tonight,” she said. “Can I come over?”

  “Sure. Come for dinner. My mom would love that.”

  She gave me one last kiss—deep and wet and everything good in the world—before slipping out of the stall. I sat on the toilet, shaking. Erin Hewett liked me. She wanted me. Me.

  That night, after stuffing our faces with my mom’s famous fried chicken, Erin and I locked ourselves in my bedroom and kissed for over an hour. We did more than kiss, actually. There was some over-the-clothes boob touching on both our parts, and at one point, Erin directed my hand under her skirt but over her underwear. She rubbed up against it, moaning softly as we kissed.

  Everything inside of me exploded all at once, a thousand points of starlight bursting from my skin.

  “I didn’t know it could be like this,” I said softly.

  “Me either.”

  Afterward, we lay back on my bed, holding hands and talking. Erin rested her head on my shoulder and sighed. “This is perfection.”

  “You can say that again.”

  That night, not long after Erin had gone home, Lexi texted me. Can you be on Erin duty this week? I have Ivy covered.

  I started laughing. As if I needed her to ask.

  But I had promised Erin that we would stay a secret until after the election. And part of keeping us a secret meant not tipping Lexi off to anything. The girl was sharp. She could read me like a book. Having her think that I was glued to Erin’s side because she commanded me to be was our safest bet.

  Sure, I texted back. I’ll take one for the team.

  Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I texted Erin. Tomorrow after school. My place?

  YES, she wrote back in all caps.

  Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

  The next day moved glacially slow. Whenever I saw Erin, my pulse would race and I’d get the tingles in my stomach. None of which I could reveal when Lexi was around. But there was something about this whole secret thing that made everything that much hotter.

  That afternoon, we had to be careful, what with Wyatt right next door and my mom just down the stairs. Even with the door locked I jumped every time I heard footsteps.

  By Wednesday, my mother was starting to get suspicious. She didn’t know about the kissing, but me inviting the same friend for dinner three nights in a row isn’t something that escapes her notice. When she asked me about all the time Erin and I were spending together, I told her we were working on a project for school.

  “Maybe you can work on it at her house tomorrow night,” Mom replied.

  So I texted Erin, Can I come to your place tomorrow?

  It was almost two hours before she responded: Maybe.

  I texted back a question mark. It took her another half hour or so to write back, I don’t have a lock on my bedroom door, followed by a series of smiley faces, kissy lips, and hearts with stars.

  That’s okay, I texted back. We can just hang out.

  I got another smiling emoji in return, but no solid invite.

  That night, I couldn’t sleep. My brain wouldn’t stop racing. For five days straight, I’d made out with Erin Hewett. I’d touched and been touched by Erin Hewett. The hours between each encounter were excruciatingly painful as it was. What if I had to wait more than twenty-four hours? I couldn’t even fathom it.

  But where could we go? What secret place could we occupy?

  Erin had a car—that was something. Could we drive out of town? Maybe go to a movie theater, or even just find a field to go park in?

  My plan got more elaborate as the night wore on. It involved disguises and fake names—crazy things that, had I been thinking clearly, I would’ve known were crazy. If I slept an hour, I’d be surprised.

  I arrive at school feeling completely strung out, with purple bruises under my eyes. “You okay?” Erin asks when she sees me. “You look like hell.”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” I admit.

  “Make sure you caffeinate,” she says. “Turns out my mom’s got a work thing. She won’t even be home until almost eleven.”

  I want to slam her up against the bank of lockers and mash my mouth into hers, but I can’t, so I don’t. I’ll just have to save it for later.

  As I head to homeroom, I pass by Lexi, who winks at me. A gesture that, one short week ago, would have turned my knees to jelly. Only this time, I feel nothing.

  At long last, the spell has been broken. I am free of the evil queen.

  She could be a queen. Erin, I mean. A good one. An honest one. The kind of Homecoming Queen Spencer High deserves.

  Helping Erin would be risky. Not just for me, but for her. If I burn Lexi’s and my friendship to the ground, there’s no telling what Lexi would do to retaliate. I think about how she wrecked Sloane Fahey sophomore year. What she’s about to do to Ivy. And she isn’t ne
arly as close with either of them as she is with me.

  If I did this, I’d have to be so, so careful. Leave no trace of my actions. Make it look like someone else was the mastermind.

  And then it hits me: Why not Sloane Fahey? She’s clearly got some agenda of her own these days. She’s been stalking Lexi. Flirting with me. But what exactly does she want?

  It’s time I find out.

  FORTY

  Sloane

  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.”

&
nbsp; 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.

  FORTY-ONE

  Sam

  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.