Winning

by Lara Deloza

  Ivy puts the perfume bottle down, reaches into her purse, and extracts her cell. She types something in. My phone vibrates. I look down to see a text from her. There’s more where this came from, she wrote. And then a picture of my mother appears. It’s kind of blurry and dark, but I know it’s her. I just don’t know why.

  I look up. One of Ivy’s fat tears is trailing down her cheek. But she’s smiling. “There’s video, too,” she says. “Want to watch?”

  “What have you done?” I practically growl.

  “Me?” she says. “Nothing. But your mom, on the other hand . . .” She chuckles. “Hard when you find out someone isn’t who you think she is. But, you know, it’s all on the video. Are you sure you don’t want to watch?”

  “Listen to me carefully, Ivy,” I say. “I don’t know what you think you saw my mother doing, but it wasn’t that. I can assure you. She’s in mourning. She’s never truly recovered from my father’s death. And if you attempt to take advantage of her pain to besmirch her good name—”

  “Let’s watch,” she interrupts. “You need the proof.”

  She queues up a video and holds it out for me to see. I reach for the phone and she snatches it back. “You’re looking, not touching. And Wyatt has it backed up on three different servers, just so you know.”

  It’s a dark, fuzzy video, but that is clearly Natalie, wearing the white fur stole my father got her as a wedding present. It’s her signature fur. Everyone knows that fur.

  She is standing outside some bar or something. She is not alone. She’s wrestling with some sort of package—it’s a little bag. She sprinkles some of the contents on the corner of her left hand and snorts.

  My mother, the former beauty queen, is doing drugs. Out in the open. In front of a seedy bar. Captured on film, no less.

  The camera zooms in on her companion. The sight of his face steals my breath away.

  It’s Douglas. Uncle Doug. My dad’s best friend. The one who delivered the eulogy at his funeral.

  He takes the bag from Natalie, sprinkles a little coke on her cleavage, and leans down to snort it up. She giggles maniacally as he does this. And then he starts kissing her, porn kissing with too much tongue, grabbing her breast with one hand and her ass with the other. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I imagine it’s something along the lines of “Oh, yeah, baby, right there.”

  Ivy Proctor is staring at me, and I want to slap her stupid fucking face.

  “Why would you do this?” I ask her.

  “This?” she says, tapping the phone. “That wasn’t me. That was all Sloane.”

  “Sloane Fahey?”

  “Do you know another Sloane?”

  “Why?” I demand.

  Ivy laughs so bitterly, it practically comes out a bark. “They say the best defense is a good offense, right?”

  No. This isn’t happening. It cannot be happening.

  Everything I’ve worked for—all of it—crumbling right before my eyes.

  “What do you want?” I ask her. “Name your price.”

  “I’m so glad you asked,” Ivy says, sounding more like me than herself. “I want you to re-enter the Homecoming race.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You told everyone you dropped out so someone more deserving could win,” she says. “So I can’t think of a better punishment than for you to retract that sentiment right before the vote. You want that crown so badly, don’t you, Alexandra? Get back in the race, and let me beat you fair and square.”

  What she’s proposing is akin to social suicide. And she knows it.

  “I can’t do that,” I say quietly. “You know that.”

  Ivy tsks at me. “Then I think this video is about to go viral, that’s what I think.”

  “You can’t,” I say. “That’s my mother.”

  “And I’m somebody’s daughter, but that didn’t matter to you, did it?”

  There has to be a way out of this. Has to. The photographs still exist. They could still get her disqualified. All I’d have to do is convince Wyatt to do what I’d initially asked. There’s still time, and there are bargaining chips I’ve yet to use with him.

  “Here’s how this is going to go down,” Ivy says. “You’re going to call Frick—tonight, in fact—and let her know that you plan on competing tomorrow.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then you know what happens.”

  I lean in closer. Our foreheads are practically touching. “You don’t know who you’re messing with, little girl. This isn’t going to end well for you.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Ivy says. “We’ve made sure of that.”

  “Who? You and Wyatt Schnitt?”

  “Don’t forget Sloane. She’s at your boyfriend’s house right now, explaining everything to him. Don’t worry. She knows to speak slowly.”

  I snort. “You think Matt’s going to leave me for her?”

  “No. But I think he’ll leave you when he finds out who you really are.”

  This can’t be happening. I have to think fast. Defuse the situation. What will it take to shut this down?

  “Call Frick,” Ivy instructs. “Now.”

  I pick up my phone, but it’s not Frick’s number I dial. It’s Sam’s.

  “We have a situation,” I say in a low voice.

  “We sure do,” Sam responds. “Because you are supposed to be calling Frick right about now.”

  Her words are like a sucker punch to the gut.

  It’s her. She did this. She’s the only one capable.

  How is this happening? How?

  I end the call. Pull up Frick’s number. Make the call.

  “Hello, Ms. Frick,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m sorry to be calling you so late, but there’s an urgent matter we need to discuss.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Alexandra

  I strand Ivy at the mall and hightail it home. On the way, I call Natalie. No answer. I call Matt. Same thing.

  I have the sinking feeling that I am so totally fucked.

  My brain is whirring a mile a minute, trying desperately to process everything that has happened. Trying to figure out what happens next. I’m usually three steps ahead, but right now, I’m ten behind.

  Natalie is nowhere to be found. She’s probably out getting wasted with Uncle Doug. I consider calling him but can’t bring myself to do it.

  I pace the house, feeling like a feral cat. Feeling like I’m about to explode.

  I get back in my car and drive over to Matt’s, but see Sloane’s car parked in the driveway. Maybe Ivy was bluffing about that part. Or, even if she’s not, maybe Sloane’s plan to break us up has backfired. He hasn’t called me. Hasn’t texted. You can’t break up with someone without telling them, can you?

  That night, I don’t sleep. I can’t. Instead, I go into the basement and run until my legs are about to give out. No word from Natalie. No word from Matt.

  It occurs to me that I am utterly, completely alone.

  Is this how Natalie feels? Is this why she works so hard to numb herself?

  I sit on the basement steps and let myself cry. Real tears, not the fake ones I can conjure up on command.

  I cry until I have nothing left inside of me. Then I get up, wipe my eyes, and go to my room, where I lie awake until my alarm goes off the next morning.

  At the game, I sit in the stands with Matt’s family. If he is breaking up with me, they do not seem to be any the wiser. Doug is supposed to be there, too, watching the Homecoming game with us, but he already texted me that he’s running late. Probably nursing an epic hangover. Natalie still wasn’t home by the time I left. I can only imagine what the two of them have been up to.

  The Spencer Spartans are winning, of course. We always do. So far Matt has scored two touchdowns, and we’ve barely begun the second quarter. I’m relieved to see that whatever transpired last night hasn’t affected his performance.

  My head isn’t where it needs to be right now.
It bothers me that I can’t get ahold of my mother. She could at least pick up the phone.

  At halftime, there’s the tradition of parents walking the candidates out onto the field for the final Q&A. It’s kind of a dog-and-pony show for the alumnae. Natalie says this is a relatively new tradition—that back in her day, the king and queen were voted on in school the Friday before the game. There was a parade too, and the king and queen rode on the main float.

  But several years back, the daughter of a big donor didn’t win queen. He wanted to see his kid on the field, though. So they had all of the candidates trot out and do this dumb Q&A. The following year, they switched the election to take place at the dance, so all of the parents with candidates could see their kids honored. It’s stupid and no other school in Indiana does Homecoming in quite the same way.

  My freshman year, my dad was still alive. He walked me out as freshman class princess. I loved being on his arm, even though someone had the nerve to ask me why my grandpa was my escort. Sophomore year, just a few weeks before the accident, he was away on a business trip, so Natalie accompanied me.

  Last year, I almost had to walk alone. But then Uncle Douglas stepped in at the last minute. He is once again my escort. And he arrives just in time. Alone.

  The last thing I want to do is make an entrance with a man who apparently snorts coke off my mother’s breasts. But I don’t have time to find a replacement. So I swallow my disgust and delay confrontation.

  “You look beautiful,” Doug tells me, with a quick kiss to the cheek. I try not to recoil. “Shall we?”

  I walk across the field on Doug’s arm, feeling my stomach churn. This is supposed to be one of the highlights of my high school career, and I can’t even enjoy it.

  The queen candidates stand in a row, clutching the bouquets of flowers our male escorts presented each of us with. One by one, we step up to the mic to introduce ourselves and answer a question posed by Frick.

  I am the last to go. I didn’t even really hear anyone else’s answers. I’m too lost in my own head.

  When it is my turn, Frick looks at me and very pointedly asks, “Who would you say is your greatest role model, and what would you do if you found out that person wasn’t who you thought they were?”

  The smirk on her face says it all. She knows. Somehow, she knows about Natalie.

  I open my mouth to speak but no words come out. I am shaking. I am standing in front of hundreds of people, all of them waiting for me to say something, anything, and I don’t have a single word.

  The mic catches my sob, amplifies it out to the crowd. I drop my bouquet, cover my mouth with my hands, and run off the field. I don’t stop running until I get to my car.

  All that work. All those plans.

  I rock back and forth, shaking, and am startled when I see a concerned Doug gesturing at me to roll down the window.

  “I can’t,” I say. Then I start the car and peel out of the parking lot.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Alexandra

  I reach my house in record time. I can’t believe I just did that. Me, Alexandra Miles. Turns out these colors do run.

  As soon as I enter I can hear Natalie clanging around in the kitchen. Seething, I storm in there, ready to rip her a new one.

  “You,” I say, pointing at her. “You have ruined everything.”

  “What are you talking about?” Natalie asks. “Is the game over already?”

  “It’s all over, Mother. I’ve lost it all. To protect you.”

  “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I pull my phone from my purse, queue up Ivy’s video, which she oh-so-graciously forwarded to me after I called Frick. “Here,” I say, thrusting it toward her.

  Natalie squints and pulls the camera closer to her eyes. When she realizes she’s the star of this particular home movie, she lets out an “Oh, fuck.”

  “Is this your doing?” she asks. “You’ve been following me?”

  “No,” I say. “A classmate did. And then she gave it to another classmate who used this video to blackmail me. I gave up everything to protect you. And for what? So you could do drugs with Uncle Dougie? Jesus, Natalie. What the fuck?”

  “You have no idea how hard it’s been for me,” she says. “You are young, and beautiful, and you have your whole life ahead of you. Me, I’m just a washed-up beauty queen.”

  I shake my head at her. “So that gives you the right to be a shitty parent? What if you’d gotten arrested?”

  “It’s not like that,” Natalie says. “We play from time to time. But it’s not like . . . I’m not an addict, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  Natalie starts to pour herself a Blanton’s.

  “No,” I say. “Don’t you dare!”

  “Can I at least sit?”

  We move to the table. Natalie sighs heavily. “What do you want from me, Alexandra? In another nine months, you’re going to college. You’re going to leave me behind. Why do you even care?”

  “Because you’re my mother!” I say. “Of course I care.”

  “It’s been three years,” Natalie says ruefully. “You never noticed. Not once.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Me. Douglas. Three years. You were too self-involved to see what was going on.”

  “But, Dad’s only been gone—”

  “I know exactly how long your father’s been gone,” she says, cutting me off. “He didn’t notice either.”

  Natalie starts talking, spilling a long, complicated story about how she married too young, to a man who was too old. She left the pageant world at his request. She gave him a beautiful daughter, played the part of the perfect corporate wife. In return, he allowed her access to his money.

  “I was more like a prostitute than I was a wife,” she tells me. “Except in the end, we weren’t even having sex.”

  “Don’t,” I say.

  She shrugs. “Douglas desired me. He always has. Even before your father and I got married, we . . . had some moments. And with your father gone, he could finally have me.”

  My ears feel like they’re bleeding. None of this makes sense. My mother has spent the past two years as a sort of recluse. How could she have been carrying on some secret affair? With Uncle Douglas, of all people?

  “You were so happy though,” I say. “Right before Daddy died. You were inseparable.”

  “We were.”

  “But you were screwing Dougie the whole time?”

  “No,” she says. “Not then. That was real.”

  Suddenly, my lungs feel constricted and I am unable to breathe.

  “The brakes,” I say. “The rumors. You?”

  “No,” she says. “I would never. How could you even think that?”

  “How could I not?”

  Tears spill from my eyes. My mother’s response? “You’re going to ruin your makeup.”

  Is it any wonder I am the person I’ve become?

  “He’ll be happy you finally know,” Natalie says after a while. “We won’t have to hide anymore.”

  “Great,” I say. “So now the two of you can smoke crack at our dining-room table.”

  “No, dear,” she says. “Crack is for the lower class.”

  I think this is her attempt at a joke. At any rate, she offers a weak smile.

  “You’re going to leave me,” Natalie says. “You’re going to be somebody. You’ll be the somebody I never was, and you’re going to leave me here, all alone.”

  “What about Douglas?”

  “He will take care of me,” she concedes. “Until my skin gets too wrinkly, or my tits start to sag. Then I’ll be alone again. But you, Alexandra—you will never need anyone. You are all that you need.”

  “I needed you,” I say, my voice choking on the words.

  Natalie has no response to that. She looks over toward the Blanton’s longingly.

  “Go ahead,” I say. “Drink up. I’m done talking.”


  I walk upstairs and straight into the bathroom, where I take a long, hot shower. Trying to wash away all of the ugliness of today. I think of the shower water like a baptism of sorts.

  It’s time for the resurrection of Alexandra Miles.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Alexandra

  Matt is supposed to pick me up at six o’clock on the dot, but he doesn’t show. I’ve stopped trying to get ahold of him. I’ve never been a fan of futility.

  I consider skipping the dance altogether, especially after this afternoon’s performance. But to do so would be the ultimate show of weakness, and that’s something I simply cannot allow.

  So I do my hair. I do my makeup. I step into my lavender dress, a floor-length number with layer upon layer of diaphanous skirt. The strapless bodice sports literally thousands of hand-sewn crystal beads. It’s a pageant dress, but not one I’ve ever worn in competition.

  It’s the dress I thought I’d be wearing when I became queen.

  I drive myself to the dance. I plan to walk into that decorated gym with my head held high, daring anyone and everyone to ask me about what happened during halftime. I am going because not going would be sealing my fate. What Natalie said—about me being the somebody she never was—is spot-on. I am nothing like my mother. I will not hide in my house. I will not let a man derail my dreams.

  I sit in my parked car as long as I can stand it. If I don’t go in soon, I know I’m going to chicken out.

  I can’t let them win.

  Even though I will leave the dance without the crown I worked so hard to win, I will still leave a winner. The crown is not the prize—I am.

  Couples are still arriving as I make my way to the door. They look at me and they whisper. Yes, that’s how quickly I replaced Ivy in the gossip mill.

  Taylor Flynn is working the table, collecting tickets. “My gosh,” she says to me. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

  “Um . . . thanks?”

  She offers a tight smile that’s so totally fake. “I need your ticket,” she says.

  Only, I don’t have a ticket. Matt bought the tickets.

  Taylor reads the expression on my face and says, “That’ll be twenty dollars.”