Winner Take All

by Laurie Devore

  “I’m listening.” I glance at my phone screen. “But only for a limited amount of time.”

  “Tristan!” Jackson calls over my head. Behind me, Tristan Kaye is walking around looking so jaded, it’s as if she practices in the mirror daily. Her objectively amazing eyebrows knit and she heads over to where Jackson is standing.

  “Tristan, you know Nell?”

  She looks at me with interest. “What’s that short for, anyway?” she asks without pretense. “Nell.” She glances at Jackson. “That’s weird, right?”

  “I like it,” Jackson says. “Sounds classic.”

  They’re trying to intimidate me, which I at least find amusing. “Eleanor.”

  Tristan nods. “It is classic,” she says, shooting Jackson another look.

  I know Tristan Kaye, but not well. She’s the kind of girl who comes with a reputation and a hell of a lot of baggage. The rumors about her—or more specifically, her long list of trysts—run wild in the halls of Cedar Woods Prep, but she has the effortless cool to pull off a pair of cutoff jean shorts and gladiator sandals up to her knees. She’s a member of Jackson’s band of misfits, but she isn’t in the AP classes with Jackson and me. Everything I know about Tristan Kaye comes from the fact that her legend precedes her.

  Mostly I know that Tristan Kaye is not the kind of girl I’d ever want to be.

  “What do you want?” she asks Jackson. I’ll give them this—they fake not giving a shit perfectly. Like they know something about life that no one else does.

  Or maybe they really don’t give a shit. I don’t know what that would be like.

  “Can I have your drink?” He points to his discarded cup. “I’m all out and I’m working on limited time here.”

  “How much have you had already?” Tristan eyes him warily. Her hair is all long, black, wavy, and perfect in contrast to her bronzed skin. They look amazing together.

  “Enough.”

  “I’m not giving you my drink,” Tristan tells him.

  He points. “It’s for her. She needs it.”

  “Fine,” Tristan says. She shoves the drink in my hand before I can protest and walks away. I stare down at it, unsure of how to handle the whole situation.

  “We can share, right?” Jackson asks me.

  “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “Everything.” He blinks. “Here.” I hand him the cup. “I should go.”

  “You ever been in love, Becker?”

  I stop, because what even. “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t know,” Jackson says. “I was thinking about that book we read—The Scarlet Letter—and what you said about bearing the weight of other people’s sins, and I was just thinking. About love.”

  “You didn’t read that book,” I correct him.

  He laughs. “Okay, but I figure”—and he sips—“you know, I’ve let that marinate a bit, and I don’t think love is that complicated or complex or whatever. Like, give me a couple more cups of this and an hour tops, and I could be in love with any girl here.”

  “That’s not what it’s about. Hester’s sacrifice—”

  “Right, right, right,” he cuts me off.

  “And that’s not love. Nothing you feel is love. That’s lust. And that’s all the girls feel back. They don’t love you—they want you.” My eyes scan him. “For whatever reason.”

  “Fine, I could be in lust with any girl here, and she’d, as you so eloquently put it, want me back.” He snorts into the drink. “Please. Have some of this. You need it.”

  I take it and sip without thought, pulling back from the cup as soon as the bitterness hits my lips. I’ve tasted alcohol before. The fruity, bubbly stuff that Mrs. Reagan keeps at their house. But this is all hard edges and burn all the way down. “Oh, right—the irresistible Jackson Hart. I’ve changed my mind. I think I do know what they want. Money. Attention. That nice name recognition. And you’ve got it all. Who wouldn’t want that?”

  His face darkens ever so slightly. “So you think I’m only good for my name?”

  “I mean,” I say, looking away, “I guess you’re conventionally attractive, but there are plenty of girls who need a little more than that.”

  I swear he doesn’t blink for a full minute, but then he says, “Well, let’s find out.”

  “I don’t—” I start to say, but he’s already walking away from me, and then, desperate to know what he’s trying to do, I follow him. I follow him right into a group of girls I don’t recognize, probably CW’ers. They don’t look quite as comfortable in this setting as the other partygoers—that is, except the small, tanned blond girl in the middle—she oozes confidence. On one side of her is a girl with dark brown hair in a side braid and slightly oversized front teeth and on the other, a thin girl in a pair of large-frame glasses.

  Jackson says to the friend in glasses, “Would you be able to settle a debate my friend and I are having?” The girl eyes me and laughs sort of softly. Glances at her friends. The ones who usually get hit on. “Sure,” she says, taking a sip of her drink. “What’s up?”

  Jackson says, “Tell them, Nell.”

  My eyes cut to him, but he’s just smiling affably at me, waiting for my explanation. I clear my throat once, then twice. “Are you guys familiar with The Scarlet Letter?” I ask them, and Jackson can’t help it. He starts laughing.

  The girls laugh, too, as if we are all in on one big joke. I don’t. “God, I hate that book,” the tiny blond girl in the middle says to Jackson. She leans in, blinking slowly.

  “What about you?” Jackson asks Glasses, nodding his head at her. I watch as a pink tint crawls up her neck.

  “If we’re talking Hawthorne, I prefer his short stories,” she says, going with the intellectual angle. I want to tell her it will never work.

  “‘The Minister’s Black Veil,’” Jackson concedes, tilting his head to the side as if in interest. I refrain from rolling my eyes.

  “I like the Brontë sisters,” Blonde says.

  “Austen,” Glasses says. “Every day.” How trite, I can’t help but think.

  “How about something from this century? Morrison? Rushdie?” I say.

  “Don’t be so superior, Nell,” Jackson says to me like we’re in on the same joke.

  “No, I agree,” the quiet girl with the braid answers, looking at me. I like the way she turns away from Jackson. “I’m so damn sick of reading books by dead white guys. Austen and Brontë are great to get into the mix but where’s the perspective of diverse writers, especially women, women from this century? Instead, we keep talking about the same dated stuff year after year.”

  “Don’t do that, Avery,” says her friend in the middle, but I see the way a smile creeps onto Jackson’s face. “I’m Serena,” the blond girl says, sidestepping the literary conversation. “May,” she introduces the girl in the glasses.

  “Nell.” Jackson points at me. “And I’m visiting for the weekend. Our parents are old friends.”

  I hear the ridiculous lie, but I can’t help it. I want to play along.

  “I go to Prep,” I tell the girls. “I like to scope out Alston’s on the weekends sometimes.” Then I shrug. “I mean, it’s kind of boring and stereotypical, but I need someone to judge.” I briefly try to channel Tristan and Jackson, loving the feeling of wearing someone else for a change. And besides—I do judge everyone here. “I’ve never seen you guys before. Are you from out of town?” I ask like I don’t care.

  “No,” May says. “Not really. We came with some of our friends, like, a girls’ night or something and it’s just”—she gives the place a once-over—“gross, to be honest.”

  “It is,” I agree wholeheartedly.

  “You look kind of familiar,” Serena says to Jackson. “Have I seen you around here?”

  Jackson exchanges a look with me. “I’ve been told I have one of those faces. Nell tells me I look just like her boyfriend,” he says, grinning at me. Despite myself, I feel my face go hot.
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  “We go to CW,” May says to me.

  “Don’t worry,” I confide in her, ignoring Jackson. “I might look stereotypical Prep, but I hate those Prep kids as much as all of you do.” I like the way it feels, like I could be a poster Prep child, even for a moment.

  Like I could have everything.

  “We’re always willing to make exceptions,” Serena says, glancing over at her friend Avery with the braid. I doubt she means exceptions for me. “Right, Avery?”

  Avery shakes her head at Serena. “Don’t even get me started on that right now. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Nell,” Jackson says, staring down into my drink, “you’re on empty. Let’s go see about filling this up.” And then he’s off and I’m impulsively following him again.

  “What the hell was that?” I mutter to him as he leads me over to the keg.

  “Remember what I said?” he asks. He takes the cup out of my hand and pumps the keg, pouring me a beer I don’t want. “About lust?”

  “Great, you’ve proven your point—girls want you.” I shake my head. “For your next trick, are you going to continue to lie about who you are and take Serena home?”

  “You’re sick,” he tells me. “I’m just showing you. I’m more than a name and money. I actually listen to people. And Serena’s not the one who’s going to want me; it’s Avery.”

  I snort. “Oh my God, you’re delusional. She would never go for you.”

  “I feel sorry for you. You have so little imagination,” he returns.

  “She’s too smart to fall for that,” I tell him. “I know girls like that. They don’t let themselves get distracted.”

  He watches me. “You don’t know anything about that girl, you know? Everyone has their weaknesses.”

  I grab my drink from him. “Why do you do this?” I can’t help but ask.

  “Because it makes me feel good, okay, Becker? I like when people like me.” I can practically feel his annoyance. It makes me oddly pleased.

  I bite into my nail, watching him, hating myself for watching him. He moves ever so slightly from the table.

  “Can I touch you?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “It’s part of the game,” he tells me.

  I glance over at the three girls, catch them watching us, and then I look back at Jackson. “Fine,” I say through gritted teeth.

  His whole body changes, softens. He reaches out and pushes an escaped piece of my hair out of my face, smoothing it in place behind my ear, feeling too close. His fingers trail back and then are on my cheek like a whisper. He doesn’t break eye contact—his eyes are on mine like he wants something that he can’t get from me—and he’s still touching me. Then he drops his hand, looking away quickly.

  I take a deep breath.

  “Not bad,” he says after a minute, going back to his casual stance. “I almost believed you for a second.”

  “But none of this is real,” I say, trying to recover. “Whatever happens. Whoever you kiss. It’s all fake.”

  He bites into his bottom lip, giving me a smile. “There you go again, Nell. Believing the lie. It’s always fake. Whether you realize it or not.”

  “So the chase is all you need?”

  He frowns at me, turning his drink up and giving me no answer.

  8

  It’s an hour later, and I’m standing with Michonne, talking volleyball, drunk on a heady feeling of triumph more than alcohol. The girl—Avery—is watching Jackson like she doesn’t care while her friend continues to talk his ear off. I knew it.

  “Are you listening, Nell?” Michonne asks me.

  I snap my head back around fast, nodding. “Yeah. Definitely.”

  She checks her watch. “It’s getting late. You want to get out of here? I have to call my brother to pick us up.” She’s squinting at her phone. I only live a few minutes from Alston’s house, an easy detour for most Prep students on their way over the bridge, so I told Lia and Taylor to leave without me earlier, promising to catch a ride with Michonne. I’d muttered something about team bonding, but the truth was that gloating over Jackson’s failure was too tantalizing an opportunity to miss.

  I glance back over and all four of them are gone. Briefly, I let my eyes wander, searching for any of them. And then I spot Avery’s friends, Serena and May, over by the keg. I crush the cup I’m holding, irritated.

  She wouldn’t.

  “Yeah, we should go,” I say to Michonne. I need to get out of here before I do something really stupid.

  Michonne nods, turning back to say good-bye to her friends. “I’ll meet you upstairs,” I tell her. “I’m going to go to the restroom.”

  Things at Alston Marcus’s house are going to hell pretty quickly, I note as I pound up the stairs. Past spilled drinks and kissing couples and sloppy kids tangled up in arms and legs and alcohol. I push through, trying not to let the chaos swallow me whole.

  Someone appears to have taken up residence in the bathroom off the kitchen, so I plow straight through a door with a sign that says Don’t come in into a hallway, and there at the end, like a mirage in the barely lit heat, is Jackson. His hand is cupping a girl’s face, and she’s touching him back, and they’re kissing. Really kissing. I can’t tear my eyes away, the way his hand moves and tangles up in the back of her hair as her head is turned to the side.

  Avery. I can’t believe it.

  They presumably feel me staring at them and pull apart. A smile spreads on his face when he sees me.

  “Sorry,” I say, flat.

  “Oh, Nell!” he answers cheerfully. “Great timing. C’mere, I need a favor.”

  I step forward, keeping my face straight. He tosses me his phone, and I catch it. “I need a picture. Commemorating my time in Cedar Woods. At … What’s this guy’s name?”

  I grind my teeth together. “Alston Marcus.”

  “Right, at Alston Marcus’s house,” he says.

  “Oh, don’t,” Avery starts to say.

  “I have to make my friends back home think I’m having a good time.” Jackson gives her a smile, and she shrugs, laughing, and then shakes her head. “Fine.”

  Jackson puts his arm around her, and she leans up to give him a kiss on the cheek, and it’s so fucking cute I feel sick. But I can’t stop playing along now. Good winners are gracious in defeat.

  I throw the phone back to him. “I need to go,” I say, turning away.

  “I better go with you,” Avery says, sliding away from Jackson. “Serena and May will be looking for me.” I let her follow me.

  “Becker,” Jackson calls to my back. I glance at him. “Until next time.” He says it like a challenge, and I incline my head. Avery is watching me.

  Once we’re out of earshot and I’m almost free, I can’t help but ask her, “Why would you do that? He’s so obvious.”

  “Of course he is.” She laughs, watching me, and I feel stupid for a minute. I thought I knew who she was. “I did it because,” she says, “it felt good.”

  I leave her back at the entrance to the basement, push my hair away from my face, and walk out onto the front porch. Finally I’m free from the oppressive heat. I can breathe.

  It’s already in the air. We’re in for a long, hot summer.

  9

  I haul my book bag in through the front entrance of Prep Monday morning. Signs of the baseball team’s triumph are all over. The pep squad has done up each team member’s locker with his name and number in these felt baseballs, and I can smell baked goods wafting through the hallway. There are too many housewives at Prep ready to bake cookies for the triumphant team. Like so much else at Prep, baseball’s just another vehicle for students to bring glory to their parents.

  Taylor’s girlfriend, Amanda Yee, is at her locker, which happens to be the one located right next to mine. I go over, resigned to the fact that I’m going to have to talk to her.

  “Morning, Nell,” she says cheerfully. I pop my locker open and shove my gym bag into the top before shifting my
regular backpack around to take some books out. “Busy weekend?”

  “Yeah, definitely. What about you?”

  “Good. We drove down to see Joseph at MUSC on Saturday morning and stayed for the weekend. Little guy’s hanging in there.” She says this all in a painfully upbeat tone, her blunt black bangs falling into kind eyes.

  There’s certainly nothing wrong with Amanda—she’s one of the nicest people at Prep as far as I’m concerned. But she is so profoundly sad and so happy in spite of this sadness that it has a tendency to break my heart. She wears her emotions on her sleeve, and that is something that makes me terribly uncomfortable.

  “How is he feeling?” I say, trying to follow a script I know most people would.

  “He’s always in the best spirits. Such a joy. Like, even though everything is so hard for him and it tears me up to see his little body hurting so badly, I always leave feeling more alive, you know?”

  I nod, unsure of what to do with that.

  “There’s my girl!”

  I recognize Taylor’s voice with relief as he slides in behind Amanda, wrapping his arms around her like some sort of oversized protector. I close my locker, doing my best attempt at a smile. “Missed you,” Taylor whispers in her ear loud enough for me to hear, and she turns her head to give him a quick kiss. “Nell?” he says then. “Heard you were the life of the party after we left.”

  “Am I not always?” I give him a careless reply, feeling free to dig around in my locker as I talk to him.

  “Someone said they thought they saw you sharing a romantic moment with Hart.”

  I turn my head sharply. “Who said that?” I ask. Then, thinking better of it, I go back to my digging. My locker is a complete disaster area. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. I did no such thing.”

  Taylor laughs. “I know.”

  “How’s Joe?” he asks Amanda as I search for a homework assignment I did last week—it wasn’t due until today, but I finished it on Thursday and threw it in here for safekeeping. I shift my biology book and a folder goes tumbling out.

  Amanda repeats her go-to line, and I feel kind of bad for the both of them, honestly. How can you enjoy a relationship when there’s always a dark cloud like that over you?