Winning (11 page)

Here is what I know:

        
•
 
Alexandra Miles has unofficially dropped out of the Homecoming race. I refuse to call it “official” until I get a ballot that doesn't have her name on it. Plus, I'm not entirely convinced she isn't up to something. (But that's not what I
know
; that's what I am speculating.)

        
•
 
Alexandra is apparently putting her support behind Ivy Proctor. Or at least pretending to. Or at the very least taking the poor girl under her wing. (I guess that's more speculation, on all counts.)

        
•
 
Ivy Proctor actually wants to
win
. I mean, she's hanging out with Alexandra. Or is she doing that because, up until Alexandra took an interest in her, Ivy didn't have any friends? (Damn it. More speculation!)

So I guess I don't actually know
anything
. Except that yesterday, during lunch, Alexandra made a big, flashy announcement
about not running for queen. Which, bee-tee-dubs, I'm not sure I completely buy. This is, after all,
Alexandra
we're talking about. Girlfriend always gets what she wants, no matter who's standing in her way.

Just ask Taylor Flynn.

Or Hayley Langer.

Or me. Just ask
me
, because I know firsthand to what lengths Alexandra will go. To which she has already gone. And all because there was a boy who dared to pick
me
over
her
.

Can we pause for a second and talk about that? About how
I
was the one Jonah Dorsey asked to be his girlfriend, even though Alexandra made it abundantly clear that she was also applying for the position?

I almost blew it, too. I couldn't understand why I was the one Jonah wanted to be with, so I asked him outright: “Are you only dating me because you think I'll put out? I'm a virgin, you know.”

He laughed. “Uh, no on both counts. But thanks for the heads-up.”

“It's not funny, Jonah,” I said. “I'm being serious.”

“You're being seriously adorable,” he replied, tucking a lock of my hair behind an ear.

I pushed his hand away. “But what about Alexandra?”

“What about her?”

“She likes you, you know.”

He shrugged. “So? I don't like her.”

“But why?”

Jonah's head tilted to one side, and he eyed me thoughtfully.
“She kind of scares me,” he said finally. “And not in the good way, like you do.”

“I scare you?”

“It scares me how much I like you,” Jonah said. “Does that count?”

When Alexandra realized that Jonah wasn't going to trade me in for her, she was beyond irritated. She never said this, of course. She just started making jokes about how Jonah and I should get a room already, or could we show a little respect for our fellow classmates and cut back on the PDA? And we weren't even the school's worst offenders.

So that went on for about a month, and then the rumors started. She told everyone that we were sleeping together, me and Jonah. That I gave him an STD. That I got it from some dude I boinked at drama camp the summer prior. Or maybe it was one of the four guys I'd been with before him.

None of it was true, of course, but that didn't matter. What's that they say? Rumors have a habit of festering into facts.

Jonah didn't dump me, not right away. He wasn't a dick like that. But what happened was this: The rumors got into his head. Made him question everything. Was I really a virgin? Did I have some sort of STD? Why were people telling him he better keep it wrapped?

It almost would've been better if he had broken up with me immediately. Instead, I had to endure the long, slow decline of our relationship, until one day he finally said, “I need some time to think.”

That was right before Christmas. I spent the whole break crying and dreading the post–New Year's return to school. But guess what? Jonah never came back to Spencer High. Apparently his dad got transferred to some suburb of Illinois—I still don't know if Jonah knew or if it was an unexpected, last-minute thing.

Either way, I never saw him again. Except when I stalked his Facebook page, that is.

This is the kind of crap that Alexandra pulls, though. Breaking up a perfectly happy couple just because she didn't get what she wanted.

How she remains one of the most popular girls in school is something I will never understand. And why
she
gets to keep her perfect boyfriend while I'm over here descending into spinsterdom is beyond me.

Le sigh
. Soon enough.

Okay, here's something else I know:

If I want to take Alexandra down, I'm going to have to get a peek behind the curtain. Expose the skeletons in her closet. Which is why Samantha Schnitt is still at the top of my hit list. I have got to find a way to get close to her. I thought I had my chance this morning, before homeroom, but then Erin Hewett beat me to it. And what's up with that girl, anyway? She's always
smiling
. She's been here a week, and already she has more friends than I do. Is that
because
of the smiling?

Note to self: smile more often.

I am getting
nowhere
.

Fact: I suck at this scheming stuff.

But maybe what I need to do is try playing it both ways. Apologize to Alexandra for my outburst the other day. Compliment her on dropping out of the race. Ask her about Ivy. If she
is
backing her, offer my support to help Ivy get the crown.

Maybe, instead of trying to get with Samantha Schnitt, I simply need to
be
her.

After school, we drive to Alexandra's house, because she has something she has to take care of with her mom. Then Alexandra hands Sam the keys to her car and instructs her to drive me to the Beauty Bar, a posh hair salon off Main Street. “Olivieri is expecting her,” she tells Sam, like I am not even standing there. “And he already has my credit card. Here's a twenty for the tip.” She peels off a crisp bill, folds it cleanly in half, and hands that over to Sam, too.

The stylist looks more like a Mike than an Olivieri. He's Indiana normal, all denim and flannel and scruffy beard. Lumberjack chic. And he doesn't look at all gay, which is what you'd expect from someone who calls himself Olivieri.

He doesn't ask me any questions, just sits me in a yellow plastic chair and drapes a silver cape thing over me. Then he disappears into a small room.

If my mother knew that this was happening, she would be both thrilled and horrified. Thrilled that I suddenly have not one but two new friends. Horrified that I was letting one of
them give me a makeover without any sort of consultation.

But I am here, am I not? That is implied consent.

Olivieri returns with a plastic bowl full of strong-smelling goop. He begins painting it on my hair, not even bothering to explain what he is doing. Some girl thrusts a
People
magazine into my hands. Princess Kate is on the cover; she's expecting again. The reporter speculates it is another girl by the location of her baby bump.

When he is finished with the goop, Olivieri walks away. Roughly twenty minutes later, he returns. He rubs a small section of my hair with a towel, grunts approvingly, and—still not saying a word—directs me toward a sink. After that, I go under a dryer. Then back to the plastic chair, where squares of foil are wrapped around bits of my hair. More strong-smelling goop is added; I spend another stint under the dryer and one more at the sink before finally landing in front of a mirror. I only get a glimpse of my streaky wet hair before squinching my eyes shut tight.

“Good,” Olivieri says—the first thing he's said to me since “Come,” which is how he waved me back in the first place. “Keep 'em closed.”

I do as I am told.

He combs and snips and twists and razors my hair. I can feel everything as it is happening, even if I cannot see it. I know the back of my neck is bare, because there is a breeze that tickles it. I really hope my mother doesn't freak out. “My friend made me do it,” I will tell her.
My friend
. That should get me a pardon.

Product is applied and there is more hair drying, more twisting, more everything. It is almost dark outside. How long have we been here, anyway?

“Done,” Olivieri pronounces. “Open 'em.”

I am speechless.

My dyed-black hair is now the golden brown of a waffle just off the iron. There are wisps of blond running through it; they look sun-bleached, and not something that came from a bottle. It is what I think of as artfully messy—like I just got out of bed, only I'm now the kind of girl who looks like a supermodel first thing in the morning.

Suddenly, Sam has joined us. “Whoa,” she says approvingly. “You look . . .
hot
.”

“Uh . . . thanks?”

Olivieri snorts. “Thank
me
,” he says. “I gave you the hotness.”

Sam slips him the twenty and we head to check out, where I am given a pink bag full of product. “I need all of this?” I ask.

The lady behind the register nods. “Olivieri's instructions are in the bag. You look good, doll.”

It is almost five thirty by the time we get back into the car. Sam texts something to someone—Alexandra, I assume. “We're running a little late,” she informs me.

“Yeah,” I say. “I told my mom I'd be home before dinner.”

“We're not going home. We're picking up Alexandra and then heading back to school.”

“Oh?”

“It's training time.”

The stage looks like something out of a nineties' movie montage.
Clueless: The Ivy Proctor Edition
. There are dresses hanging from every available surface. Half-opened boxes of shoes are all over the floor. There is a table littered with costume jewelry and—hand to God—an actual
boa
draped over a full-length mirror.

I am wearing one of Alexandra's old pageant gowns. It is a fluffy cupcake of a frock. “Tea-length,” she calls it. “I wore it for talent, not evening gown. Killed with the judges, though.”

I am also wearing panty hose. I
never
wear panty hose. Not to mention the fact that my legs are unshaven. I hardly ever shave them; I don't have a ton of leg hair and what I do have is thin and baby-soft. But it is also dark, and that does not escape Alexandra's notice.

“Shaving isn't optional,” she tells me. “Pits, legs, privates. No exceptions.” To Sam she says, “Make her a waxing appointment. With Olga. Be sure she knows we don't want a Brazilian.” Alexandra turns back to me. “You should be neat, not bald.”

I want to ask her who in the world she thinks is going to see my neatness, but I fight the urge.

She hands me a pair of sky-high heels that are two sizes too big. Sam stuffs the toes with crumpled-up paper towel stolen from the girls' restroom. It takes a lot of paper towel to make my feet fit, but we get there. The real challenge is trying to walk in them.

“You can't put your weight on the heel,” Alexandra instructs. “Step lightly, on the ball of your foot. Not your sole, the
ball
. Do
you know what the ball of your foot is?”

“I know it doesn't look like it,” I say, “but I
am
trying.”

“Try harder,” she shoots back.

I am given speeches about the three Ps of pageant success: posture, poise, and presentation. According to Alexandra, my posture is for shit, I lack poise, and my presentation leaves a lot to be desired.

“No more denim!” she barks. “You walk like you've spent your whole life wearing jeans. Skirts only until after the election. Nothing too short, either. Despite what Hayley Langer and her crew think, if a skirt doesn't hit your knee, it is most definitely too short.”

I always figured that being pretty took a lot of work. That is what women always say in the magazines, what actresses say in interviews. But honestly? I had no idea just how much work it could be.

My stomach starts grumbling around seven. Thirty minutes later, Alexandra declares us done for the day. Or so I think.

“Which do you want to tackle tonight—clothes or makeup?” she asks me. “I'm thinking makeup, since it will have the biggest impact with the hair. But your clothes . . . you need new clothes, Ivy.”

“I need to go
home
,” I say. “I need to eat dinner.”

“Dinner is for losers,” she retorts. “Are you a loser, Ivy?”

Sam cuts in, “You know, I could eat, too. Maybe we break for dinner, then regroup?”

It is the most she has said since we were alone in the car.

Alexandra checks her wristwatch, a slender silver one with diamonds crusted around the face. It looks old, like it was handed down to her from a grandparent.

“We don't have time for a break,” she says.

“Then maybe a snack,” Sam suggests.

Alexandra sighs heavily. “Fine. Something quick. Let's move.”

While I change back into my own clothes, they huddle in a corner to go over details. I hear Alexandra ticking off a list of cosmetics I will need to purchase. I wonder if she plans to pay for them, too. I don't have her kind of money, that is for sure.

In the car, Alexandra continues to give us orders. “No purple anything,” she declares. “Teal is your new color. You'll look good in teal. Not eye shadow—just clothes. And limit the black. We can't have you looking like you're headed to a funeral.”

Apparently, we are doing both clothes and makeup this evening.

I had thought shopping might be more relaxed than my three Ps practice, but I was dead wrong. Sam and Alexandra book it across the food court with me ten steps behind, practically running to keep up. “Dinner” turns out to be a protein-boosted acai smoothie from Jamba Juice so that we do not have to bother with a table or even utensils. Then we suck them down as we speed-walk to Forever 21.

Sam pulls garments off the rack with a freakish kind of precision. She can take one look at a shirt and know in an instant whether it has a “generous cut” or “unforgiving lines.” I point out
an ankle-length, floral print skirt that looks great with a baggy sweater, or at least it does on the mannequin. Alexandra shakes her head no.

“Why not?” I say. I am thinking that long skirts equal less-frequent leg shaving. But what I say is “It's girly, right?”

“It's shapeless,” Alexandra says. “Our school is forty-seven percent male. Boys vote for boobs. You hide those and you can kiss the crown good-bye.”

“Oh.”

I point out a few other things that catch my eye but make Alexandra roll hers. She hates everything I like. Sam offers no opinions whatsoever.

After I try on several configurations of garments, we land on a combination that pleases Alexandra: a high-waisted maroon pencil skirt paired with a slim-fit black turtleneck sweater tucked in.

“This. Yes,” Alexandra says. “Retro is the way to go.”

“Sure,” I say. “Retro. Got it.”

But I do not “got it.” Everything about this day feels completely surreal. When I go into the dressing room with the striped sweater dress that Alexandra insists I try on, I see some strange girl in the mirror . . . and then realize that
I am that strange girl
. I have new hair. I have new clothes. And, as long as we hit the makeup counter in time, I will have a new face, too.

By the time we leave, I am the new owner of four pencil skirts in various colors and fabrics, plus matching tops, two sweater dresses, a couple of pairs of tights, some earrings, and a boxy
purse. All Alexandra-approved, all Alexandra-purchased.

“I hope she doesn't expect me to put out,” I joke to Sam as we head to meet Alexandra, who apparently does not like waiting in checkout lines, at the MAC store.

Sam's head whips around so fast I could hear a cartoon swoosh. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Because she's buying me all of this stuff,” I say. “It was a joke. I'm joking.”

She squinches her eyes at me, not saying anything. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of judgy silence: “Nothing about this is funny.”

Then she strides away from me, like we didn't even come here together. I have to double-time it just to keep up.

At MAC, Alexandra shows a lady with scary eyebrows pictures of the outfits we purchased and says something to her about a new “neutral retro” look. I have no idea what that even means, but I sit, not saying a word, as she paints a bunch of things on my face. Alexandra nods approvingly, giving Scary Eyebrows feedback as she works.

I am not allowed to see until she has finished. The makeup lady hands me a black plastic mirror. Her face is blank. I raise the mirror up, not sure what to expect, and let out a short gasp.

I was right: I have a brand-new face.

Cheekbones, to start. I have them now. They are an optical illusion, but so is everything about this version of me. My eyes look bigger, my lips look fuller, and I can't help but think,
So this is what it feels like to be pretty
.

“Take it all off,” Alexandra tells Scary Eyebrows. “Start from the beginning, only this time, show her how to do everything.”

Scary Eyebrows obliges; my guess is that she works on some sort of commission. Or maybe she gets a bonus based on how much product she pushes. It is a lot of makeup. The total ends up in the hundreds. No joke.

Alexandra moves on to another store while Sam handles checkout. She tells us to meet her at the car.

“What's wrong?” Sam asks as we head to the parking lot. “You're white as a ghost.”

“I can't afford all of this,” I say. “I'm never going to be able to pay her back.”

“You won't have to.”

“But how can I not?”

“Listen,” Sam says. “They have money. They had it when her dad was alive and they have more of it now that he's dead. A lot more. Don't worry about it, okay?”

But I am worried. Of course I am worried. Alexandra has invested a lot in me. Time. Money. What if I fail her? What if I lose this race she so badly wants me to win?

What did I do to deserve all of this?
Any
of this?

How did I, crazy Ivy Proctor, ever get so incredibly lucky?