Winning (13 page)

It's after nine thirty when I pull into our driveway, ending what has been a long, draining day. For every success I've achieved—like sharing Erin's “phony pageantry” gaffe with a few key gossips, or making it seem normal to invite Ivy fucking Proctor into Matt's circle of bros—there have been double the setbacks. Ivy's botched makeover and subsequent afternoon meltdown. Sam's annoying jealousy and unnecessarily possessive attitude. And don't even get me started on Sloane Fahey's brazenly bullshit attempt to join my lunch table without invitation. The indignity of having to endure her presence—even briefly—was almost more than I could bear.

Before I get out of the car, my phone rings. Matt. It's about damned time. Earlier today he mentioned the two of us getting together tonight, for some “quality time.” Translation: he needs to get laid.

“Baby,” Matt slurs in a voice thick with beer. “Baby, I miss you.”

“Aww,” I say. “You're so sweet.” Wasted is more like it. But I
can't blame him. Most of the Spartan guys get like this the week before the Puritan Party. It's all about the booze and the banging, like they can stockpile sin for the two weeks they promised to abstain.

“I fucking love you,” Matt says. “I love you so much. You know that, right?”

“Of course. Me too.”

It sounds like he's at a party. But no one we know was having a party tonight. At least, not that I am aware of. Then, in the background, I hear a girl say, “Matty, who are you talking to?”

That doesn't sound like just any girl, though.

It sounds like Erin Hewett.

“So where are you?” I ask.

“The girls decided to have a thing at the last minute. I'm there.”

By “girls” he means the Spartan pep squad. They don't like me much, because in their limited worldview I have committed the unpardonable act of dating one of “their” boys. The feeling is mutual.

I don't know what Erin's up to, but I don't like the idea of my very drunk boyfriend being at a party full of indiscriminate cheerleaders. “I'll come get you.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“I know I don't have to,” I say. “But all night, the only thing I've wanted was for us to be, you know,
together
.” I swallow my distaste and add, “And that can't happen if you're there and I'm here.”

I know Matt. For him to sound this destroyed, he must've been slamming boilermakers all night long. Which means that any attempts I make to bed him will be fraught with the frustration of his inability to get and/or maintain an erection. (Thanks, alcohol.)

Even so, I can't leave him there. Not with
her
.

Thankfully, my words have their desired effect.

“Lemme text you the address,” Matt says huskily. “And
hurry
.”

Within twenty minutes, I'm making the right onto Poplar Drive. I don't recognize the street, which all but confirms it: my boyfriend must be at Erin Hewett's house. Not only is he at her house, he is drunk off his ass at her house. And I'd bet money that she's been the one plying him with drinks. Trying to get him loaded enough that he might actually cheat on me. As if he'd ever do that, especially with someone like
her
.

Erin's neighborhood is a nice one. Not as nice as mine, of course, but about three or four steps up from Ivy's. There are a lot of cars parked outside. This isn't some impromptu hangout. It's a party. I'd been planning on texting Matt from the car, having him come to me, but now I feel compelled to go inside. It would be slightly humiliating to start dry-humping my boyfriend in public, but doing it in front of Erin—showing her that her sophomoric plan didn't work—might make it worth my while.

I ring the doorbell to the pale blue Colonial, expecting Erin
to answer it. Expecting her face to fall when she sees I've crashed her little gathering. But she is not the one who invites me in. Instead, it's Ingrid Bell, cocaptain of the squad.

“Alexandra, you made it!” she says, throwing her arms around me in a girl hug. She stinks of whiskey. I was right: boilermakers.

Ingrid leads me inside. It's not a party-party; the lights are all on and there's not even any music playing. I scan the room and see Erin sitting on a football player's lap. Not just any football player, either—she's cozying up to Bobby Jablonski. The very guy I earmarked for Ivy.

Bobby is whispering something into her ear. Erin is smiling. But she's not looking at him.

She's looking at me.

Does she really think she can beat me at my own game?

“Baby!” Matt bellows, coming up behind me. “You're here!” He buries his face in my neck, doing this weird thing with his tongue that for some unknown reason he thinks I like. I smile and lean into him, assuming the role of rapturous girlfriend. Matt spins me to face him, and lays one on me, bending me backward as he grinds up against me. There are some whoops from the studio audience.

Matt is grinning a sloppy, boozy grin. His eyes look sleepy. He keeps pulling me closer, grabbing at my ass with one hand and my boob with the other.

“Okay, Mr. Handsy,” I say, moving both to more respectable places. “Let's get out of here.”

“Or,” he says in a low voice, “we can go upstairs. I've already
scouted it out—there are two spare bedrooms and only one of them is occupied.”

When Matt says things like this, I know that I shouldn't be dating a high school boy. Or, at the very least, one who'd suggest having sex in some random guest room one floor up from a party.

“Uh-uh,” I say. “You know the rules.”

Yes, I have rules. Any responsible teenager who chooses to be sexually active should have them. Mine are:

        
•
 
Condoms aren't optional, even though I'm on the pill.

        
•
 
No sex in cars, on school property, at parties, or in other public locations. One, it's gross. Two, sex should be private. And three, I can't control the environment in any of those places. Nothing will ruin my chances of becoming Miss America faster than an unauthorized sex tape.

        
•
 
There won't be any photographs or recordings made for private use, either.

        
•
 
I reserve the right to say no at any time, even mid-act.

        
•
 
No butt stuff. Ever.

“You're no fun,” Matt says, pouting.

“And you're really drunk,” I say through my smile.

“This,” he says, “is very true.”

Matt is so drunk, in fact, that the only reason he agrees to leave is because he's about to hurl. He makes it as far as the front
landing before projectile vomiting into some boxwood. Then he continues to heave, getting the puke all over his shoes, his shirt, and the decorative stone path that winds up to the door.

A few partygoers look on from the foyer.

“Dude,” I hear Chick Myers bellow. “You're so trashed.”

“Jesus,” I say. “How much have you had?”

Matt doesn't answer me. Instead, he keeps apologizing. “Oh, god, I'm so sorry. Tell Erin I'm so sorry. I'm really, really sorry.”

As if on cue, Erin appears with a bottle of water and a wet washcloth. “Here, Matty,” she says, handing him the items. “Please, don't apologize.”

“Lemme clean it up.”

“I'll just hose it down later. Really, it's no big deal.”

If the situation had been reversed, and it was Erin's boyfriend who'd just horked up all over my ornamental greenery, I would not be so calm and understanding. I would be
pissed
. And rightfully so.

But now that she's made such a big show of being such a calm, understanding girl, I have to be one, too. Only better.

I rub circles into Matt's back and use Erin's washcloth to wipe the puke from his shirt and face. I pour some of the water on his sneakers to wash off the chunky bits. Like magic, another bottle appears out of nowhere. “Matty needs to hydrate,” Erin explains.

“Actually,” I say, “water is the worst thing you can give someone who's already vomiting. Ice chips are better.”

“Wow,” Erin says. “How did you learn that?”

It's not an innocent question. I can see that by the fire in her eyes.

“You should ask your aunt,” I shoot back, taking a grim satisfaction at watching the smirk slide from her dainty little lips. “But I'm sure she's filled you in already. Come on, Matt. Let me get you showered up.”

As I walk Matt back to my car, I am beyond irritated with myself. Before tonight, Erin didn't know I knew about Frick's and her connection. Neither did Frick. But now it's out there, and for what? A wasted moment. My fault. Fuck me.

“You still wanna do it tonight?” Matt asks as he fumbles with his seat belt.

I don't even dignify his question with a response.

Saturday, 8:16 a.m. I am stationed at a corner high-top table in the Starbucks on Main Street. From my vantage point I can see who's approaching from both directions, but the tinted windows and the angle at which the table is situated keep me hidden from them.

It is the perfect place to “run into” Alexandra Miles.

This is what I know: every Saturday morning, at the butt crack of dawn, Alexandra meets up with her pageant coach at the studio next door. Their three-hour session wraps up around eight thirty, which is when the overeager dance moms start herding in their offspring for ballet lessons. Afterward, she comes in here and orders a skinny latte and a scone, then cancels the scone before they ring her up.

One of these days, she's going to buckle and actually eat the damned scone.

Confession: This is not the first time I've staked out this Starbucks, or Alexandra. Sophomore year, I'd often be doing homework here when she'd come in after her coaching session.
We'd even hung out a few times, especially after we both got cast in
You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown
(she was Lucy, of course; I was Snoopy's understudy and part of the chorus). For a while, the most powerful girl in school was actually my friend, sort of.

Then, after I started dating Jonah Dorsey, she turned on me. Because of her, I spent the second half of sophomore year and the first third of junior year in near exile.

Today's stakeout isn't about any of that, though. For me, anyway. It's a recon mission. Another step in my plan to take Alexandra Miles down for good.

My plan is this: When I see Alexandra approach, I'm going to bury my nose in a book, like I'm just here hanging out, reading. As she stands in line, I'll look up and wave, NBD, and then start packing up my things. I will time this so that as she's handing over her credit card, I'm getting ready to walk, and we will leave together. This is when I will strike up a casual conversation, we'll get to talking, and so on and so forth.

Another confession: I'm not 100 percent sure what I think will come of this conversation, or even what I want to come of it. I just know that I don't know enough to actually
do
anything. And here's the thing about Alexandra: if you flatter her enough, and in just the right way, she'll start talking. She'll tell you things that leave her vulnerable.

Case in point: Sophomore year, before she started all the shit between me and Jonah, we were chatting after play rehearsal. Alexandra's mom almost always forgot to pick her up. She would refuse rides from everyone, stubbornly waiting for her mom
until Mrs. Mays had to lock up the building. Then Alexandra would break down and call her uncle, this hot older dude who always showed up in a three-piece suit and shoes polished to a military shine, and he'd come rescue her in his Jag.

On this particular day, my mom was running crazy late. She works as a paralegal for a total douche canoe who doesn't seem to understand the plight of the single mother. Anyway, it was just the two of us, sitting on the curb outside of Spencer, and Alexandra was being uncharacteristically chatty. She'd just won the Miss Hoosier High pageant and was all jazzed about taking home her third Grand Supreme title in a row. I didn't know what that was, but I figured it must be a good thing, since she kept going on and on about it.

“You're too good for Spencer,” I said, and I meant it.

“You think?”

I rolled my eyes. “Obvi. You should, like, be on TV.”

She wrinkled her nose in that way she does when she's pretending to be humble. “I don't know about all that.”

“Come on,” I said. “It's only a matter of time before you're out of here. Bigger and better, right?”

The mood shifted almost instantaneously. Her face darkened a bit, and she looked off into the distance—at what, I don't know.

“There are things I need to do first,” she told me.

“Such as?”

“Such as crowns that need to be won. Boxes that need to be checked off. I can't leave Indiana until I accomplish certain
things. Not even for college. But once that list is complete . . .”

“Then what?”

“Then I am never coming back. Not for her. Not for anyone.”

Her blue eyes flashed as she said this, and the intensity of her words spooked me. I felt like she was sharing something with me that she didn't say to a lot of people. I liked that feeling, so I pressed for more.

“This list that you're talking about—is it like an actual list?”

“Typed and hanging on the side of our fridge.”

“Wow. How old were you when you wrote it?”

She laughed a short, barking laugh. “I didn't,” she said. “But it's charming that you would even think that.”

Then she turned to me and said, “You're lucky, Sloane. I've seen you with your mom. She adores you. You don't even have to do anything to make her adore you. She just
does
.

“Not all of us are that lucky,” she finished.

And then, as if realizing how much of herself she'd just exposed, she popped up off the curb. “I need to call my uncle,” she said. “I forgot that he was supposed to pick me up today.”

I offered her a ride, as I always did, and she refused, as she always did. Then she walked a few steps away, and dialed the old dude. He got to her before the douche canoe let my mom leave, but she didn't ask if I wanted a lift. She didn't so much as wave good-bye when she climbed into his fancy-pants car.

Being on a stakeout is kind of boring. To pass the time, I pick up the book I brought—it's this funny little novel about a teenage movie star who goes undercover in nearby Fort Wayne—and
read. I'm careful to keep tabs on everyone who comes in and out, and who passes by, but the book's so good that I'm not really paying attention to the time—just reading and lifting my head every time I hear the whoosh of an opening door. When I remember to check my phone, it's already 8:46.

Alexandra should have been here by now. I couldn't have missed her. So where is she?

The minutes tick by. A trio of chubby girls run into the studio. Their even chubbier moms follow close behind. 8:59. 9:07. 9:23.

She's not coming.

She always comes.

What a wasted morning.

I shove the book back into my satchel, toss my paper cup, and hit the ladies' before I head home. When I emerge a few minutes later, I am momentarily blinded by the sun's brightness. It makes my eyes water. I root around my satchel for my sunnies, put them on, and look up.

Across the street I see her. At least, I think it's her. Not Alexandra—her
mother
.

She's walking unsteadily in a pair of stilettos—stilettos! On a Saturday morning!—but I can tell from the way her hips switch back and forth that it's Mrs. Miles. As she makes her way down the sidewalk, she looks around nervously, pulling a shimmery black wrap tightly around her shoulders. A minute later, a cab pulls up and she climbs inside.

Holy shit—did I just witness Natalie Miles doing a walk of
shame? I mean, why else would she be dressed for a cocktail party at nine thirty in the morning?

Then again, Alexandra's mom always has been kind of . . . odd. At least, she has been since Alexandra's father bit it in that accident. Fact: Mrs. Miles has become such a shut-in that she hasn't been spotted at a school event in at least eighteen months. She didn't even show for last year's spring musical. She's rarely been seen, period.

If I book it to my car, I might be fast enough to tail the cab. I can't find out where Mrs. Miles has been, but I can at least see where she's going.

Maybe today wasn't such a waste after all.