Winning (17 page)

High school sure is different when you are popular.

Alexandra told me this would happen. That after the Puritan Party, I would suddenly have a lot more “friends.” She even used finger quotes around the word.

“They won't be real friends,” she said. “Not like me and Sam. But they are the kind of ‘friends' who can help you get elected.”

Now people wave to me in the hallways, and talk to me when I am getting books out of my locker, and volunteer to partner with me on class projects, and invite me to sit with them at lunch. This was maybe the scariest part of all: eating lunch with different groups of people each day. Especially since Alexandra said it would be better if I did it on my own.

“We need people to see you as an individual,” she explained. “Not my ‘pet.'”

“Is that how people see me?”

She thought for a second. “Maybe ‘pet' was the wrong word. More like my project.”

I think that “project” is even more insulting than “pet,” but I do not say this.

Alexandra says that we are real friends, but the truth is, there are a lot of things I think but do not say to her. The truth is, I still find her a little bit scary. Not like serial-killer scary. She is more like a hard-to-please teacher that you really, really, really want to like you. I often do things that disappoint her, and I can read this disappointment on her face. I see it in a slight frown, or a narrowing of her eyes, or a toss of her hair. I see flashes of irritation and anger, too. I worry that with one wrong word, one wrong move, she will cast me out of her kingdom and condemn me to a life sentence on the island of unpopularity.

This person I am now—desperate to hold on to my new social status—would make the old me want to vomit. I know this. I used to look down on people like me. Social strivers so desperate for approval that they treat high school like a job. Except, that is exactly what I do now. Every night before I go to bed, I spend at least half an hour picking out my outfit and accessories for the next day. And every morning, I wake up an hour earlier than usual to do my hair and makeup and put on whatever costume I selected the night before.

It is like an interview that never ends. I spend my days smiling and waving and making appropriate small talk. I am always on. At night, when I get home, I am exhausted from the effort.

But it is worth it. This Saturday, Bobby Jablonski and I are going on a date. A real one, just the two of us. Alexandra thinks he will ask me to Homecoming. There is this junior, Jake Tosh,
who might be able to take Erin off Bobby's hands. This would free him up to go with me. “You're the one he wants to take anyway,” she tells me.

I like Bobby. He is a nice, normal guy. Cute, but not so cute that I lose the ability to form sentences in his presence. Sweet, but not disgustingly so. What he lacks in intellect he makes up for in charm. Even my mom will like Bobby; that is the kind of guy he is.

The first major Homecoming court event takes place on Friday. It is part pep rally, part pageant, as Alexandra explains. I have never attended one of these, or if I did, freshman year, it did not make enough of an impression on me to remember it. But basically what happens is that the student body loads into the auditorium. Principal Frick will talk about the importance of Homecoming and what is and is not appropriate behavior for the game, the halftime parade, and the dance. Then the football coaches will come out and put the fear of God into anyone even thinking about pranking the rival team.

Finally, all of the candidates take the stage for a Q&A so that the students of Spencer can get to know them better. It is kind of a joke, Alexandra says, because most people just vote for the hottest boy and hottest girl. But this year will be different. I am in the mix, and most people do not know me. Even though I am currently experiencing a swell of popularity it is mostly with the seniors and some of the juniors. Since the whole school votes on the king and queen—or at least, anyone who attends the dance—this is my one
big chance to win over the underclassmen.

We spend a lot of time talking about how to craft diplomatic answers—responses that, as Alexandra explains it, “straddle the delicate line between authentic and posturing.”

“In pageant interview, there is always a right answer,” she says. “Not one that's factually correct, per se. But the right answer is the one the largest number of judges wants to hear. The one that makes them smile. The one that hits them right in the feels.”

She lobs me the first practice question: “What are you passionate about?”

“Um,” I say. “Well. I guess . . . I don't know?”

“Seriously?”

I shrug. “Sorry.”

Alexandra closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Her hands are balled into little fists at her sides. A telltale sign of her irritation with me. When she has done this in the past she curled her nails into her palms so hard they left little red half-moons indented in the flesh.

I shift nervously from foot to foot, fighting the urge to chew on a cuticle. That would only make Alexandra more annoyed with me.

Finally, after a really tense minute, she releases the fists, opens her eyes, and exhales. “I'm going to be you now, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Ask me the question.”

I repeat, “What are you passionate about?”

She smiles warmly. “I am incredibly passionate about rescuing
animals from kill shelters. Millions of pets are abandoned each year, often because the people who purchased them didn't think through their decision. I adopted my dog from one such shelter. His name is Butcher, and the love we share has helped me through some really tough times. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that
he
rescued
me
.”

Her eyes well up with tears as she says this last bit, and for a second, I feel pretty choked up, too. But it was all for show; in a snap, her face is wiped clean of emotion, and she is simply Alexandra again.

“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.”

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 nearly 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.