Winning (21 page)

Wyatt insists on going with me to Erin's for the brainstorming sesh. “I'm part of this now, too,” he informs me.

I'm beyond irritated. I was supposed to get to Erin's an hour before Sloane. Erin's mom has some volunteer thing all day and we would've had the whole house to ourselves. Since that's clearly not going to happen, I text Sloane to let her know the time has been pushed up.

When the four of us have assembled in Erin's kitchen, we start bouncing around ideas. Wyatt thinks we should use the photos to force a breakup between Matt and Alexandra.

“He won't stay with her,” Wyatt says. “He's actually a nice guy. He doesn't make fun of people, doesn't bully anyone. When he realizes who his girlfriend really is, it'll crush him.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But proving the pictures came from her exposes you, too, Wyatt. And there's no guarantee Lexi couldn't talk her way out of it, either. Matt adores her. It won't be easy to get him to believe she could be that cruel.”

“I'm telling you, her mom is the key,” Sloane chimes in.
“She'll do anything to keep that woman's crazy under wraps.”

“Except we don't
have
anything on Natalie,” I point out, feeling exasperated.

“Yet,” Sloane adds.

To Erin, I say, “You're being awfully quiet.”

“I'm thinking,” she says. “But you're not going to like what I'm thinking.”

“Spill it.”

“We need Ivy,” she says. “I don't think we can pull this off without her.”

“Are you serious?” I say. “We're doing this in part to protect Ivy. Why would we drag her into the drama?”

“She has a right to know,” Erin argues. “Plus, as of right now, she's got the most access to Alexandra. At least until the Wednesday deadline.”

This is true. Lexi hasn't been the same with me since the Puritan Party. Probably because I haven't been the same with her, but still.

“It's risky,” I say. “Ivy's a wild card. If we don't convince her right off the bat, she'll go to Lexi and blow the whole thing up. Then it'll be too late to save her.”

We go in circles for at least an hour before Sloane throws up her hands and says, “Enough! We're not getting anywhere, and we've been playing this all wrong.”

Sloane lays out a multi-pronged plan that involves the two of us doing most of the heavy lifting. She thinks I should be the one taking point on Natalie, since theoretically I'll have the
easiest time getting inside Lexi's house. Meanwhile, she's going to use her connection to Matt's little brother to try to get inside his house, and maybe help Matt see the “real” Lexi.

Erin offers to connect with Ivy, but we all tell her that's too risky. “If you really want to help,” Sloane says, “you'll work the Frick angle. She's your aunt, right?”

“What's my job?” Wyatt asks.

“You've got to convince Alexandra to hold off on the email until Friday,” Sloane tells him. “That'll buy us a few more days. Oh, and you need to be campaigning for Ivy. Because at the end of the day, she's the only one I want to see wearing that crown. “No offense,” she adds, in Erin's direction.

“None taken.”

And with that, “Operation Crown Ivy” is officially born.

There's nothing quite as intoxicating as watching a sophisticated plan come together. And make no mistake—there are complicated machinations at work here.

In just a few short weeks, I have turned Ivy Proctor into a bona fide star. Now she's a star with a boyfriend, as her first date with Bobby Jablonski was such a smashing success, he asked her to make it Facebook official. Wyatt Schnitt is on board to leak the incriminating photos at my command. I'd originally planned on getting the photos today, but realized if I waited just a little bit longer, I could orchestrate a very public takedown at the Tall Oaks Mall, the night before Homecoming. Having an audience means I can play the part of Really Concerned Friend, and unofficially relaunch my campaign in the process.

It'll be cutting things close, but I've never been one to shy from a challenge.

Why start now?

Two days before Homecoming I get a text from an unfamiliar number. It is a picture of me from the Puritan Party. In it I am doubled over in a bathtub, puking all over myself. You can't see my face but there's no mistaking whose teal skirt that is bunched up around her hips.

For a second I lose the ability to breathe.

Who is this?
I text back.

A minute later, I get a reply:
Find out for yourself. Meet us in the faculty parking lot after final bell.

Us? As in more than one person?

My instinct is to run to Alexandra for help. But she will be displeased to know there is photographic evidence of my transgression. “This could threaten everything,” she would tell me. “Everything we've worked so hard for.”

No, she must never know about the picture.

I must make sure of that.

It is easy to avoid Alexandra after school. We never hang out on Thursdays anyway. Even so, I wait a few minutes before
heading toward the faculty lot.

My heart thumps wildly in my chest. I have no idea what awaits me outside. All I know is that I need to stop that picture from getting out.

When I walk through the double doors I am blinded by a too-bright sun. Squinting, I look around, but see no one. Was this all an elaborate joke? Or is this another one of Alexandra's lessons?

I am debating what to do next when a small white convertible rolls up to me. The driver is Erin Hewett. Samantha Schnitt is riding shotgun. And in the backseat, I see Sloane Fahey. Through the rolled-down window she says, “Get in.”

So I do.

“We debated whether or not to let you know these even existed,” Sloane tells me, after we have arrived at Erin Hewett's house. She is speaking of the two dozen pictures that exist of me in compromising positions. They are bad enough to have me disqualified from the Homecoming race. And the ones of me holding a razor? Those are bad enough to land me back in the hospital.

“What do you want from me?” I say, my shoulders shaking. I am doing everything I can not to cry. It is taking every bit of energy I have to hold back the tears.

“Oh, sweetie—nothing,” Sloane says. “That's not what this is about.”

“What Sloane is trying to say,” Sam cuts in, “is that we're not responsible for the pictures. But we know who is, and we all
agreed that you have a right to know, too.”

No one says anything for a minute that feels like an hour. Finally, I blurt out, “Well? Who is it?”

“Alexandra,” Sloane says. “Alexandra took them.”

I gasp audibly.

“It's true,” Sam says.

“How do you know this?” I ask.

Again, I'm met with silence.

“Well?”

“She was going to use them to destroy you,” Erin says. “She tried to bribe Sam's brother to send them out to the school's email list.”

“Why would she do that?” I say. “After everything she's done for me?”

“You were a distraction,” Sam explains. “You took the attention off Erin. But she never meant for you to win queen. The whole time, she was planning on tearing you down in the end. Stepping in at the last minute. Picking up the votes that would have gone to you.”

I hear the words she is saying but my brain cannot process them.

“Think about it,” Sloane says. “In taking you under her wing, she earned a lot of good PR for herself. They all think she dropped out to support
you
. Like she martyred herself to make sure you had a dream of a senior year.”

“I still don't understand,” I say. “How does humiliating me help her?”

Sloane sighs. “Because if everyone were to find out that you were still this scary mental case, they'd all feel bad for her. Like she gave up everything for someone who clearly didn't deserve it.”

“Sloane,” Erin says sharply. “That's enough.”

“What?” Sloane shoots back. “It's the truth, right?”

I feel as if I am going to be sick. This—isn't this what I feared all along? That my nomination had been some sort of sick joke. That people were out to get me. That I would unwittingly play the fool.

But Alexandra? My
friend
? The betrayal is almost too much to bear.

“It's going to be okay,” Sam assures me. “Those photos—no one else will see them. Wyatt won't send them. Plus, he hacked into Lexi's phone and corrupted the files. If she tries to forward them to anyone, her entire system will crash. He'll delete them, too. He just can't do that yet or she'll get suspicious.”

“Then why tell me about them at all?” I say. “If you've already taken care of it?”

The three girls exchange glances, concerned looks on their faces.

“You're supposed to go to the mall with her tomorrow night, right?” Sam says.

I nod.

“She thinks Wyatt's going to send the pictures out then. She's expecting him to. And when he doesn't . . .” Her voice trails off, leaving me to fill in the blank.

“She'll find another way, won't she?”

“That's what we're afraid of,” Sam says.

Hot tears spill from my eyes. I cannot contain them.

“Well,” I say, “thank you for telling me. I'll get my name taken off the ballot tomorrow.”

“No!” the three of them cry, practically in unison.

“You have to
win
,” Sloane says. “That's why we're telling you. We're going to help you protect yourself from Her Evil Highness, and come Saturday, you'll be the one wearing that crown.”

“But how?”

“We're taking care of it,” Sloane says. “For now, just be on guard. But don't act like you are. You can't make Alexandra suspicious.”

Erin pushes a box of tissues toward me. “I know it's scary, but please, Ivy—trust us. We've got your back on this. I swear it.”

Alexandra may have been playing me, but she
did
make me stronger. I have come too far to let her break me down again.

So I nod. I trust them. I have to.

At eight o'clock, Wyatt Schnitt sends Alexandra a frantic text telling her that their plan might be in jeopardy. He needs her to come over, he tells her, so they can figure out how to fix the situation.

At 8:05, Alexandra squeals out of her driveway, headed for the Schnitts. I text Sam,
It's go time.

Good luck
, she texts back.

Once again, I approach the front door. Ring the bell. Knock. Ring the bell a second time. Still no answer.

This doesn't mean that Natalie Miles isn't home. At least, that's what Sam tells me. That she could be tucked in her house, three sheets to the wind. Or she could be sober but unwilling to greet an unexpected guest.

Sam told me where to find the spare key. Now I have to decide whether or not to use it. Because fact: even though I'd use a key, I'd still be breaking into someone's house. I could still get into a shitload of trouble.

Think of Ivy
, I tell myself.
Do it for her
.

While I am strengthening my resolve, I see a car approaching. Panicked, I retreat into the neighbor's yard, diving into
my trusty holly bush hiding spot. It's dark enough that I can poke my head up a little to survey the situation. The car does not belong to Alexandra, as I have feared. It's a cab, and my pulse quickens as I see Natalie stumble out of the vehicle, clearly drunk. She half walks, half runs to the front door, fumbles with her key, then disappears inside the house.

Score!

I'm trying to figure out how long I should wait before knocking on the door when I realize that the cab isn't going anywhere. The driver is idling. Almost like he's waiting for her to come back.

When Natalie reemerges from the house, she's holding something in her hand and shaking it around. Something small—I can't see what it is from here. Then she does her half-walk, half-run thing back to the cab. The door swings open for her. It's a male arm I see, clad in a sports jacket.

“Can we go to the Romper Room?” I hear Natalie ask loudly, just before the door closes. The cab peels away and I, without stopping to think, sprint off toward my car.

The Romper Room is a seedy club on the bad side of town. It used to be a strip bar until the city took away its license to nude. Now it's just this gross place where people go to behave badly. At least, that's what I've heard.

I don't have a fake ID, and I don't look nearly old enough to even try getting past the bouncer. But I don't care. If I can catch Natalie Miles looking like she's up to whatever she's up to outside of the Romper Room, it might be enough.

When it comes to betrayal, a little goes a long way.

It's Friday, and Ivy and I are in the final throes of Homecoming prep. We're practicing hairstyles and trying different eyeliner and lip color combos. It's all for show, of course. Within the next few hours, Ivy Proctor will go from hero to zero.

I've spent the past month elevating Ivy Proctor to near-legendary status. Now I'm going to take her down in a very public way.

It may destroy her, what I'm about to do. I know this. I know it, and yet it's not going to stop me. Ivy, like Taylor Flynn and Sloane Fahey and all of the other pathetics I've had to trample on over the years, is collateral damage. And honestly? I think Ivy's tougher than any of us knew. So maybe this will only help her grow that much stronger. I wouldn't be surprised if it did.

“Are we still going to the mall?” I say, as if I've had some kind of spontaneous idea. “Homecoming deserves a new lipstick.”

“Sounds like fun,” Ivy says. “Let's do it.”

Oh, yes. Let's get it done.

Finding a parking spot at the Tall Oaks Mall on a Friday night is no easy feat. I have to circle the lot at least three times before snagging one that is at least somewhat near the Dillard's entrance. I'm taking Ivy to the Clinique counter to try out some new lip colors.

“Typically, I'm a MAC loyalist,” I say. “But there's this one color Clinique makes that I think would be perfect for you.”

I don't head straight to the counter, though. First, I do a lap around the store. “Scouting sales,” I explain. Ivy follows, always a few steps behind.

I'm thrilled to see so many girls from Spencer milling around the store. I knew last-minute Homecoming shopping would draw a crowd. I spot Hayley Langer and her crew looking at costume jewelry and cackling up a storm. I wave to them. They wave back.

I couldn't have planned the timing any better.

We circle back to the Clinique counter. I ask the clerk for a sample of Black Honey. “It's kind of raisin,” I say. “It'll look divine with your dress.”

I pat some on her lips. It looks a little dark next to her ghost skin, but I pretend to like it.

“You know what you need?” I say. “A smoky eye. Don't you think?”

“Sure,” the clerk says. “I can do that.”

While Ivy settles in for her latest makeover, I pretend that my phone is vibrating. “Oops, I need to get that,” I say. “Be right back.”

I step away and speed-dial Wyatt Schnitt. “We're good,” I tell him. “You can do the send now.”

“Sure thing,” he says.

I go back to where the Clinique clerk is going to town on Ivy's eyes. I supervise, anticipating my phone's vibration any second now.

Any second.

But by the time the clerk is finishing up a second coat of mascara, the pictures still haven't gone out. I text Wyatt a question mark.
Working on it,
he writes back.

We make another lap around the store. Near the perfume counters, we encounter Hayley and her minions.

“Let's try some out!” I say. “Every woman should have a signature scent.”

“Sure,” Ivy says. She seems tense. But she's always tense—being a lunatic will do that to you.

I pick up a few bottles and sniff. They're all so cloying. I find the least offensive one and thrust it in Ivy's direction. “You should try this one,” I say. “It smells like winning.”

While Ivy plays in perfume, I text Wyatt again. This time, I get no response.

“It's not happening,” Ivy says to me. “At least, not how you planned it.”

“Excuse me?”

“The pictures,” she says quietly. “The ones you took of me? They're gone. Wyatt zapped them from your phone just now.”

I'm staring at Ivy. No. What? What is she saying? I'm having
trouble making sense of any of this.

Bright tears glisten in the corners of her eyes, but her face remains neutral. She continues to speak in that same calm near-whisper. “You have no idea what it took for me to do the things you've asked me to— no clue about what it took for me to trust you. You believed in me. So I believed you. I really, really believed you were my friend.”

My mind is whirling. She knows. How does she know? How?

Wyatt? Did he trade what I gave him for everything I've vaguely promised him over the years? That disgusting little horndog. It probably only took a boob squeeze or two to get him to give me up. I'll squash that little acne farm like a pus-filled bug!

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
tsk
s
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.”