Winning (7 page)

Sam's frumpy mother frowns at me from across the room. She is always frowning at me. Even when she smiles at me, it's really a frown wearing a smile's costume.

It's fairly safe to say Jessica Schnitt doesn't like me.

That feeling is mutual.

Even though I'm one of Jessica's least-favorite people in the state of Indiana, if not the entire world, the woman insists on feeding me every time I come over. My guess is that she wants to make all of the thin people she knows fat like her. Natalie would absolutely die if she saw the things I am forced to eat at the Schnitts'. Homemade macaroni and cheese. Deep-fried chicken tenders. Twice-baked potatoes smothered in some sort of creamy sauce. It's enough to make a girl go Sloane Fahey once in a while.

When the torture that is a Schnitt family dinner is over—in addition to the caloric-laden fare, I must also contend with Wyatt's sad attempts to both flirt with and impress me—Sam and I head up to her room. My thus-far pasted-on smile melts away when I see the piles of “evidence” strewn across her beige carpeting.

“What
is
this?” I demand.

She fills me in on her afternoon activities. I manage to control my rage, but only just barely.

“You traded in the sex tape for . . .
this
?” I seethe. “Without even asking me?”

Clearly, this isn't the reaction she was expecting. “Not the tape,” she says. “Just the affair part. This Ivy thing—it had to be a coordinated effort, right?”

“So?”

“So I was trying to figure out who. And why.”

I shake my head. I cannot remember a time when I have been more disappointed in Sam. I need to tack in a different direction.

“It was me, stupid,” I hiss at her. “
I
am behind Ivy's nomination.”

Sam stands there, her mouth forming a cartoon O. “But
why
?” she says finally. “Why would you
do
that?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

She doesn't respond.

“She's my insurance policy,” I say. “My secret weapon.”

Sam shakes her head. “I still don't get it.”

“Look,” I say, “no one
hates
Ivy. They pity her. And now that she's up for Homecoming Queen, they'll be talking about
her
, not that New Girl.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense.”

This is not the entirety of my backup plan, of course. But Sam doesn't need to know about the rest. Not yet, anyway.

“So why didn't you tell me?” Sam asks, a wounded look on her face. “I would've taken care of it.”

It's adorable, how sincerely she believes that she alone could have convinced a significant portion of Spencer High's student body to vote a bona fide pariah into Homecoming contention. And do it without arousing anyone's suspicions or generating untoward gossip that could blow back on me.

“I needed to keep your hands clean,” I tell her.

She nods, but I can tell she's not buying it. Her job is typically keeping my hands clean, not the other way around.

“Can we focus on what's really important here?” I say. “Erin Hewett and her eleven votes.”

“That's a good thing, right? I mean, she barely made the ballot.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “She got eleven votes after being in my school for all of
two days
. There's no telling where she'll stand in the polls a week from now.”

There's no doubt in my mind that Erin Hewett is a threat that needs to be neutralized. I won't have her waltzing in here at the eleventh hour and stealing Homecoming right out from under me.

“It's time to focus, Samantha. We've got a crown to win.”

I decide to take a drive after I leave Sam's. I need to think. Plus, I want to blow off some steam before I head home to Natalie. I could find her at home, still flying around, or she could've crashed . . . hard. I have no idea what I'll be walking into.

I knew there was a possibility that Erin Hewett could end up a candidate for Homecoming Queen. A new student from coastal California is exactly the kind of shiny object that would attract the attention of my classmates. But eleven votes? In
two
days?

Is it possible that some of the ballots were faked? I play out the scenario in my head. Frick is Erin's aunt. Frick hates me. Frick would do anything to take me down.

There is no doubt in my mind that Frick is twisted enough to try to manipulate this election in her niece's favor. Especially if it means delivering a blow to my undefeated record.

As for Erin herself—if she was, as she informed so many of our classmates, a candidate for Homecoming Queen in her old school, it's
possible
that she's hungry enough for the win to do whatever Aunt Fricky tells her.

Winston Churchill said, “Victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival.”

Is that what Erin is doing? Ensuring her social survival at Spencer?

I can't take the chance of being eclipsed by the New Girl. Not when so much is already on the line.

Goddamn that Erin Hewett! Everything had been going according to plan until
she
showed up. Now, suddenly, there are all of these unknown variables.

I don't like it, not one bit.

I feel so agitated that I decide to try the deep breathing
exercise I learned from the headshrinker I saw after my father died. Breathe in through the nose for four seconds, hold for three, exhale slowly through the mouth for five.
Four, three, five
.
Four, three, five
.

The headshrinker was a waste, but the deep breathing thing actually works. I can literally feel the tension start to drain from my body. Time to go home, take a hot shower, and butter my body with that coconut-scented stuff that makes Matt want to devour me. Maybe I'll call him to see if I can come over. Maybe his hotness is the cure to all that ails me.

That's when I realize where I am.

The corner of Lakeside and Lafayette.

No. No no no no
no
—

I don't want to be here. It makes me think about
him
. About what happened to him.

I don't want to think about that. Not today. Not ever.

I make the left onto Lafayette, then a sharp right onto Baker Street. Only, I take the turn too fast and end up scraping the curb. There's a loud thunk, followed by a hiss—or maybe the hiss is only in my head. All I know is that thirty seconds later, the check tire gauge comes on, indicating a flat.

“Son of a bitch!” I smack the steering wheel with the palm of my hand and end up banging my wrist too hard. The pain is surprisingly sharp. That's definitely going to leave a bruise.

The breakdown lane is too narrow for my liking, but I don't want to risk further damage. I ease over, throw the hazard lights on, and get out of the car to inspect the tire. It's bad. Not only
do I have a full-on flat, but I've also managed to rip the rim to shreds.

This is what happens when you allow for distraction. You crash. You burn. And you don't have anyone to blame but yourself.

I'm going to have to call for help. Who's it going to be? Uncle Douglas or Matt? Doug will tell me to call AAA. Matt will come and change the tire himself.

I choose Matt. I don't love playing a damsel in distress, but I hate breaking a nail even more.

I'm fishing around for my phone when a timid voice addresses me by my full name: “Alexandra Miles?”

I look up, startled to see none other than
Ivy Proctor
standing before me.

Seriously, what are the odds?

But there she is, in the flesh. Everyone's favorite head case and my potential new BFF. She is out and about, walking what appears to be the world's ugliest, slobbery-est dog on the planet. Although, to be honest, the beefy mutt looks more like he's walking her.

“Are you okay?” she asks me.

“What do
you
think?” I say, a little too sharply. My tone causes Ivy to recoil visibly. I shake my head as if to clear the cobwebs. “No. No, I didn't mean . . . I'm so sorry,” I say. “I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm just . . . rattled.”

Beefy strains at his leash, crying and slobbering all over the sidewalk. “Butcher, settle down,” Ivy commands in a stern voice.
It's the most confident she's sounded in years. Remarkably, the mutt listens.

“You should call your mom,” she says to me.

I stifle a snort. As if
Natalie
could do anything to help in a crisis. And if I told her why I'd swerved off the road, she would have had to go back to bed for three days. She never talks about my father's accident. Ever.

“I can wait with you until she comes,” she adds. “If you want.”

“Actually,” I say, “I was going to call my boyfriend. But, uh, my phone is dead. Can I borrow yours?”

She shakes her head. “I left it at home.”

I cannot believe the incredible luck of this chance encounter. It's like I scripted it myself.

“Is your house nearby?”

“Yeah. About a block and a half from here.”

“Let me grab my purse. Then I can follow you over. If that's okay.”

“Um . . . sure?” she says, sounding anything but.

Ivy walks briskly, probably to keep “Butcher” from choking himself to death.

“Cute dog,” I murmur. “What kind is he?”

“A mutt,” she says. “Rescue from the pound.”

“That's amazing. I really admire people who save animals.”

Am I laying it on too thick? Ivy's walking slightly faster than I am and it's too dark for me to register her facial expressions.

“It's just one dog,” she says dismissively.

“How long have you had him?”

“A little over two years.”

It doesn't take a genius to do the math, but even so, Ivy spells it out for me.

“He was part of my therapy,” she explains. “After my breakdown.”

“Oh,” I say.

“The psychologist I was seeing—the one I still see, actually—she thought it would give me perspective if I had to care for someone outside of myself. So my parents took me to the pound to pick out a dog. Butcher was, like, the biggest, ugliest, most pathetic one there. So, you know, I totally had to take him home with me.”

She adds, “I don't know why I'm telling you all this.”

I don't either, but I'm not complaining.

“It's okay,” I say, touching her elbow. “We were all really . . . worried . . . when that happened. A lot of people care about you, Ivy. Myself included.”

Ivy snorts. She actually
snorts
.

“If they do, they have a funny way of showing it,” she says. The bitterness in her voice startles me. “People can't even look at me, let alone talk to me.”

“I'm talking to you,” I point out.

“Because you need my phone,” she says.

I stop short. It takes Ivy a few beats to realize I've stopped walking. When she does, she turns to face me.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“No,” I say in an artificially quiet voice. “It . . . it hurts me
that you feel like that. I think—and honestly, I can only speak for myself here—but I think a lot of kids just weren't sure what to say to you. It was scary, you know? But it never meant that we didn't
care
.”

Ivy looks at me—like, really looks at me, like she's trying to drill down into my soul—and for a second I think she doesn't buy a word of what I said. Her grip on Butcher's leash tightens as he strains to move forward.

Finally, after an extended, uncomfortable silence, Ivy says, “I never thought of it like that. I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

I have to hide my smirk. I have her, hook, line, and sinker.

The students of Spencer High have spent the past two and a half years treating Ivy Proctor like a total pariah, as if they might catch the crazies just by talking to her. And here she is, apologizing to
me
, for hurting
my
feelings.

I am fucking brilliant.

For a split second, I question whether or not I should go through with my backup plan. After all, I do have compassion, and poor Ivy has already struggled with so much for so long.

Then again, I'm not the one who made Ivy crazy in the first place. What responsibility do I have to her, really?

I have a Homecoming race to win. And in the fight between Erin Hewett and me, I must—I
will
—prevail. Ivy has a part to play, and if she does it perfectly, I'll find a way to reward her later.

After
I get my crown.

In the 2004 teen movie
Mean Girls
, a voluptuous redhead schemes to take down the bitchy leader of the Plastics, a group of popular girls that terrorize their classmates. That redhead's name is Cady Heron, and she is played with exquisite perfection by Lindsay Lohan (you know, before she became a total trainwreck). Cady is systematic in how she dismantles Regina George, the lead Plastic, by making her fat, turning her friends against her, and stealing her super-hot boyfriend. Eventually, Cady becomes the new Regina and wins Spring Fling Queen, while Regina just gets hit by a bus.

Alexandra Miles is the Regina George of Spencer High School, but a thousand times worse. Because at least Regina was unapologetically, unabashedly bitchy. She didn't try to camouflage her evil under a veneer of sweet or nice, unlike
some
people I know.

So now I am rewatching
Mean Girls
for, like, the fortieth time. Only this time, I am taking notes.

My goal: to destroy Alexandra Miles.

It's true; I'm about to go full-Cady on her skinny little pageant
ass. And I don't feel the least bit guilty about it, either.

Because fact: Alexandra Miles thinks she can get away with anything. Lying to people. Manipulating them into doing things for her own personal gain. Crushing anyone who gets in her way.

I should know. She's done it to me on more than one occasion.

But Sloane, you may ask, weren't you
just
comparing her to the freaking sun? Why, yes. Yes, I was.

That is her superpower, you see. It doesn't matter how mean this particular mean girl gets; you never stop wanting her to like you.

My mother says that everyone has had at least one Alexandra Miles in their life. Hers, she confessed, was named Angela Wayne. Angela wasn't the prettiest girl in her class, or the smartest, or even the most popular. She was bossy, and prickly, and could turn on you in an instant—and often did.

“But when she didn't,” my mother told me, “you felt like the most important person in the world. Making her laugh was an
achievement
. Earning an invite to sleep over at her house was akin to winning a major award.”

My mom says her friendship with Angela Wayne ended in an epic fashion, at a school dance.

“Angela kept telling me I should dance with her ex-boyfriend,” she said. “He was a cutie—I can't remember his name to save my life, but I remember that face like it was yesterday. Anyway, I didn't want to, because I knew she'd be mad. Only, she kept goading me about it.

“So, finally, I agreed to dance with him. And then we danced
some more. And then, out of nowhere, he leaned in and kissed me. Angela saw—Jesus, she was angry! She started screaming at me, saying friends didn't try to hook up with their friends' exes. It was awful. All of our mutual friends took her side, too, even though I didn't do anything wrong. I just did what she told me to do. Like I always did.”

Before you start thinking my mom is some total loser, think. Really think. Who's your Angela? Your Alexandra? Because I know you have one.

There was a time, if you can believe it, that Alexandra and I were sort of friends. This was in middle school, before she was the Alexandra Miles that we all know today. Before she sprouted the rack that would catapult her into the upper echelon of our class.

And okay: her boobs, while admirable, aren't the true source of her power. I know this.

She's a schemer, Alexandra. She schemes her way into getting
everything
.

She even snagged the volunteer gig I wanted at Hoffman County Library. When I called to follow up on it, Mrs. Brookover told me that the position had gone to someone else. But, she said, she hoped that things were getting better at home, and that I could find some peace. I had no idea what she was talking about . . . until I asked her who did get the job.

So now
she's
the one running a kids' story time program. I would've been great at that. I would've picked really cool books and done voices and everything. Whereas Alexandra probably
just wants to steal the souls from their innocent little bodies. Or, you know, pad her already overstuffed résumé.

Here's the other thing: even though I can't prove that Alexandra's the one who spread all of those rumors about me and Jonah Dorsey sophomore year, she's the most likely suspect.

I will not dwell on the past, though. I need to focus on the future.

In
Mean Girls
, Cady enlists the help of her friends Janis and Damian. Well, actually, Janis and Damian are the ones who convince Cady to take Regina down in the first place. But then they help her execute her plans. I don't have friends, really (oh, shut up). But I have something better—potential allies.

Like that new girl, who could possibly be the only person to ever truly threaten Alexandra in a Homecoming race.

Or maybe Samantha Schnitt, who's spent the majority of her life trailing A. with her mouth hanging open, hoping for a pat on the head?

I am going to make Erin Hewett be my Janis. Or is she the Cady and I'm the Janis? Maybe Sam is Damian? It doesn't matter.

Alexandra has taken everything I've ever wanted. Now I'm finally going to take a few choice things from her—like that smug-ass look on her face, for one. And maybe that muscle-y boyfriend, too, just for symmetry's sake.

I don't know exactly how I'm going to achieve this.

All I know is that Alexandra Miles is going down.