by Lara Deloza
Sam slides into the passenger seat and hands me a travel mug full of coffee. “No sugar, extra cream, dash of cinnamon,” she says, my eager-to-please puppy.
I offer her a tight smile as a thank-you. Then she reaches into her backpack and retrieves the AP English paper she’s written for me.
“What’s it about?” I ask.
“The light motif, and how it reflects Blanche’s truth.”
“And what’s yours about?”
“Shadows, and how they symbolize Blanche’s descent into madness.”
I nod approvingly. This way, it looks like we talked about the assignment with each other, but worked on our own papers separately.
“I even printed them on different stock,” Sam points out. “Yours is bright white. Mine’s recycled.”
“Smart,” I say. I reach over and give Sam’s knee a little squeeze. “I appreciate you helping me out with this.”
Sam’s eyes cast downward, lasering in on my hand. When I go to remove it, I make sure to let it graze a few inches up her thigh.
It takes so little to keep my pet happy. Just a few strokes here and there.
“So,” I say, pulling away from the curb. “You have information?”
“Right. Yes.”
After a brief pause, I prompt, “May I have this information as well?”
“Of course. Sorry, I was a little distracted.”
I bet she was.
Sam gives me the bullet points on Erin Hewett: cheerleader, peer counselor, student government rep. In other words, nothing remarkable.
“She was the fund-raising chair of her school’s Key Club,” Sam continues. “She’s planning on attending today’s meeting.”
I’m instantly irritated. Isn’t it bad enough that I have to deal with Sloane Fahey every Friday afternoon?
Then she says, “Erin was working on this project back home—raising money for a community bookmobile—and she wants to start one like that at Spencer. I think she’s going to pitch the idea today.”
“How bold of her—planning events before she’s finished her first week,” I drawl.
Sam nods in agreement.
“And what did you say,” I ask her, “when she informed you of this?”
“I played dumb. Pretended I didn’t know how things work in Key Club.”
“Good.”
The way I’d like to handle this situation is vastly different from how I probably should handle it. I’d like to give Erin a smackdown—preferably publicly—for daring to think she could walk into my school and take over my club. But I probably should employ a much lighter hand. No, better to find an indirect way of teaching her how things work.
“Track her down before lunch,” I instruct Sam. “Make it known that all new Key Club business needs to go through Sloane.”
“Does it?”
“Obviously not. But I want her to think it does.”
Sam smiles. Such a smart little puppy to boot.
EIGHT
Sloane
Heave. Heave again. One final spew. Flush. Brush.
Reapply lipstick.
I perform my anxiety-fueled morning ritual in the small, second-floor girls’ bathroom located outside Ms. Hanna’s classroom. Her morning ritual consists of taking a massive dump in the stall to the far left. She does this before a single student arrives on campus, but the stench lingers until well after third period.
Result: no one ever uses this bathroom before lunch.
Correction: no one except me ever uses this bathroom before lunch.
So I am beyond shocked when I exit the far-right stall to see one Alexandra Miles touching up her mascara in the mirror over the sink.
“Hi, Sloane,” she says, like this is an everyday occurrence. “You feeling okay? Sounds like you’re . . . a little sick.”
“Just getting over a stomach bug,” I lie.
She nods sympathetically. “I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Key Club.”
I do not want to have a conversation about Key Club. I want to brush my teeth. But I also do not want to brush my teeth in front of Alexandra. So I say, “What about Key Club?”
“I’d like you to take on more of a leadership role,” she says, turning back to the mirror and her mascara.
“In what sense?” I ask, trying to mask my surprise.
“Well,” she says, “I feel like we’ve been a little . . . scattered. The club’s doing too much, don’t you think? If we cut back on new activities, we could focus our energy on existing projects. Strengthening them. Making them better.” She screws the cap back on the tube and swaps it out for a lip gloss that I know for a fact costs more than fifteen dollars a pop. Whereas the “gloss” I use is a mentholated ChapStick knockoff I picked up for fifty cents.
“Do you agree?”
I answer yes, even though I know she wasn’t really asking a question. What Alexandra wants, Alexandra gets.
“How can I help?” I say. No sense tiptoeing around the fact that she’s about to issue an order.
She pats some lip gloss on with her pinkie finger before replying, “What if you put forth a motion at today’s meeting to table all new business until after, I don’t know, Homecoming?”
And there we have it. Alexandra’s true motive: refocusing her own attention on a bid for Homecoming Queen. It’s a lot of wasted energy, if you ask me. We all know there won’t be any other viable contenders. Especially not after the way Matt Leitch publicly declared his love for her yesterday afternoon.
If I had a boyfriend like Matt, he’d be all I need.
And yet—
“You’ll have my full support,” Alexandra continues. “If you decide to make that motion, that is.”
Translation: do this or incur my wrath. Since I don’t really care either way I shrug. “Sure. I’ll do it today.”
“Excellent! Maybe then I’ll have more time to run lines with you!”
So. She has been getting my emails.
“Great,” I tell her, because what else is there to say?
Alexandra moves toward the door. Finally. There’s a sour burn in my mouth I need to get rid of before homeroom. I start to reach in my satchel for my toothbrush when she turns around and says, “You might want to be careful, Sloane. I’ve heard that ‘stomach bugs’ can damage your vocal cords over time.”
Bitch, I think as she exits stage left.
Thank God there’s only eight months until graduation. Then I’ll be rid of Alexandra and this podunk town forever.
NINE
Alexandra
There’s an undercurrent of energy flowing through the halls of Spencer High.
I don’t like it. Or, should I say, I don’t like her.
Erin Hewett. She’s all anyone can seem to talk about today. Have you met the new girl? She’s so incredibly nice! She’s from San Diego, can you believe it? As if growing up in California was some sort of personal accomplishment, and not just a fact of geography.
As the day progresses, more details emerge about Erin. She knows how to surf. She’s spent the past two summers as a lifeguard. She once dated a swimmer who won two gold medals in the Junior Olympics.
“Is she an actual person,” I seethe, “or will the next thing I hear be that she’s really a mermaid who made a deal with an evil octopus for some human legs?”
Sam laughs quietly at my kind of joke.
When she’s not submerged in water, Samantha informs me at lunch, Erin is, apparently . . . nice. She’s a Nice Girl. People seem to genuinely like her.
“For now,” I say. “Once that shiny, New Girl smell wears off, she’ll be no different than Taylor Flynn or Alyssa Fields or any of the other wannabes of absolutely no consequence.”
“Maybe,” Sam says, unpacking her lunch bag in her slow, methodical way. “But then again, maybe not.”
There’s something she’s not telling me. I know this because she’s taking an extra-long time to arrange the components of her meal.
&nb
sp; Sam does this thing where she assesses her food and places it in order of consumption, eating the things she likes least first and saving the things she likes best for last. Sometimes, when she’s torn between where to place two things—in this case, a plastic sandwich bag of baby carrots and a green apple—she’ll move them around a few times. The apple emerges ahead of the carrots, but lingers behind a foil pack of Oreos her mother has included as a treat.
I stab a fork into my sad, wilted salad and say, “Spill it, Sam.”
She nods. “It’s probably nothing. A rumor, maybe.”
“Rumors can seem like truths to the less intelligent,” I say.
Sam takes a deep, dramatic breath. “Okay. So, the school Erin transferred here from—Poway High—their Homecoming is in the beginning of October, about three weeks earlier than ours. Actually, they do everything about three weeks earlier than we do, including going back to school. I confirmed this with Google.”
I stare at her, silent.
“Anyway,” she continues, “because they’re so far ahead of us, they’d already announced the Homecoming court before Erin moved away.”
I stop. “And she was on it?”
“This is what I heard from Hayley Langer,” Sam says, “whose cousin lives, like, one school district south. Crazy, right? But I can’t confirm that part with Google.”
Across the room, at a table smack in the center, I see Little Miss Sunshine herself, giggling with Hayley and her gaggle of girly-girls. Even though they aren’t technically sitting with any guys, all the hetero boys at the surrounding tables keep sneaking peeks at her.
But that’s all they do—take a quick, curious look. They’re not lingering. She’s not hot enough for that. It’s a shame, really. A hot chick would be easier to take down, because head-turning hotness would piss off Spencer’s female population in a major way.
But nice? Cute? These things aren’t threatening to them.
They’re threatening to me.
“Rumor or not, we need to shut this kind of chatter down,” I say. “Now.”
Matt and I are lingering outside of Mr. Banerjee’s classroom when I see Erin approaching from afar. Instinctively, I pull Matt a little closer. Mine.
My boyfriend is whispering something in my ear when Erin reaches the doorway. She stops, turns to the left, and looks straight at us. It’s weird.
I’m about to introduce her when she says, “Matt? I thought that was you.”
I fight the frown on my face as Matt responds, “Yo, Erin. How’s it going?”
“Good,” she says. “Everyone here is so nice.”
There is a clog of students building up behind Erin, but not a single one of them complains about how she’s blocking the doorway. What is happening around here?
“Oh my gosh!” Erin exclaims. “I’m totally holding up traffic. I’ll see you later!”
She disappears inside the classroom without once acknowledging me directly.
When Erin is fully out of earshot, I give Matt an artificially playful poke to the ribs. “How do you know the New Girl?” I ask.
He shrugs. “She’s a cheerleader.”
“She got here, like, five minutes ago.”
“Babe, we practice on the same field,” he says, grinning. “But keep talking. Jealousy looks adorable on you.”
“Jealousy? You wish.”
Matt’s expression—a mixture of rom-com mooniness and bald lust—tells me that he either doesn’t believe me or he’s too busy picturing me naked. He leans in for a kiss. I duck.
“I have to go,” I say, peeling myself off the wall and out from under Matt’s muscled chest.
He gives me a pouty face. “No kiss?”
“Later,” I say. “If you’re a good boy.”
His smile is real, and it is blinding.
Sometimes I wish I actually felt something for Matt. But love requires far more energy than I’m willing to allow.
In addition to English, Erin also has AP Physics with me and Sam. Before the bell rings, I watch her work the room. And make no mistake—that’s exactly what she’s doing. She even exchanges a few words with Ivy Proctor, who looks nearly cheerful for a change.
Nobody talks to Ivy anymore. Not really.
A little background: Ivy Proctor used to be a minor-league somebody. Granted, this was back in the fourth grade, when popularity required little more than wearing the right clothes, throwing a decent slumber party once in a while, and not being fat. But then something changed, and slowly but surely, Ivy faded into the background.
Until sophomore year, that is, when she went full-on psycho in biology. One minute, we’re sitting at our desks, listening to Mr. Barksdale drone on and on about primordial ooze; the next, Ivy leaps up from her desk, lets out a bone-chilling scream, and punches her fist through a window. Everyone was pin-drop silent for about five seconds before all hell broke loose.
It was terrifying. Girls were screaming and crying, boys were cursing and yelling. Barksdale was the worst, though. He didn’t go to Ivy. He didn’t even call for help. He just stood there, gawping, his jaw practically scraping the floor.
And in the center of it, Ivy stood, still as a statue, staring at her shredded hand. The blood gushed down her arm and formed a dark red pool at her feet. There was blood everywhere, actually, including spatters on Ivy’s pale cheeks. An unforgettable spectacle of epic proportions.
The girl didn’t shed a tear. Not a single one.
Finally, Wes Fetterolf ran out for help. Barksdale woke up from his temporary coma and ushered all of us out of the classroom and down the hall to the library, leaving Ivy alone until a scared-shitless Mrs. Martindale, the school nurse, was summoned to the scene. We heard the ambulance arrive and crowded around windows trying to catch a glimpse of Ivy being carried out on a stretcher.
And that was the last anyone saw of Ivy Proctor for the next sixth months, even though people didn’t stop talking about what happened in all that time. Ivy’s mid-year meltdown rocked our entire community; it even made the front page of the Herald-Gazette. Things like that just don’t happen in the sleepy town of Spencer, Indiana.
Losing her sanity restored Ivy Proctor’s popularity, but in the worst possible way: everyone speculated over what happened, why it happened, and where Ivy ended up after it happened.
When she returned to Spencer for the start of junior year, she only made it through two and a half days before withdrawing for the second time. It was too much pressure, I suppose, to withstand that kind of spotlight. She didn’t transfer either. Rumor has it her mother homeschooled her.
No one knows why Ivy decided to come back again now—or what in the world possessed her to start dressing like an uglier version of Wednesday Addams. You’d think someone who wanted to blend into the background would sport far less eyeliner and wear a little color.
Regardless, this time people aren’t asking her any questions, or even making rude comments. They just steer clear. She may be a psycho, but the sad, haunted look in her oversize watery blue eyes keeps the student population of Spencer High on their best behavior. They’re not antagonizing Ivy; they’re pretending, as much as possible, that she’s not there.
Instead of paying attention to what’s going on with parabolas and projectile motion, I spend the period replaying the Erin Hewett Highlights Reel in my head. The only way anyone would’ve learned about Erin’s previous Homecoming court appointment would be from Erin herself. It’s not the sort of thing that naturally comes up in conversation, either. Not within twenty-four hours of enrolling in a new school.
No, people heard about that because Erin wanted us to. Given that information, I don’t care how nice everyone else seems to think she is. I know the truth.
Erin Hewett is making a bid for Homecoming Queen, and she’ll do whatever it takes to win it.
I know, because she’s using my playbook.
I turn to Sam, who of course is watching me watch Erin. “Whatever it takes,” I mouth.
She n
ods. Message received.
TEN
Sloane
Key Club meetings start at 3:45 p.m. Fact: Alexandra always, always walks in at 3:44 p.m. on the dot. You could set your watch to it.
Except today. Today is the first time in the history of Key Club (or, at least, the length of time I’ve been a member) that Her Highness strolls in two minutes late. “Apologies,” she says breezily. “I had an important matter to attend to.”
Her tone doesn’t match the sharpness of her eagle eyes, which scan the room with expert precision. For whatever reason, she isn’t liking what she sees. Her resting bitch-face frown deepens slightly. But when her eyes land on me, it’s replaced with a smile.
Did everyone forget to tell me it was Opposite Day?
Alexandra calls the meeting to order, even though our advisor, Mr. Vick, hasn’t arrived yet. He takes a thirty-minute smoke break at the end of the day that may or may not include illegal substances, depending on whom you ask. It’s just as well. He’s kind of a letch, and leers at any girl who dares to show leg.
P.S.: the only one of us who wears a skirt on Key Club day is Alexandra. If anything, being around Mr. Vick causes her hemlines to shrink.
After I take attendance, Alexandra asks me if I want to lead the Key Club pledge. There’s an audible gasp of surprise from Hayley Langer.
“Sure,” I say, feeling even more confused. I even mess up part of the pledge, saying “to serve one nation under God” instead of “to serve my nation and God.”
Hayley giggles. I steel myself for Alexandra’s anger, but instead she smiles at me and nods approvingly.
I am both relieved and horrified—and simultaneously ashamed by my relief and horror. Why the hell should I care about Alexandra Miles’s opinion of me?
I think it has something to do with her freakishly strong magnetism. She’s like the sun. You never really stop wanting to feel that warm, buttery light on your face. Even if you’ve been burned by it on more than one occasion, as I have.
Alexandra likes to start each meeting with a motivational quote. Today’s gem is “You can do anything, but you can’t do everything.” This, I’m guessing, is to set me up for the motion she wants me to make. I should feel like a puppet on a string, but again: she’s the sun.
