by Lara Deloza
On the ride over, I ask, “What are you doing tonight?”
Ivy shrugs. “Homework. The usual.”
“Let’s skip the usual,” I say. “I have rehearsal until five, but after that—let’s go to the mall. We can grab some dinner, look at some dresses. It’ll be fun.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have any money with me.”
I wave her off. “It’s fine. I can cover dinner. And we wouldn’t be buying any dresses tonight anyway. Just trying them on and taking pics. I mean, it’s not like you marry the first guy you date, right?”
“Actually,” Ivy says, “my parents are middle school sweethearts.”
No wonder she’s so messed up. I ignore this comment and press on.
“I’m not going to take no for an answer,” I inform Ivy. “If you say yes now, it’ll save us both a lot of time and energy.”
She gives in.
They always do.
And now I start to lay the foundation for the next stage of my plan. The one Sam is simultaneously carrying out on campus at this very moment.
“Can I confess something to you?” I say.
“Sure.”
“I’m kind of thinking about dropping out of the Homecoming race.”
I swear, the girl’s jaw literally drops three inches. “What? Why?”
“It just doesn’t seem fair. I mean, I’ve been class princess three years running. Isn’t it someone else’s turn to shine?”
“You’re kidding me with this, right?”
“No,” I say. “I’m dead serious. Besides, I have a couple of big pageants coming up. How many crowns does one girl need?”
All of the crowns, I think. ALL OF THEM.
“But you’re a shoo-in to win,” Ivy tells me. “You know that, right?”
Now it’s my turn to shrug. “Maybe. The New Girl seems to have some fans.”
“No,” she says firmly. “Not like you do.”
I don’t respond, letting silence do the work for me.
“Look,” Ivy says after a bit. “You could be Homecoming Queen. It’s, like, almost every little girl’s fantasy.”
“Exactly,” I say. “And I just think it’s time to let some other little girl’s dream come true.”
I sound so earnest that I wonder if there’s some tiny part of me that actually believes the shit I am spewing.
Ivy says, “You’re crazy, you know that? And this is coming from someone who’s actually crazy.”
I’ve got to give the girl credit. She takes herself a lot less seriously than I’d imagined.
“You shouldn’t talk about yourself that way,” I say. “You know, you’re up for Homecoming Queen, too.”
And there it is. The elephant in the car.
“That’s just somebody’s idea of a sick joke,” she says. “It’s not real.”
“Maybe,” I concede, because it would be foolish not to acknowledge the truth in what she’s saying. “But it could be.”
We don’t say anything else until we pull into the school parking lot a few minutes later. I cut the engine and turn to Ivy. But before I can utter another word, she blurts out, “I don’t know why you’d voluntarily give up the chance to be Homecoming Queen, but that’s totally your decision. Just . . . leave me out of it. I don’t need to be humiliated any more than I already have been, okay?”
She starts to get out of the car.
“Wait,” I say, touching her shoulder.
“What?”
“I just want to be your friend,” I tell her, in the most sincere voice I can muster.
“But why?” It comes out in an almost-whine.
“Because you need a friend. A good one. And because I genuinely like you, Ivy Proctor.”
This, perhaps, is the biggest lie of all.
Ivy sighs. I can tell I’m wearing her down, and it’s taken a lot less time and energy than I had imagined.
“Have lunch with us today,” I say. “Me and Sam. We can talk more about tonight. Okay?”
She nods. It’s a grim gesture, but I’ll take it.
“Great,” I say. “See you then.”
If Sam has done her part as well as I’ve done mine, in a few short hours I will no longer be the front-runner for Spencer High School Homecoming Queen.
Ivy Proctor will be.
NINETEEN
Alexandra
The rumor mill churns overtime; by the start of third period, everyone is whispering about me and whether or not I’m officially dropping out of the Homecoming race. Sam has played her part very well. When I see people sneaking glances in my direction, I offer them a Mona Lisa smile. You know, with just enough mystery to keep them talking.
My plan is to make the announcement near the end of my lunch period. This is assuming that Ivy takes me up on my invite. I need people to see us together, enjoying each other’s company. That way I don’t have to officially endorse Ivy Proctor when I step down. They’ll just know. Or, at the very least, they’ll speculate that my new BFF is a factor in the decision.
I run to the girls’ room for a quick touch-up before lunch—“quick” being the operative word. Typically I show up to the caf right before the bell rings. But not today. Today I need to beat Ivy there so I can make sure she lands at our table.
And then she shows up. Principal Constance Frick. Standing in front of me like the tall tank of ugly she always has been and always will be.
“Miss Miles,” she says in a loud, flat voice. “I need to speak with you for a moment.”
I nod, artificially wide-eyed and agreeable. “Sure. I don’t have a free period today but I can come by your office after—”
“Now,” Frick says sharply. Her lips curl upward like a Disney villain’s just before something bad happens to the princess. “It should only take a moment or two.”
Fighting Frick could extend this interlude further, so I give in. Thankfully, she doesn’t want to drag me all the way back to her office—just to the other side of the hallway.
“Alexandra.”
“Yes, Ms. Frick?”
“I just . . . I wanted to know how you were doing. How are you, Alexandra?”
I’m not buying the syrupy tone in her voice. “Fine,” I say. “Why do you ask?”
“Mrs. Mays and I were chatting earlier, and she mentioned that you missed rehearsal yesterday. Something about a doctor’s appointment? I couldn’t help but wonder if it had something to do with . . . Well, you know.”
“My mother?” I finish for her. “Yeah, no. I told Mrs. Mays that I had to get my flu shot. That’s all.”
“It’s just so unlike you to skip a rehearsal. I think that’s why Mrs. Mays was concerned. I told her I’d look into it.”
Bile rises to the back of my throat. Does Frick think she’s actually fooling me with this caring principal bit? She’s counting down the days until I graduate; we both know she can’t get rid of me a day too soon. Time to shut this down.
“Thank you for your concern,” I say, “but I assure you that I am absolutely fine.”
I’m about to bolt when Frick reaches out and puts her hand on my shoulder. Instantly I stiffen. Why is she touching me? Isn’t that illegal these days?
“You have a lot on your plate, Alexandra,” Frick says, her hand still connected to my arm.
I stare at the hand like it’s an evil, icky thing, but Frick doesn’t move it. Instead, she says, “I am concerned that you may have overextended yourself this semester. Especially with your mother’s current state of health.”
That’s twice now that she’s dragged Natalie into the conversation. Not okay.
With a swift move, I lift Frick’s hand from my shoulder and push it back in her direction. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” I say coldly.
I start to walk away before Frick can say another word, but then think better of it. I turn around again so that I’m facing her and say, “But you know what, Ms. Frick? I do feel a little overextended
right now, what with college applications and preparing for fall pageant season. I already put some plans in place to cut back. I think you’ll be pleased.”
Frick’s eyes narrow. If there was closed captioning for her thoughts, the words would likely read something along the lines of, “Just what exactly are you scheming, little girl?”
“Thanks again for your concern,” I say. Then I turn and walk toward the cafeteria, letting my hips switch as I sashay away.
You may be wondering about my mother’s complicated history with Frick. It’s actually not that complicated. Frick was her teacher. She was married to Crazy Dave back then. My mom had an after-school job as a receptionist at Crazy Dave’s dealership. Crazy Dave liked hot young blondes wearing tight little skirts.
You do the math.
So now Frick’s got it in for me, even though my mom wasn’t Crazy Dave’s first or last. She was just the only one Frick had to deal with on a near-daily basis.
Fuck Frick and her vendetta bullshit.
I’ve got an election to throw.
TWENTY
Sam
Lexi is late. Worse, Lexi is late when she’s supposed to be early. I’m not the one who’s been working Ivy Proctor. If she checks out of the lunch line before Lexi arrives, there’s no way she’s going to come sit with me. I mean, if our awkward chat the other day is any indication, I make Ivy twitchy—and not in a good way.
My eyes dart from the cafeteria’s double doors to Ivy, who is progressing through the line at a decent clip. Come on, Lexi. Where are you?
Ivy’s swiping her card at the register when Lexi finally walks through the door. She nods in my direction before heading toward the line all casual-like. Lexi says something to Ivy, then points in my direction. I lift my hand in a not-quite-wave. Ivy just stands there as Lexi hits the lunch line. What the hell is she buying? She doesn’t eat cafeteria food.
After what feels like an eternity, Ivy slowly makes her way over to where I’m sitting.
“Hey,” she says. She sets her tray down but remains standing, almost like she expects me to shoo her away.
“Hi,” I say back. “Um, have a seat.”
“Yeah?”
Oh, god. This is going to be so painful.
“Yeah,” I say. “We’re going to be friends. Lexi says so.”
The words surprise me even as they’re leaving my mouth. Ivy’s eyes catch mine and we both chuckle. Okay, maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
Ivy slides into her chair and says, “She gets what she wants, doesn’t she?”
“Always.”
And that’s where our conversation dies. It remains suspended in silence until Lexi appears several minutes later.
“So what are we talking about, girls?” she says in a mock-breezy voice that only I, the only person who really knows her, would identify as fake.
“Goals,” Ivy says. “We were talking about goals.”
“Like field hockey?”
This makes Ivy and me chuckle again. And that makes Lexi frown. She hates not being in on the joke.
“Ivy was just saying how much she admires your determination,” I explain. It’s not entirely a lie.
“Yes,” Ivy agrees, totally deadpan. “You’re so determined. It’s very admirable.”
Ha. If she wasn’t such a complete psychopath, I might actually like Ivy Proctor. Too bad Lexi’s got her in the crosshairs. No sense growing attached to a bunny that’s slated for slaughter.
Lexi’s smile is tight; she’s not buying it. I try to deflect.
“So, are you still thinking about doing that thing we were talking about earlier?” I ask, per Lexi’s pre-written script.
“Not now,” she says softly, cutting her eyes in Ivy’s direction.
“Do you guys need some privacy?” Ivy says. “I can go.”
“No,” Lexi says. “Stay. It’s just . . . Sam’s asking about . . . well, what you and I talked about this morning. About me and Homecoming? But I know that makes you uncomfortable, so . . .”
Ivy looks down at her tray. “Oh.”
“The answer’s yes,” Lexi stage-whispers in my direction. “But we’ll talk about it later.”
“You can talk about it now,” Ivy says. “You dropping out of Homecoming Queen doesn’t bother me.”
I fight a grin. Ivy’s not a soft-spoken girl, and she said that last thing loud enough that the table of sophomore girls beside us has heard her. Their overly mascaraed eyes fly open. The buzz begins: It’s true then? She’s really quitting? It makes its way around the cafeteria like a brush fire.
Lexi blushes bright red. How she can control her coloring is beyond me.
The news finally reaches Sloane Fahey, whose freckled face lights up like she’s just hit the jackpot on a Hoosier lottery scratch-off. Lexi continues to feign embarrassment. She’s talking, presumably to both me and Ivy, but I’m not paying attention. I’m watching Sloane, who looks like she’s ready to leap up at any second.
And then she does.
And then she walks over to our table.
“Is it true?” Sloane asks Lexi. Just like that.
“Is what true?”
“You,” Sloane says. “You’re really giving up the Homecoming crown?”
Lexi doesn’t respond, not at first. She looks down at the chocolate chip cookie she bought in the lunch line. The one she hasn’t been eating, because she’d rather fart in the middle of a school assembly than get caught eating carbs in public.
“Well?” Sloane prompts. “Are you quitting or what?”
“Yes,” Lexi says, her voice barely a whisper. “I think I am.”
Sloane’s mouth drops open. “You’re shitting me. This is a joke, right?”
“Nice language, Sloane,” Lexi says. “And no. It’s not a joke.”
Sloane crosses her arms across her chest. “I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t have to,” Lexi retorts. “I know the truth.”
“Then prove it. Make it official.”
I can only begin to imagine how elated Lexi is at this turn of events. Sloane has set her up perfectly.
“Fine,” Lexi says. “You want some big, dramatic announcement? I’ll give you one.”
She rises, pulls her chair away from the table, and then climbs up on it. “Excuse me!” she calls out. “Hello! Can I please have your attention? I’ll make it quick.”
It doesn’t take long for Lexi to get every eye trained on her. The volume in the room goes to zero; the only sound is the pinging of the registers as kids check out of the line.
“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of this, but Sloane here is insisting that I do.” Lexi looks down at Sloane, her mouth twisting like she’s tasted something sour. “Anyway,” she says, “while I am so honored and flattered to be nominated for this year’s Homecoming Queen, I have decided to drop out of the race.”
Her dramatic pause was meant to allow for chatter, but the room remains pin-drop silent. Even the stoners are too surprised to toss out a single “Who cares?”
“There are so many amazing girls on the ballot,” Lexi continues. Here, she smiles warmly in Ivy’s direction. Without breaking her gaze she finishes, “I think it’s time we recognize one of them instead.”
A slow clap starts from the other side of the caf. Matt, of course. He pops up, kicking his chair back, and shouts out, “Yeah! That’s my girl!”
Suddenly, everyone is clapping, cheering for Lexi. She clasps her hands over her heart, like she’s so touched by their support. Before the clapping wanes, Lexi carefully steps down from the chair. Then, to Sloane, she says, “Happy?”
But Sloane is not happy, which is crystal clear to just about everyone in the room. She skulks back to her own table, muttering to herself.
“That feels like such a burden off my back!” Lexi declares dramatically. “Now, what were we talking about?”
Ivy looks dumbstruck. Her face screams WTF, but she’s smart enough not to say it.
“Goals,�
�� Ivy says finally. “We were talking about goals.”
Lexi nods. “Oh, that’s right. So here’s my goal for the day: to find you the most gorgeous Homecoming dress in the entire Tall Oaks Mall.”
Her eyes sparkle; her beautiful face shines. Lexi is such a star. She always has been, always will be.
As she and Ivy chitchatter on, I feel Lexi’s hand under the table, landing on my knee. She squeezes it lightly, then runs her hand up my thigh as she pulls away. For a second, I lose the ability to breathe.
Goals, I think, beating back a familiar ache. I have a few of my own.
TWENTY-ONE
Sloane
On a normal day, my sixth-period musical theater elective is my absolute favorite class. For one thing, Alexandra Miles isn’t in it. This is the first year we haven’t had some sort of performing-arts class together and can I just say how much I love not being eclipsed by her? I am the star of that class. Me. Not her. Me.
The funny thing is, she was supposed to be in the class. Of course she was. But then, by some magic twist of fate, it got scheduled opposite the only section of AP English offered for seniors.
Here’s an Alexandra story for you: when she found out that she had to choose between musical theater and AP English, she actually petitioned the school to get musical theater moved to a different time slot. Even more amazing: it almost happened. So why didn’t it? Because the only other period that Mrs. Mays could move it to was third. Mays was ready to pull the trigger, too, but then Alexandra told her not to. Third period conflicted with her AP History class, so why even bother?
On the one hand, you almost have to admire a girl who has no problem asking a teacher to rearrange her entire schedule—a schedule that then affects dozens of other students as well. On the other, it kind of makes you want to scream, “Self-involved much? Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?”
At least, that’s what I want to yell at her. But I never would, because she’d be all, “I’m Alexandra Miles, that’s who.” And, like, in a weird way, that answer would make perfect sense.
This is one of the reasons why I’ve decided it’s time to take her down. It’s like, enough already. But Step 1 of my original plan was figuring out how to get Erin Hewett to defeat Alexandra for Homecoming Queen. And now she’s gone and dropped out of the race all on her own.
