by Lara Deloza
“Why?”
“Because you’re acting like a jealous girlfriend!” I snap. “And I don’t have time for that.”
I hang up before she can protest. When she calls me back, I silence the phone. It goes to voice mail but she doesn’t leave a message.
I turn my phone off before plugging it in to charge. Then I dive into the pile of homework I need to plow through before I can turn in for the night.
The next day, I arrive at Ivy’s house a full forty-five minutes before we have to leave for school. When I informed her that I would be doing this, she told me that she wasn’t much of a morning person.
“Too bad,” I said. “We have less than a month until the election. Every day counts.”
Ivy lives in a flat, oatmeal-colored rancher that has about as much personality as her dull, doughy mother. It is freakishly clean, despite the large, slobbering dog that typically has free rein, but, at my request, is currently incarcerated in the kitchen. No dust, no tacky clutter. And every wall is painted the same boring beige, which mirrors the color of the carpet.
Except Ivy’s room. Her small, boxy space looks like an eggplant threw up all over it. There is dark, moody purple everywhere. A weirdly shiny bedspread. A shaggy area rug. Even her dresser has been purple-ized.
Purple is clearly Ivy’s signature color.
The one exception to all of this aubergine is the curtains, which are a black velveteen and seemingly hung for the sole purpose of blocking out all natural light.
Maybe this is why Ivy dresses so poorly. It’s too dark to see what she’s putting on her body.
I look around the space trying to locate a light switch. There’s a purple crystal chandelier that should theoretically throw off some light.
“Does that thing work?” I ask, pointing up at the fixture.
“Sure,” she says. “You might want to close your eyes for a sec while I turn it on.”
I don’t heed Ivy’s warning, but really wish I had. The minute she flips the switch, the room is positively flooded with bright light. Instinctively, I shield my eyes with my right arm.
“Told you,” she says, and I can practically hear her grinning. “That’s why I never turn it on.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I say, “Closet. Where is it?”
She reaches toward the black-and-white poster of a big head—some sad-looking musician from decades before we were born—that is apparently masking the closet’s door. She swings it open to reveal a double layer of clothes, almost all of which are black, with a few purple pieces thrown in for good measure.
“What. The. Fuck,” I say before I can stop myself. Ivy turns to face me, her eyes wide, as if she’s never heard anyone drop the f-bomb before. How am I ever going to turn this hopeless case into Homecoming Queen material?
Then I remind myself: You are Alexandra Miles. If anyone can turn Ivy Proctor into a star, it’s you.
“Ivy Proctor,” I say. “What are you doing? You are a reasonably attractive teenage girl. You’re a little on the short side, but at least your body has the right proportions for your frame. And even though you try to hide them, I can tell you’ve got some decent boobage underneath those baggy tops you’re always wearing.”
Ivy’s pale face flames red. She crosses her arms over her chest as if to shield them from my sight.
I circle around her, examining Ivy from every possible angle. “Your hair—it’s dyed, correct?”
“Yes.”
“It needs to be lightened. More of a golden brown than black. We can take care of that after school. And no more black eyeliner. At least, not so much you look like you’re heading out on a hunting trip.”
She winces at that last bit. I take a deep breath and do my best to dial it down a few notches.
“Look,” I say in a soft, soothing voice. “I know you probably think all of this stuff is really shallow. And it is. Of course it is.
“But how you look—how you present yourself to the world—makes a statement. I’m judged all the time based on my choice of clothes or shoes or hair or makeup. And I’m not talking about the pageant world, either.”
“I know all this,” Ivy says. “I’m not oblivious.”
“Then act like it. I want to help you win, but I can’t do it without a little help from you in return.”
I’ve spoon-fed Ivy a fair amount of bullshit this morning, but that last part—it’s not entirely false. I mean, no one will actually get a chance to judge Ivy—but if they aren’t rooting for her, she’s got nowhere to fall.
“I’m in,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“That’s all I needed to hear.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Sam
“Hey there, stranger.”
I turn to see her standing there. Erin Hewett. Clutching a stack of books to her chest like TV characters often do but real people never seem to. She is not wearing a skort. She is wearing a plaid miniskirt that is at least two inches shorter than our dress code dictates.
I guess you can get away with not following the dress code when you’re the principal’s niece.
We are standing just outside the main doors. I am waiting for Lexi to arrive with her new project (aka Ivy Proctor). I’m not entirely sure why Erin’s here, though.
“Hi,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. Her bare legs are still California tan. She radiates sunshine, this girl, down to her strawberry-blond hair with little wisps bleached by many, many hours spent on the beach.
At least, this is what I imagine. I guess it’s possible that she had it done in a salon.
I don’t like thinking about Erin Hewett’s legs, or her hair, or any part about her, really.
“I feel like we haven’t talked in forever,” Erin says. “And there’s been so much going on.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Oh, you know,” she says. “I heard about Alexandra’s big announcement yesterday. That’s, like, really cool of her to do.”
I nod. “Yeah. Cool.”
I’m not great at making conversation. Especially not around super-cute girls that I’m not supposed to think are super-cute, or kind, or soft, or . . .
“Do you need something, Erin?” I blurt out.
“Nope,” she says. “Just thought I’d say hello.”
I keep thinking she’s going to walk away but she doesn’t. She’s smiling at me. Is that part of her niceness, or is it something else?
Or do I just want it to be “something else”?
Behind her, about thirty feet away, Sloane Fahey is looking in our direction, skulking. Almost like she’s watching us. That’s the second time I’ve caught Sloane doing that in two days. Why?
I’m so consumed by what’s happening in my immediate vicinity that I totally miss Lexi pulling into the parking lot. In fact, she and Ivy are already climbing the steps before I even register their presence.
Now there are four of us on the landing, a strange square of awkward.
“Hi, Ivy,” Erin says with an unnecessary wave. “Congrats on your nomination! You too, Alexandra—even though you’ve decided not to run.”
“It’s true,” Lexi says. She links her arm through Ivy’s. “I think there are much worthier candidates this year.”
Ivy looks horrified, both by her words and the whole arm-linking thing. I know it’s just for show, but it irks me anyway.
“Agreed,” I say, only I cut a sidelong glance at Erin. The corners of Lexi’s mouth turn down just enough for me to notice.
“I know it sounds corny,” Erin says, “but honestly? I don’t care who actually wins. I just think it’s amazing to be nominated! I was on Homecoming court at my old school, before we moved—”
“So we’ve heard,” Lexi interjects. “Such a shame you had to miss out on that.”
This doesn’t faze Erin in the least. “Oh, it’s fine. It’s all a lot of phony pageantry anyway, isn’t it?”
I suck in a sharp breath. “Phony pageantry”
—that had to be directed at Lexi. Frick thinks pageants are frivolous; she’s used that exact word with Lexi when Lexi’s needed time off from school to compete. “Frivolous competitions don’t warrant excused absences,” Frick once said. “Not even if they award small ‘scholarships’ as incentive.” She even made the air quotes around “scholarships.” I can confirm this; I was there when it happened.
“Well, I see being voted Spencer High’s Homecoming Queen as a huge honor,” Lexi says. “It means your peers have voted you the embodiment of school spirit.”
“Really?” Erin volleys back. “Because I kind of thought it was more about craving validation from your peers.”
“If you truly feel that way, Erin,” Lexi says, in a voice full of venom, “maybe you should consider dropping out, too.”
Erin blinks in rapid succession. She’s overstepped and she knows it. “I . . . I’m so sorry, Alexandra. I didn’t mean to offend you. You either, Ivy.” Her green eyes well up. I can’t get a read on whether she’s being genuine or if, like Lexi, she’s mastered the art of the fake crying.
I still can’t get a read on her, period.
“Please excuse me,” Erin says, clutching her books even tighter. “I need to use the ladies’.” With that, she rushes off—but not toward the girls’ bathroom. No, she heads straight into Frick’s office.
Lexi withdraws her arm from Ivy’s and turns to face the girl. “And that is what I mean by always being ‘on.’ You can’t say things like that without consequence. Now the whole school will know exactly how Erin feels about Homecoming.”
“How will the whole school know?” Ivy asks. “She only said it to us.”
“Because we’ll let them know,” Lexi says. “They have a right to know. Spencer students take Homecoming seriously. I meant what I said—we see it as a real honor.”
This is fairly accurate. Even so, I can’t help but say, “You didn’t need to be so hard on her, Lexi.”
“Oh, please,” she says with a dismissive wave. “You can’t possibly buy into that nice-girl act, can you?”
“She’s been nothing but nice to me,” Ivy adds. “Even before my nomination.”
Lexi’s eyes narrow in response. “Then maybe you should ask Erin to be your coach. Oh, wait, you can’t. Because she’s your direct competition.”
Ivy nods and murmurs an apology. She is such a docile puppy. No wonder Lexi has taken to her so quickly.
“If you want to be a winner,” Lexi says, “then stick with me. I promise I won’t steer you wrong. Isn’t that right, Sam?”
“Yes,” I say, because that is what I’m expected to say. I’m a docile puppy, too. Or at least, that’s how Lexi thinks of me. And I let her, too.
I may not have much of a bark, but I have the bite.
That’s my secret weapon.
TWENTY-FIVE
Sloane
Here is what I know:
•Alexandra Miles has unofficially dropped out of the Homecoming race. I refuse to call it “official” until I get a ballot that doesn’t have her name on it. Plus, I’m not entirely convinced she isn’t up to something. (But that’s not what I know; that’s what I am speculating.)
•Alexandra is apparently putting her support behind Ivy Proctor. Or at least pretending to. Or at the very least taking the poor girl under her wing. (I guess that’s more speculation, on all counts.)
•Ivy Proctor actually wants to win. I mean, she’s hanging out with Alexandra. Or is she doing that because, up until Alexandra took an interest in her, Ivy didn’t have any friends? (Damn it. More speculation!)
So I guess I don’t actually know anything. Except that yesterday, during lunch, Alexandra made a big, flashy announcement about not running for queen. Which, bee-tee-dubs, I’m not sure I completely buy. This is, after all, Alexandra we’re talking about. Girlfriend always gets what she wants, no matter who’s standing in her way.
Just ask Taylor Flynn.
Or Hayley Langer.
Or me. Just ask me, because I know firsthand to what lengths Alexandra will go. To which she has already gone. And all because there was a boy who dared to pick me over her.
Can we pause for a second and talk about that? About how I was the one Jonah Dorsey asked to be his girlfriend, even though Alexandra made it abundantly clear that she was also applying for the position?
I almost blew it, too. I couldn’t understand why I was the one Jonah wanted to be with, so I asked him outright: “Are you only dating me because you think I’ll put out? I’m a virgin, you know.”
He laughed. “Uh, no on both counts. But thanks for the heads-up.”
“It’s not funny, Jonah,” I said. “I’m being serious.”
“You’re being seriously adorable,” he replied, tucking a lock of my hair behind an ear.
I pushed his hand away. “But what about Alexandra?”
“What about her?”
“She likes you, you know.”
He shrugged. “So? I don’t like her.”
“But why?”
Jonah’s head tilted to one side, and he eyed me thoughtfully. “She kind of scares me,” he said finally. “And not in the good way, like you do.”
“I scare you?”
“It scares me how much I like you,” Jonah said. “Does that count?”
When Alexandra realized that Jonah wasn’t going to trade me in for her, she was beyond irritated. She never said this, of course. She just started making jokes about how Jonah and I should get a room already, or could we show a little respect for our fellow classmates and cut back on the PDA? And we weren’t even the school’s worst offenders.
So that went on for about a month, and then the rumors started. She told everyone that we were sleeping together, me and Jonah. That I gave him an STD. That I got it from some dude I boinked at drama camp the summer prior. Or maybe it was one of the four guys I’d been with before him.
None of it was true, of course, but that didn’t matter. What’s that they say? Rumors have a habit of festering into facts.
Jonah didn’t dump me, not right away. He wasn’t a dick like that. But what happened was this: The rumors got into his head. Made him question everything. Was I really a virgin? Did I have some sort of STD? Why were people telling him he better keep it wrapped?
It almost would’ve been better if he had broken up with me immediately. Instead, I had to endure the long, slow decline of our relationship, until one day he finally said, “I need some time to think.”
That was right before Christmas. I spent the whole break crying and dreading the post–New Year’s return to school. But guess what? Jonah never came back to Spencer High. Apparently his dad got transferred to some suburb of Illinois—I still don’t know if Jonah knew or if it was an unexpected, last-minute thing.
Either way, I never saw him again. Except when I stalked his Facebook page, that is.
This is the kind of crap that Alexandra pulls, though. Breaking up a perfectly happy couple just because she didn’t get what she wanted.
How she remains one of the most popular girls in school is something I will never understand. And why she gets to keep her perfect boyfriend while I’m over here descending into spinsterdom is beyond me.
Le sigh. Soon enough.
Okay, here’s something else I know:
If I want to take Alexandra down, I’m going to have to get a peek behind the curtain. Expose the skeletons in her closet. Which is why Samantha Schnitt is still at the top of my hit list. I have got to find a way to get close to her. I thought I had my chance this morning, before homeroom, but then Erin Hewett beat me to it. And what’s up with that girl, anyway? She’s always smiling. She’s been here a week, and already she has more friends than I do. Is that because of the smiling?
Note to self: smile more often.
I am getting nowhere.
Fact: I suck at this scheming stuff.
But maybe what I need to do is try playing it both ways. Apologize to Alexandra for my outburst the
other day. Compliment her on dropping out of the race. Ask her about Ivy. If she is backing her, offer my support to help Ivy get the crown.
Maybe, instead of trying to get with Samantha Schnitt, I simply need to be her.
TWENTY-SIX
Ivy
After school, we drive to Alexandra’s house, because she has something she has to take care of with her mom. Then Alexandra hands Sam the keys to her car and instructs her to drive me to the Beauty Bar, a posh hair salon off Main Street. “Olivieri is expecting her,” she tells Sam, like I am not even standing there. “And he already has my credit card. Here’s a twenty for the tip.” She peels off a crisp bill, folds it cleanly in half, and hands that over to Sam, too.
The stylist looks more like a Mike than an Olivieri. He’s Indiana normal, all denim and flannel and scruffy beard. Lumberjack chic. And he doesn’t look at all gay, which is what you’d expect from someone who calls himself Olivieri.
He doesn’t ask me any questions, just sits me in a yellow plastic chair and drapes a silver cape thing over me. Then he disappears into a small room.
If my mother knew that this was happening, she would be both thrilled and horrified. Thrilled that I suddenly have not one but two new friends. Horrified that I was letting one of them give me a makeover without any sort of consultation.
But I am here, am I not? That is implied consent.
Olivieri returns with a plastic bowl full of strong-smelling goop. He begins painting it on my hair, not even bothering to explain what he is doing. Some girl thrusts a People magazine into my hands. Princess Kate is on the cover; she’s expecting again. The reporter speculates it is another girl by the location of her baby bump.
When he is finished with the goop, Olivieri walks away. Roughly twenty minutes later, he returns. He rubs a small section of my hair with a towel, grunts approvingly, and—still not saying a word—directs me toward a sink. After that, I go under a dryer. Then back to the plastic chair, where squares of foil are wrapped around bits of my hair. More strong-smelling goop is added; I spend another stint under the dryer and one more at the sink before finally landing in front of a mirror. I only get a glimpse of my streaky wet hair before squinching my eyes shut tight.
