asked,â I say. âI have some . . . questions . . . about the Homecoming ballots.â
Iris arches an eyebrow. âWhat kinds of questions?â
I bite my bottom lip and look down at my feet, like Iâm really struggling.
âWell?â she prods. âWhat is it?â
I let out a slow, measured sigh. âIâm a little . . . concerned . . . about the nominees for senior class princess.â
She snorts. âYouâre not the only one.â
âOh?â
Iris looks around the parking lot. Thereâs no one in the immediate vicinity. She steps closer to me and leans in. âThat poor Proctor girl. Hasnât she been through enough?â
âMy thoughts exactly,â I say. âHow many votes did she get, anyway?â
âEnough. More than enough, actually.â
âMore than Erin Hewett?â
Iris purses her lips so tightly together that they form a thin, magenta line. âIâve already said too much, Samantha. I really need to be going.â
She turns back toward her car, and I blurt out, âErin didnât have the votes, did she?â
No reply.
âIs it the turkey breast youâre running off to, or is it Coach Dawson?â
I cringe even as I say the words.
Irisâs cheeks are brick red, and her eyes are burning craters into my face. âShe had . . . votes.â
âBut not enough to get on the ballot.â
âLet me repeat: She. Had. Votes.â
âWhere are the forms? The ones we filled out this morning.â
âIn the recycling bin.â
âYour office?â
Her eyes narrow into thin slits. âIf your mother only knew what a snake you were . . .â she says, her voice trailing off.
âSheâd be proud,â I say quietly.
Iris continues to try to burn holes through me with her angry stare.
âI need those ballots, Mrs. Testaverde. We should probably go get them now. If you hurry, you can still make it back to your turkey breast on time.â
There are nearly eight hundred half sheets of copy paper spread across every available surface in my room. I have them divided by grade, which isnât difficult since Iris ran the ballots off on different colors for each class. Freshmen are pink, sophomores are blue, juniors are green, and seniors are goldenrod. Even though Iâm really only interested in whatâs going on with our class, I have meticulously sorted the ballots for each of the grade levels. I donât want to miss a single thing.
Iâm sitting on the floor, using my bed as a seat back, with the senior class ballots fanned out around me. It doesnât matter how many times I recount them (six, for the record), the results are always the same:
Ashley Chamberlain: 27
Erin Hewett: 11
Hayley Langer: 31
Alexandra Miles: 89
Ivy Proctor: 23
There are one- and two-off votes for various other seniors, celebrities (JLaw, really?), and rando made-up names like Butterface McGeeâa total of twenty-one. That leaves nine classmatesâ votes unaccounted for. Iâd have to get Wyatt to hack into theschoolâs system to verify the number of absences from today, but itâs a reasonable enough number that I donât feel like going to the effort.
The good news is that Lexiâs ahead by a clean enough margin that she should have this Homecoming race locked up.
The bad news is that I am utterly clueless as to whoâs behind the twenty-three Ivy Proctor votes. The fact that she earned almost as many as Ashley did confirms my initial suspicions: this is a coordinated effort. But who orchestrated it?
And hereâs an even better question: Why ?
Iâve been ignoring texts from Lexi all afternoon, and I can tell sheâs starting to get pissed. My phone dings again. Iâm coming over.
Perfect, just . . . perfect.
I donât even bother to tell her not to; Iâve put her off long enough. All I can do is prepare my mother for Lexiâs