Free Winning by Lara Deloza

asked,” I say. “I have some . . . questions . . . about the Homecoming ballots.”
    Iris arches an eyebrow. “What kinds of questions?”
    I bite my bottom lip and look down at my feet, like I’m really struggling.
    â€œWell?” she prods. “What is it?”
    I let out a slow, measured sigh. “I’m a little . . . concerned . . . about the nominees for senior class princess.”
    She snorts. “You’re not the only one.”
    â€œOh?”
    Iris looks around the parking lot. There’s no one in the immediate vicinity. She steps closer to me and leans in. “That poor Proctor girl. Hasn’t she been through enough?”
    â€œMy thoughts exactly,” I say. “How many votes did she get, anyway?”
    â€œEnough. More than enough, actually.”
    â€œMore than Erin Hewett?”
    Iris purses her lips so tightly together that they form a thin, magenta line. “I’ve already said too much, Samantha. I really need to be going.”
    She turns back toward her car, and I blurt out, “Erin didn’t have the votes, did she?”
    No reply.
    â€œIs it the turkey breast you’re running off to, or is it Coach Dawson?”
    I cringe even as I say the words.
    Iris’s cheeks are brick red, and her eyes are burning craters into my face. “She had . . . votes.”
    â€œBut not enough to get on the ballot.”
    â€œLet me repeat: She. Had. Votes.”
    â€œWhere are the forms? The ones we filled out this morning.”
    â€œIn the recycling bin.”
    â€œYour office?”
    Her eyes narrow into thin slits. “If your mother only knew what a snake you were . . .” she says, her voice trailing off.
    â€œShe’d be proud,” I say quietly.
    Iris continues to try to burn holes through me with her angry stare.
    â€œI 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.”
    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 isn’t 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 I’m really only interested in what’s going on with our class, I have meticulously sorted the ballots for each of the grade levels. I don’t want to miss a single thing.
    I’m sitting on the floor, using my bed as a seat back, with the senior class ballots fanned out around me. It doesn’t 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 McGee—a total of twenty-one. That leaves nine classmates’ votes unaccounted for. I’d have to get Wyatt to hack into theschool’s system to verify the number of absences from today, but it’s a reasonable enough number that I don’t feel like going to the effort.
    The good news is that Lexi’s 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 who’s 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 here’s an even better question: Why ?
    I’ve been ignoring texts from Lexi all afternoon, and I can tell she’s starting to get pissed. My phone dings again. I’m coming over.
    Perfect, just . . . perfect.
    I don’t even bother to tell her not to; I’ve put her off long enough. All I can do is prepare my mother for Lexi’s