Read Online Winning by Lara Deloza - Free Book Online Page B

again.
    People like Sloane Fahey—who, let’s face it, have little to lose—can become dangerous variables in a heartbeat. They’re not easily controlled because their actions are far too erratic. On the other hand, a Sloane vying for my attention, trying to insinuate herself into my social stratosphere, is predictable. Pathetic, but predictable.
    I’m going to need to keep my eye on her. There’s just too much at stake.

FOURTEEN
Sam
    This year’s senior class princesses are (in alphabetical order):
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  •   Ashley Chamberlain
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  •   Erin Hewett
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  •   Hayley Langer
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  •   Alexandra Miles
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  •   Ivy Proctor
    The printout hangs on the bulletin board outside the main office. I stare at it in disbelief.
    Lexi isn’t going to like this.
    Not one bit.
    It’s bad enough that Erin made the ballot, though I presume that was Frick’s doing. I mean, the girl’s been a student here for literally three days. People like her, sure, but Homecoming court? It’s a stretch.
    The real head-scratcher is Ivy Proctor . What is that about?
    There are 327 kids in the senior class. So it’s not like Ivy gotthat nomination on the basis of a couple of stray votes. At the very least, she had to have gotten a couple dozen. That’s not an accident.
    Twenty votes is a coordinated effort.
    Lexi texts me a question mark. She’s dying to know the results. I debate whether or not I should give them to her. If I tell her she’s on the ballot, she’s going to want to know who the competition is. And if I tell her that without having some good intel, all hell will break loose.
    Think, Samantha. Think .
    What I need is to know the number of votes that went to each candidate. Frick wouldn’t have done the count herself, would she? That’s what she has peons for.
    Peons like Iris Testaverde.
    Iris has been Frick’s secretary for years, long before we were freshmen. She looks like a character from Saturday Night Live , all baby-blue eye shadow, loud floral prints, and augmented boobs bursting out from her blouse, even though she’s a long way from the right side of forty. Her husband, Greg, owns this dinky Italian restaurant on the edge of town that’s popular with the geriatric crowd. It keeps him pretty busy—or at least busy enough that he hasn’t noticed his wife’s banging the football coach behind his back.
    To be fair, most people don’t know about Iris and Coach Dawson. Lexi and I only found out after we convinced Wyatt to rig up a tiny spy camera in the main office. She was looking for some dirt on Frick, I think, but was just as shocked as I wasto find some on Iris instead. Let’s just say that girlfriend knows how to get her freak on. Wyatt threatened to burn out his own corneas just to try to unsee the footage.
    Iris doesn’t know about the tape. She doesn’t even know that we know about her affair with Coach.
    It’s a handy card to have, and one we haven’t played . . . yet.
    I can’t think of a better time to pull it out.
    My plan is simple: I’ll wait until Iris clocks out for the day, and then follow her to her car. There will be fewer witnesses that way. Less chance of someone overhearing.
    At four on the dot, Iris exits the main office and heads out the front doors. I shadow her to the faculty lot. She’s fumbling for her keys when I call out, “Excuse me, Mrs. Testaverde?”
    Iris jumps about ten feet high, then whips around to face me. “Good Lord in heaven, child. You scared me half to death!”
    â€œOops,” I say. “Sorry.”
    â€œWell, what do you need, Samantha?” Iris asks. “There’s a turkey breast in my Crock-Pot waiting for me to tend to it.”
    â€œI’m glad you