Gabi tells the Alexa to bring up the lights so that we’re no longer lit only by the glow of the PowerPoint. It’s always like being in that old Disney Channel movie Smart House when I come over to the Marinos.
“Stone, if you don’t mind.” Gabi waves her hand to the side as an invitation to have Stone join her in front of us.
“While I would normally be inclined to allow the universe to dictate its will to us, due to the dire nature of the circumstances at hand, I found it in our collective best interest to—”
“Stone, some of us have to get home at some point this century.” Britt interrupts as gently as she can.
“I’ve devised an algorithm for evaluating where Liz is at in the rankings at any given point during the race.” She hands me her phone. “I’m not particularly adept at coding, but this application should suffice for our purposes.”
“Whoa. Seriously?” Britt leans over and gapes at the screen. I’ve always secretly assumed that Stone is so spacy because she’s tapped directly into the motherboard. This confirms it.
“Stone, G, this is amazing. How did you do this so fast?”
Gabi polishes her manicure on her chic black sweater. “I told you to leave it to us. We’ll take you far, my fierce and fantastic best friend.”
“Be advised, it’s an imperfect system. We’re using the number of hits a candidate’s name is getting on Campbell Confidential as a stand-in for projected votes to determine what type of traction you’ll need to win the popular vote, should you make court.” Stone says it as lightly as she says everything, like she’s talking about her moon being in Venus, or Mercury retrograde incoming. “But our primary concern is calculating the other elements—GPA, community service events—to understand just how competitive you need to be in order to enter the top four.”
“There are twenty-five girls in the race currently. And Liz, given our calculations …” Gabi starts.
Britt looks down at the app and back up at me with her expression pinched like she’s just smelled something rank. “You’re dead last, buddy.”
“Wow, you should think about a future in investigative journalism.” I roll my eyes.
“Well, yes, technically she’s in last at the moment, but that’s what strategy is for, Brittany Luca.” Gabi rolls her eyes, and Britt throws a chip at her for using her full government name. “I’m saying that’s exactly why we must handle this with precision.”
“I think we should skip all of this and tell Rachel precisely where, exactly, she can shove a crown—”
Gabi pinches the bridge of her nose, clearly frustrated with the inability of the band of misfits she has in front of her to execute her intricate thirty-two-step plan, which so far has included nineteen points specifically aimed at sabotaging Rachel Collins. She sighs.
“Buttons. Britt, I’m saying we need buttons with Liz’s face on them. Every successful campaign has buttons. Your parents are still willing to volunteer pro bono, right?”
Britt’s parents own the biggest print shop in central Indiana, and G somehow roped them into volunteering an obscene amount of supplies for the campaign. They’re honestly my favorite type of ally: the kind that puts their money where their mouth is.
“Absolutely. I’ve been waiting for a chance to have Rachel Collins canceled since she called me a Troll Doll on acid in the eighth grade. You just say the word, Liz, and I’ll have one of the freshmen from the JV team take care of her.” Britt moves a finger across her throat ominously, and I spit out my water. All my friends are losing it. “What? I’m not going to have her killed or anything! They’ll just put sugar in her gas tank or cut her brake lines or something.” She shrugs. “Nothing drastic.”
I know that Britt is (mostly) joking, and I know that they all have my best interests at heart, but this whole discussion is making my chest feel tight and my stomach go haywire. All these steps and strategies just to make people like me, to make myself into someone worth paying attention to, makes me get that too-big-for-my-skin feeling.
I stand up suddenly, brush the stray Doritos crumbs off my jeans, and try to smile at my friends. My hands are shaking in the telltale I’m-getting-ready-to-have-a-panic-attack way, so I stuff them into my pockets. Gabi looks confused about my abrupt move to leave, but Britt just presses her lips together and nods.
“I think that’s enough for today, don’t you guys?” Britt asks. “Hell, we’re not even plotting on my life, and I’m exhausted. I say we reconvene after Liz’s first volunteer event.”
Gabi points at the screen with a pout. “But what about—”
“Yes, I think our dearest friends have the right idea.” Stone places a gentle hand on Gabi’s arm. “Perhaps we should reassess after a brief respite.”
Gabi visibly deflates, and I almost feel bad about taking the wind out of her sails like that, but I have to go. I grab my backpack from the floor and shrug it up onto my shoulders. I’m out the door before I even think to say goodbye.
When I get home from G’s, I’m completely wiped.
I’m ready to crawl into bed for the next forty-eight hours straight. Which, okay, after homework and practicing the fingering for the new arrangement of one of our songs we got in class earlier, I don’t have eight hours to sleep, let alone forty-eight, but a girl can dream, right?
But Granny is standing in front of the window with her hands on her hips, waiting for me, when I head up the walk, and I know dipping out to go to my room instead of going to the kitchen to check in is not going to be an option.
“Where you been, Elizabeth?” she asks when I open the door. I barely have a chance to kiss her on the cheek before she continues. “You missed dinner tonight, and you know that don’t fly around here.”
I would never tell my granny to dial back the attitude—I value my mouth too much to get it slapped off my face—but I wish I could.
“Gran, she’s been at practice, remember? Long nights this week!” Robbie shouts from his place on the couch next to Grandad, and I couldn’t be more grateful for the save. I don’t like Ro lying to Granny any more than I like lying to her myself, but everything about prom has to stay under wraps until after I’ve gotten the scholarship. Because if they find out about the campaign, they’ll find out about the scholarship I’m working toward and the one I didn’t get, and if they find out about the scholarships, they’ll start the process of selling the house.
I can hear Alex Trebek’s voice from where I stand. They’re watching Jeopardy!, and even though Robbie will beat him in final Jeopardy like he does every night, Grandad is confidently yelling out wrong answers along the way anyway. “Chill, Grandad! You’re so far off it’s not even funny. It’s: What is the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo?”
Granny ignores him and is right at my heels as I step farther into the foyer. I can see Ro from his spot on the couch, and he shoots me a sympathetic look.
“You don’t get to just walk into this house whenever you feel like it, Elizabeth. I didn’t play that when your mama was a little girl, and I’m not going to play that now.”
And that’s just the punch to the gut I needed after today. A comparison to one of the many ways I can’t live up to the expectations set by my mom. But I can’t say that to my granny either, because I don’t talk back and because she’s right. I know the rules. You don’t miss dinner without a phone call, and I dropped the ball.