Dying to Win, page 1
That’ll be the day when I die …
The second bell rang. Hope Hubbard realized she was late. With a sigh, she turned to open her locker. Her combination was 35-23-35, about which she was frequently heckled. It was a “famous” locker, since the numbers matched Lacey Pinkerton’s measurements—or so the boys claimed. Hope dialed the combination, thinking lockers were pretty useless in a school as small as Paradiso High, where everybody knew every …
She started to pull open her locker door.
That was when she saw the hand—a girl’s hand with pink-polished fingernails and a silver bracelet twinkling on its wrist. It had popped out at her, and was now dangling from the bluish-white arm that protruded from Hope’s half-open locker.
Hope felt something heavy pressing against the metal door, and before she could unlock her frozen throat to scream, the door swung all the way open, and a body tumbled out.
Pretty Peggy Sue stared up at Hope with sightless eyes.
Her hair was tangled and her mouth was open, its bluish tongue lolling out. Around her neck was a tightly knotted cord.
Dying to Win
Eileen Goudge
FRIDAY, MAY 26
CHAPTER 1
A shrill, metallic wail split the air. Hope Hubbard bolted upright in her bed. Her arm shot out to silence the sound, and she gave her alarm clock a vicious smack.
Better. Much better. Calm returned to the room. The clear, bright California sun streamed in under the shades, throwing stripes of daylight on Hope’s lavender rug. Birds chirped outside. In the distance, a lawn mower whirred softly. Another perfect morning in Paradiso.
Mmm. Hope nestled her head under her pillow and closed her eyes again. Just five more minutes. Maybe ten. Then she’d get up. But as she realized what day it was, she was suddenly wide awake. Today the suspense was over. Today, one of the four finalists would be chosen Queen of Saturday’s Peach Blossom Festival.
Hope got right out of bed and headed for the shower, giving her computer a “Good Morning” pat. Did her cousin April stand a chance of winning? Everyone knew April was the best artist at Paradiso High, but the race for Peach Blossom Queen was more than a talent contest. Hope got into the shower and turned her face up to the spray of cool water. Besides, April’s competition was pretty stiff. But wouldn’t it be incredible if she won? She really deserved it. As far as Hope was concerned.
Hope dressed quickly, pulling on her baggy blue jeans and gray sweatshirt. She went down to the kitchen and switched on the radio.
All a’ my love, all a’ my kissin’,
You don’t know what you been a’ missin’,
Oh boy!
KPOP, Paradiso’s only radio station, was playing yet another Buddy Holly hit. As if a whole week of Buddy weren’t enough.
But the theme for this year’s Peach Blossom Festival was the Fifties. The Queen—whoever she would be—had already been nicknamed Pretty Peggy Sue by all the kids at Paradiso High School, and KPOP was playing every note Buddy Holly had ever recorded.
Stars appear, and the shadows a’ fallin’ …
sang Buddy now. Hope began preparing her usual breakfast: six strips of bacon, two scrambled eggs, and three dinner-plate-size pancakes, all of which—bacon, too—she would drench with Sacramento Valley honey. best honey east of eden, proclaimed the label on the plastic dispenser.
She poured two glasses of orange juice from the gallon-size jug in the fridge and put a single slice of lowcal wheat bread into the toaster. The toast was for her mother, who always said that Hope got her tall, reed-thin frame from her father. “That’s lucky for you, but thank goodness you got everything else from me,” Leanne Hubbard would add. Hope’s father had left when she was a baby. She didn’t even remember him.
The toast popped. Hope spread it with margarine, cut it diagonally, and placed it on the kitchen counter next to her mother’s orange juice.
You were meant for me.…
concluded Buddy Holly and his Crickets. Then KPOP’s own T.J. the D.J. came on, babbling smoothly: “Well, hey and yo! That was the LEGEND of LUBBOCK himself with ‘Oh, Boy!’ And, oh, BOY, it’s a gorgeous day here in POP-land! The shadows may not be a’ fallin’ anymore, not at seven-fifteen on an AWESOME May a.m. Mr. Sun’s been up a long time. The peach orchards are a’ bloomin’, the little birds are a’ singin’, and the whole valley’s a’ buzzin’ about Pretty Peggy Sue. Who will it be, guys and gals? Who will wear that GORGEOUS crown? Who will win the FULL COLLEGE SCHOLARSHIP and the HOLLYWOOD SCREEN TEST? Will it be Lacey Pinkerton? Raven Cruz? Kiki De Santis? Or April Lovewell?”
April! Hope wished. Please be April. But it was going to be close. Hope had grown up with all the contestants, and each one had plenty of reason to win. Even Lacey, who Hope thought might have been a rattlesnake in a past life. Lacey did know how to have fun, though—and she was beautiful and the most popular girl in the senior class. Raven and Kiki were no slouches either. But April was really special. She was Hope’s best friend, and her cousin, too.
Ever since Hope could remember, her mother had been telling her to stay away from Uncle Ward and Aunt Sara, who were probably the strictest and most uptight people in Paradiso. “And stay away from April, too,” she always added. “If you’re not good enough for my brother and his wife, then his daughter isn’t good enough for you.” But in spite of all this adult bad-mouthing—or maybe because of it—the two girls were friends. Hope knew she would be the first to cheer if her cousin won the crown. Leanne, Hope’s mother, wouldn’t be too happy about it, though.
Leanne Hubbard came rushing into the kitchen then, in a hurry as usual, pinning a plastic nametag onto her nurse’s whites.
Lunging abruptly, Hope clicked off the radio, ending T.J. in mid-babble.
Too late.
“Did I hear him say ‘Lovewell?’” demanded Leanne Hubbard, sitting down to her juice and toast.
Pretending not to have heard her mom’s question, Hope made a great racket and clatter with skillet and spatula, plate and fork, as she dished up her own food.
“Hope!” said her mother. “I asked you a question!”
“I can’t help what comes over the radio, Mom,” Hope said. Wasn’t her mom ever going to lighten up?
“Don’t talk with your mouth full! It’s so …”
“Gross?” mumbled Hope, chewing.
“… unladylike. And how can you eat that—that mess? All that honey!”
Hope speared another humongous forkful of breakfast, which not only tasted great but had also gotten her mother off the subject of …
Sorry, no such luck.
“My brother,” declared Leanne Hubbard, with that sour voice and pinched expression Hope hated, “Ward Lovewell, may be a minister of the church, and all kinds of people here in town may think he’s a champion of charity and good works, but …”
Hope stopped listening after that first deadly but. After all these years, she knew the story by heart. How Hope’s father had taken off—for good, for keeps, and forever, leaving Leanne Lovewell Hubbard and tiny Hope in a rented mobile home from which they were soon evicted. Leanne hadn’t even considered going to her parents for help, since they’d branded Louie Hubbard a “greasy-haired Elvis-Presley hood” as soon as they’d laid eyes on him.
“I actually expected my brother to help me!” Leanne said now, sitting across the kitchen table from Hope, tearing the crust of her toast into nearly microscopic particles.
“I carried you all the way over to the Church of Christ, lugging our single suitcase. We had just seventy-seven cents to our name, and that’s only because I checked under the couch cushions before Calvin Pinkerton’s thug kicked us out.”
Hope’s mom went on, imitating Ward Lovewell’s flowery pulpit voice: “Leanne, there’s truly nothing I’d like more than to ask you in, but that would be the wrong thing to do. It would make you weak and dependent. Worse, it would reward your willfulness.”
Hope watched as her mother took a swallow of orange juice, grimacing as if it were sour. “He hasn’t changed a bit,” Leanne continued in a tiny voice. “Neither has Sara. They’re both bad people, mean and hard, and that’s all they’ll ever be.”
“Yeah, Mom,” said Hope, feeling close to tears. All that stuff had happened so long ago. Couldn’t it be laid to rest? Hope had no doubt that her mother had been badly treated. But what did it have to do with now, with April and her?
April was nothing like her parents. Uncle Ward and Aunt Sara were just as judgmental, cold, and uptight as Hope’s mother said, but April somehow had managed to escape that. If anything, where Ward and Sara were completely sure of themselves and their superiority over ordinary mortals, April had a small self-confidence problem. In fact, it probably came from the sheer impossibility of living up to her parents’ standards of behavior—that and the way Lacey Pinkerton, whom April worshipped, took advantage of April’s kindness and generosity to treat her like some sort of personal handmaiden.
But the people who really knew April—Spike Navarrone; her art teacher, Mr. Woolery; Hope—and even some people who didn’t know her so well, admired April. For starters, she could paint anything—landscapes, portraits, still lifes. And each one of her paintings was like a window into her soul, which was as warm and rich as the thick, curly, red hair that cascaded around her round, open, welcoming face. Hope smiled to herself. Ward and Sara didn’t allow April to cut her hair, because it was her “crown of glory.” They might have thought twice about that prohibition, if they’d had any inkling of the effect of that hair, combined w
“When my brother closed the door on us that night,” said Hope’s mother, finally ending her story as she always did, “you and April both broke into tears. Neither of you could possibly have understood what was happening.”
“Probably the reason April and I were crying that day,” said Hope gently, desperate to make her mother understand, “was because we did know what was happening. You and Uncle Ward and Aunt Sara were tearing us apart. We’re first cousins. We’re meant to be close.”
Leanne swallowed some orange juice, saying nothing.
Well, thought Hope, April and I are close. So there. They had to hide their friendship from Leanne, Ward, and Sara, but they shared confidences all the time, especially about April’s boyfriend, Spike. His name was actually Carlos, but everybody called him Spike. He was gorgeous, and he rode a Harley Davidson motorcycle. If Ward and Sara Lovewell hadn’t approved of Louie Hubbard, they would go totally ballistic to learn that their daughter was dating a biker.
But Hope had the feeling that something was up between April and Spike—something bad. Yesterday afternoon, in Mrs. Tugwell’s sixth-period English class, while Mrs. Tugwell was chalking “Hamlet: indecisive; Ophelia: neurotic” on the blackboard, April leaned across the aisle between the desks and whispered to Hope: “Can I see you after school? There’s something important I have to talk to you about.”
Hope could guess what: since last week, April had been worried because Spike didn’t want to “sneak around” in order to date her. And Hope wanted the chance to talk to April about Jess Gardner. But she hadn’t been able to find her cousin after the final bell at three-fifteen.
“Want a lift to school, honey?” Leanne asked, pausing at the front door. She was trying to be nice, Hope knew from the tone of her voice, trying to make up for the way she’d acted with April.
Hope wanted her mother to be happy, and for the two of them to get along. But she didn’t want to be seen in Leanne’s decrepit, powder blue 1981 Ford, which had over 130,000 miles to its credit, and looked like the loser in a demolition derby. It would be death even to think of being caught in the Ford by Lacey Pinkerton and Kiki De Santis.
Leanne lingered at the door, straightening her uniform, fiddling with her car keys. Hope knew her mother was trying to apologize somehow. Finally, in a ragged, almost tearful-sounding voice, Leanne said, “I love you, honey. Have a wonderful day.”
Hope swallowed the lump in her throat, then replied, “You too, Mom.”
Later that day, when Hope remembered the exchange, it seemed not like the apology her mother had intended, but like an awful, accidental curse.
CHAPTER 2
Hope licked her fork clean of honey, put her dishes in the sink, and picked up her red backpack. It held a textbook in advanced calculus, a thick paperback copy of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Flaubert’s Madame Bovary in French, four books on computer science from the school library, and the May issues of Sassy, Sports Illustrated, and Motor Trend. In her sophomore year, while fretting with a tampon in a girls’ room stall, Hope had heard potentially disastrous chatter about the “class brain” who “studies all the time” and “even reads stuff she doesn’t have to.” It didn’t take long for Hope to figure out who the “class brain” was. She had asked April how to combat—or at least control—the social damage. April had advised, “Why don’t you have a magazine or two sticking out of your junk? It won’t make you dumber, it might help your image, and you might learn something new.”
Now, locking the door and leaving the house, Hope made sure the top of the magazines protruded from her backpack. Maybe Jess Gardner would notice and say something, stop a minute and talk to her. Hope knew he liked Sports Illustrated, Motor Trend, and National Lampoon. Hope knew just about all there was to know about Jess Gardner, in fact, except what it would be like to date him. And, now that Lacey Pinkerton had dropped Jess …
Nope, never happen, mourned Hope. Swimming champ Jess, with his thick reddish-blond hair and denim-blue eyes, was way out of reach. Even if April had said she’d heard he didn’t have a date for the Peach Blossom Ball yet. Still, Hope could always make him smile. She remembered the other day in the cafeteria, when she’d joked about the “mystery-meat” loaf, saying the only mystery was why anyone would want to eat it, and Jess had laughed, throwing back his head, his eyes sparkling. She’d felt so great right then, as if she really might stand a chance.
But now, walking up DeSoto Drive toward Old Town Road, Hope gloomily pondered the subtle distinctions between being “well-liked,” “popular,” and “date bait.” Did you just get horn into one of those categories and stay there all your life? Or was it possible, with a little plotting and effort, to move from one plateau to another? She’d heard a thousand times how “intelligent” she was, how “well adjusted,” how “easy to get along with.” Certainly, those weren’t bad qualities, although not as socially valuable as “pretty” or “beautiful” or “hot.” Kiki De Santis was pretty, Raven Cruz was beautiful, and Lacey Pinkerton was definitely hot. Hope Hubbard was … well, Hope Hubbard.
Something else, too. “She’s a computer whiz,” Hope had overheard Principal Appleby telling Mr. Woolery, the hunky art teacher. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised to read about Hope someday in the business pages of the Sacramento Bee.”
Hope used to consider her computer skills maybe just a little above average. She’d enjoyed using the Commodore in her room at home, as well as playing with the more sophisticated Macintoshes at school. But now things were beginning to get really interesting. Remembering her new computer “game,” Hope felt her spirits rise. All week long she had been using her skills to track bets on the Peach Blossom Queen competition. She kept a record of all bets and calculated the changing odds on her Commodore. In her locker at school, tightly rolled inside a tennis-ball container, was a computer printout with all the final data on it. Her mother wasn’t a snooper, but Hope didn’t want that stuff lying around the house. Hope began to wonder if she might not have some criminal tendencies: after all, she was a bookie!
This morning the sky was cloudless and brilliantly blue, and the May sun was comfortably warm. The air was perfumed with the blossoms of a hundred thousand peach trees in the orchards all around town and the faint, acrid tang of the native scrublands west of town—land untouched since the last glaciers had receded. Hope frowned as she remembered that if Lacey’s father, Calvin Pinkerton, got his way there would soon be a huge shopping mall on the scrublands. Cal Pinkerton owned Pinkerton Canneries—Paradiso’s only industry—and he owned half the town as well, it sometimes seemed. Now he was after the scrublands. All that natural beauty, not to mention quite a few animals, would be gone forever. Hope felt herself getting angry. And she knew she wasn’t the only one. There was a lot of controversy about the mall, and Raven Cruz, one of the four prospective Pretty Peggy Sues, had organized the local opposition. All right, Raven! Hope thought.
Hope really admired Raven’s fiery, fighting spirit, but the odds against her winning the Peach Blossom crown were three to one. There was very little that any of the contestants could do to improve their chances. The four finalists had been chosen through an official ballot of students, printed in the Grapevine, Paradiso High’s student newspaper. But the final choice would be made by a committee composed of the four senior class officers, three teachers—including Mr. Woolery, the dreamboat art instructor—two ancient fuddy-duddies from the school board, and Principal Appleby. What made everything so dicey, including Hope’s computer calculations, was that the committee didn’t have to choose the prettiest girl (Lacey), or the most intelligent (Raven), or the nicest (Kiki), or the most talented (which everybody agreed was April). The committee could choose any one of the four girls, depending on how they felt when they met to decide.
Hope turned onto Old Town Road and shifted her backpack to her other shoulder. She’d heard a rumor yesterday afternoon, while looking around school for April, that the selection committee was going to meet at Principal Appleby’s house last night. If it was true, there were at least ten people in Paradiso this morning who knew the identity of Pretty Peggy Sue. Formal announcement of the Peach Blossom Queen selection was always made at an all-school assembly, just before Friday’s classes ended. Hope had decided that she wasn’t going to wait until three o’clock to find out who had won. Curiosity nibbled at her insides. There had to be a way to get the jump on everyone else. Who among the selection committee members would be most likely to blab?
