All the pageant season diets my mom and I have done flip through my head like index cards. Protein bars in fourth grade. Weight Watchers in fifth. Salads in second. And none of it ever worked.
She wins. My mom wins. I didn’t even know this was some kind of competition with her until this moment. But I’m losing. I have no dress. Barely any talent. And an escort whose heart I’m breaking without him even knowing it.
If I do this pageant, I’ll make a point—that’s for sure. It just won’t be one I want to be remembered for.
FIFTY-TWO
Sitting in the break room later that night, I use a compact mirror to examine the green ring around my neck in the reflection. I snap the mirror shut like a clam, and take the fake gold necklace off and lay it out on the table. The gold chain is that twisty type of chain they sell at mall kiosks, and the charm says Dolly in a bubbly cursive script.
I ended up fitting as much of Lucy’s stuff as I could in my closet. I tried my best to get all her Dolly collectibles, including a pair of glitter-encrusted shoes Dolly wore to a show in Vegas. The soles are signed in her big loopy signature, proving their authenticity.
Bo plops down in the chair next to me. “What’s that?”
I drag the chain around with my index finger so that he can see it. “It was my aunt’s.”
He nods.
“My mom’s cleaning out her room. Again. It’s happened in small spurts in the last few months. But I think she’s serious this time.”
“I’m sorry.” He drags his finger along the chain. “When my mom was dying, she kinda cleaned out her room for us. Like, as soon as she found it was bad, she started inviting people over and no one ever left empty-handed. By the time she was gone, all that was left were a few nightgowns and some shoes.” He concentrates on the necklace, his jaw twitching. “I was kind of mad at her for doing that. But I don’t think I could have done it myself anyway. If it’d been up to my dad, we’d still be using her perfume as air freshener.”
Bo watches me for a moment before yanking on the leg of my chair and pulling me closer to him. He wraps his arm around me and I ease into his frame. My breathing hitches a little, but that voice in my head that begs me not to let him touch me is nothing more than a murmur. His lips press against my hair, sending calming vibrations through me.
“Am I interrupting something?” Mitch stands in the doorway with a brown grocery bag clenched in his fist.
I pick my head up so quickly that I hit Bo’s jaw. “I’m sorry,” I say, but to which of them I’m not sure. Panic sinks all the way down to my toes, holding me in place. “Hi,” I say to Mitch. “Hey. What are you doing here?”
Bo stands, rubbing the spot where my head collided with his. “I better get back to work.” His voice is rigid.
The tension between them buzzes like an electric fence.
Mitch doesn’t move out of his way, so Bo squeezes past him. He watches Bo go before stepping through the doorway. “The guy at the front told me you were back here.” He drops the bag on the table, and whatever’s inside rattles for a second. “I got you some magic supplies. For your talent.”
I try too hard to keep my voice light. “Sit down.”
He doesn’t. “Who was that guy?”
“Bo. We work together.”
His two brows crinkle into one. “Do you like him?”
“What? We were talking, Mitch.” I sound defensive because I am. So we kissed once. We hold hands sometimes. That doesn’t make us anything. And yet maybe it does. It’s not like he caught me making out with Bo or in a state of undress, but I feel just as guilty.
“Do you?” he asks again.
I tuck my hair behind my ears and take a long moment before I answer. “I do.”
He shakes his head and pulls down on the bill of his baseball cap. “Good luck with the pageant, Will.” He turns on his heel and exits through the nearest door, which happens to be the employee exit.
My heart aches from losing one of my precious few friends, knowing all too well that if this is anyone’s fault it’s mine.