“Mm-hmm. He seeded it.”
I haven’t been that far out back for a while, but I can picture it, a field of white, pink, and purple, shifting in the breeze. However things went down with his wife, Hunt couldn’t be too bitter if he planted those flowers where their life was supposed to happen. “What happened to his mom?”
“She got Alzheimer’s and ended up in a home,” Mom said, considering the tip of her cigarette. “Believe she’s dead now.”
As I dry our big salad bowl, I wander over to the front doorway and watch Mags and Nell play cards through the screen door. “Nellie,” I say, “what happened in the movie yesterday? I missed most of it.”
She claps her hand to her chest and flops back onto the floor. “Oh!”
“Nooo.” Mags holds her head, but it’s too late. Nell’s off.
She runs through the entire plot, backtracking a lot to fill in stuff she forgot to mention, doing impressions that get me laughing. Mags shoots me a dirty look. “Thanks. It’s all she’s talked about since we got home last night.”
“I don’t care. I loved it sooo much.” Nell’s cheeks flush. She’s dreaming about a Technicolor James Dean, all lit up and beautiful and bigger than life. “My favorite part was when Cal and Abra finally kiss on the Ferris wheel, right at the top”—she sighs—“and it was perfect. They have the whole town around them, but they’re still all alone. That’s how it should be.” She has her eyes closed, and at once I wish she’d stop talking, wish I’d never brought the subject up. She puts her hand to her chest like somebody moving in their sleep. “It’s best when nobody knows. When your love lives in your two hearts, and nobody else matters.”
Mags stares at her, then at me. I say, “Only in the movies, right, Nellie girl?”
She looks at me, eyes damp. “Uh-huh. Only in the movies.” She lies back, puts her hands behind her head, and starts to hum.
I didn’t really forget about sending a photo and a bio to Melissa Hartwell, but I pretend I did when Nell reminds me. I’ve actually been worrying about it ever since the welcome meeting. Once the booklets are out there, everybody will know. Darcy Prentiss is on the ballot? How the hell did that happen? I read through the Princess packet; Queen wins about $1,700 in scholarships, and second runner-up and Miss Congeniality get $100. I’ll be happy if I get out of this thing without a bucket of pig’s blood dumped on my head.
I have no idea what to say in my bio. I feel silly even writing it.
“How can I write a biography if I don’t have a life?” I push the laptop across Mags’s bedspread to Nell. “You think of something.”
She pushes it back. “It’s about you. I can’t write it.” She wrote hers in ten seconds. Easy; she’s been practicing her acceptance speech since the fourth grade. She also has the business she wants to sponsor her all picked out: Weaver’s Flowers & Gifts. “They sponsor a girl every year,” she said. “Plus everybody gets their bouquets there anyway, so it’ll be one-stop shopping.” I tried not to laugh at how matter-of-fact she sounded, paging through one of my Seventeens. “You should ask Hannaford. The twins work there, so you know somebody. That helps.”
“Give it to me.” Mags reads aloud as she types: “Darcy is an upcoming senior at Sasanoa Area High School. Her interests are . . .” She snaps her fingers at me. “Quick. Make something up. G-rated.”
I throw her stuffed rabbit at her. “I’m gonna gut Mr. Buns while you sleep.” I take the laptop back, feeling a brain cramp coming on as I stare at the blinking cursor in the email. Finally, I type Darcy plans to travel after graduation, then hurry downstairs to get the camera and put on some makeup before I can change my mind.
Don’t ask me where that came from, traveling. The farthest I’ve ever been was the Maine Mall in Portland back in seventh grade. I went with Rhiannon; her mom drove us and took us out for lunch. I remember Rhiannon and I bought necklaces at Claire’s, hemp chokers with little clay beads and half a heart charm each. Rhiannon got the one that said Best.
I know Nell and Mags must’ve read what I wrote, but they don’t tease me about it when I come back. “Stand here.” Mags guides Nell back against the paisley throw with a picture of Janis Joplin on it tacked to the wall.
All it takes is one click. We look at the preview and Nell is gorgeous. She never looks self-conscious in pictures, just beaming and natural and completely herself. One of her curls spirals off at an angle from her widow’s peak, but it looks right, somehow.
Next, I stand in the same spot. “You know, everybody else is going to use their senior pictures, I bet.” I run my hands through my hair and fluff it out, which is impossible since it grows straight as a stick. “Bella probably went to Trask Studios and ordered the princess package or something.”
“Darce.” Mags raises the camera. “Shut up.”
After five retakes, I can live with the last one. I look kind of tired, but not too bad, considering how the day started. I’m not smiling, but like Nell’s crazy curl, it looks right.
After Nell’s gone home to bed, I lie out on the roof, slowly turning the buttercups between my thumb and forefinger. I just fished them out of the pocket of my work shorts, so they’re a little crushed and wilted, but I think I might hang them from the curtain rod in my room and let them dry.
Mags crawls out, and we sit together, watching the lights blink on the Narrows bridge. Libby’s car turns into the driveway. We stay quiet as she gets out, grabs her big patchwork shoulder bag, and goes into the trailer. She’s got this self-righteous swish to her walk, head held high, like the world owes her because she got left at the altar (almost) by some dude none of us know anything about, least of all Nell. I say, “I yelled at her for eavesdropping on me and Mom this morning.” Mags laughs. “I’m just so sick of her.”
“I know.”
“Wish she’d get her own place and move out of here. Nell could stay with us.” I pause. “She hates me. Libby.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You sure? She’s been running her mouth to Mom behind my back, repeating stuff. I don’t even know how she finds half of it out.”
“All she has to do is ask Nell. You know she won’t lie.”
I let that one slide, swearing and crossing my legs at the ankle. “Nobody’s business what I’m doing.” I chew my lip, remembering Mom this morning. “Don’t you think it’s weird that Mom never talked to us about sex at all?”
“Probably would’ve been weirder if she had.”
“But isn’t that what a mom’s supposed to do? Tell her daughters about getting their periods and sex and everything?”
“Maybe on TV.”