Nell screams again and pulls me into a hug that makes my spine pop, jerking me up and down. Meanwhile, my darling sister gasps and takes her glasses off to wipe her eyes. “Oh my God . . . wow . . .”
For supper, we eat spaghetti and a pound cake Mom’s been hiding in the freezer behind last summer’s zucchini. I stab my fork into my plate harder than I need to, refusing to look at anyone, waiting for the world to come back into focus. Every time Nell shakes my arm and says, “Isn’t it awesome? We get to do it together!” Libby adds something like, “Lots of girls make the first round, you know,” or “Winning Queen is about more than just looks,” until I spill my iced tea accidentally-on-purpose to give her something else to bitch about.
I look at Mom as Libby fusses with paper towels. “Can I go?”
Mom waves her hand. I go upstairs, touching the framed picture of Dad hanging on the wall above the newel post; there could be bombs dropping on the house and I’d still remember to do that every night. In the picture, I’m two years old and Mags is three and a half. He’s holding us in each arm like we weigh nothing, a grin on his face, leaning back against whatever hot rod he was tinkering with at the time.
The night air is thick, still waiting for the rain that’s been promised since this afternoon. Mags, Nell, and I sit where the roof flattens outside Mags’s bedroom window. We have to be careful because the shingles are crumbling, like the rest of the house. If we knock chunks down onto the porch, we could wake up Mom. Nobody knows we come out here at night, and we like it that way.
“You know what got you the vote.” Mags grins at me. “Those Daisy Dukes of yours. They scream Sasanoa’s Finest.” She leans back against her window. “I can see you up onstage now. Tiara, sash, and a bottle of Colt 45.”
I tug at my cutoffs. “They’re not Daisy Dukes. If the hem’s longer than the pockets, they’re not Daisy Dukes.”
“That’s the rule, huh?”
I want to whomp the hell out of her, but ever since we were kids, we’ve tried to go easy on each other when Nell’s around; she hates fighting. Nell holds her second piece of pound cake in a napkin and picks at it, watching me close. “Are you mad about the pageant?” The way she sounds, you’d think I wanted to cancel Christmas.
How can I explain to her that this is somebody’s screwed-up idea of a joke? Darcy Prentiss, White Trash Princess. Whoever they are, they must be laughing their asses off. I just don’t know who’d go to all this trouble. I’ve heard Libby say plenty of times that to make it onto the ballot, it takes one nomination from somebody in the community and then a Festival Committee member to second it. She nominated Nell herself. Doesn’t matter; no way am I making a fool of myself up on that stage come August 19.
“She’s just trying to decide what color corsage to wear, that’s all,” Mags says, patting Nell’s knee.
“Oh, Darcy, you can’t know that until you find your dress.”
I start to say something I’ll regret, but then the rain comes down, taking our breath away. Nell scrambles for the edge of the roof, feeling for the living room window casing with her toes before using it as a step to drop into the flower bed. If Libby ever did any weeding—she grows the flowers, Mom grows the veggies—she’d find bare footprints sunk deep into the soil. Waving to us, Nell runs for the trailer, taking bites of cake as she goes.
“One of these days she’s going to Pollyanna herself right off this roof,” Mags says, once we’ve crawled back inside her dim bedroom.
“And land on her feet.” I wipe rain off my face. “Nell’s got luck like most people got zits.” I catch Mags studying me and stop. “What?”
“I didn’t forget about Shea.” She sits on her bed. “What happened between you two?”
I turn away, touching the ballerina jewelry box that she’s had as long as I can remember. The porcelain dancer’s arm is so thin I could snap it between my fingers. “Nothing special.”
“Was it him, on the Fourth? Was that why you were acting so weird that night?” She waits. “Really, Darcy? Shea Gaines?”
At once I’m so tired I can barely stand it. I point to the open window. “Rain’s getting in,” and leave her sitting there in the dark.
THREE
THE NEXT DAY is Saturday. I come downstairs around six a.m. to the sound of an ax thunking into the stump outside. I fix toast—nothing left but the heels, which Mom and Mags won’t touch; to me, it’s all bread—and look out the window to see Hunt Chapman splitting wood for us.
I step outside in the big T-shirt I wear to bed and call, “She’s not gonna like that.”
He stops, lowers the ax, and glances back at me. “Morning.” He stands the log on its end again and splits it in half, then tosses the stove lengths into the pile he’s been working on since probably five a.m. Hunt’s our landlord. He’s also one of Mom’s managers at E. F. Danforth & Son, the blueberry packaging plant in Blue Hill. Hunt’s a tall drink of water, broad-shouldered and not bad-looking for an old guy, if you like the silent type, which I usually don’t.
“I’ll tell her you’re here.” I find Mom already in the kitchen, knotting her robe around her waist as she peers through the curtains, her hair a little crazy. That robe is the only pretty thing she owns, a threadbare red silk kimono Dad gave her for her birthday a long time ago.
“What is he doing?” she says under her breath.
“Keeping us from freezing to death in August.”
She takes one look at me and gives me a stinging swat on the thigh. “Get upstairs and put on some pants.” I eat my toast instead, following her as far as the doorway. She goes out onto the porch and stands with her arms crossed. “Hunt Chapman, tell me you didn’t buy us firewood.”
He splits two pieces before he answers her, chewing over his thoughts like Big Chief tobacco. “Apple tree blew down in my north field last night. Wood’s dry enough. Shouldn’t smoke up on you too bad this fall.”
“Tell me what I owe you.” In the quiet, Mom jerks her chin. “Give me a figure, Hunt.”
He stops, taking a breath before bringing the ax down and twisting it out of the stump with a one-handed motion. “Just being neighborly.”
“You live halfway to Brewer.” Hunt seems to have run out of words, and Mom sighs, stepping back. “Let me fix you breakfast, at least. Coffee while you wait?”
He looks at her for the first time, with a hint of a smile. I think Hunt smiles mostly on the inside; it kind of warms up his features without changing them much. “That’d be fine, Sarah.” Sweat glistens along his hairline, where threads of gray are coming in with the chestnut brown.