“Sorry,” she says to us. Mom waves a hand. “It’s just that . . . we got rehearsal.” She looks at me. “What’re you gonna do?”
A blue velour curtain hangs on the stage, and some volunteers staple bunting to the facade and grandstand as Nell and I walk up the steps. I was too sore to put on makeup before we left, so I wore my pink Red Sox cap, pulling it low. The stares are almost enough to turn me around; Bella grabs Alexis and they smother shocked giggles. Nell’s grip on my arm is the only thing that keeps me from going after them like I was smashing pumpkins on Halloween. Still holding tight, Nell walks me up to Mrs. Hartwell and says, “My cousin got hurt at work today, but she still wants to rehearse. Is that okay?”
Mrs. Hartwell blinks quickly. “Well—of course. Goodness, you poor thing. What in the world kind of work were you doing?”
“Blueberry raking,” I say, and leave it at that.
Mrs. Hartwell puts us through our paces, having a great time stepping and clapping along and getting her whole body into it. The Festival’s coming together around us, and it makes me feel like I’ve swallowed a handful of tadpoles. Three days until the coronation. Three days. I’m going to have to get up here in front of everyone, and pretend I belong, all the while looking like I used my face to stop a Mack truck. The aspirin’s faded and my head throbs dully with every step I take, every thump of the sound system.
Once we’re all seated on the risers with our legs crossed, Mrs. Hartwell says, “At this point, you’ll be called by name to the microphone center stage, where you’ll be introduced to the audience by the emcee. The judges will ask you the question they’ve prepared for you. Now, there’s no reason to agonize over the interview. You’re all experts on yourselves, right? If you receive high marks for your answer, you’ll move on to the final round, where you’ll be interviewed again. The judges will confer, and then announce Miss Congeniality, second runner-up, and the Queen.” A guy drives a tractor around the stage, raking the dirt track smooth for Saturday. In the distance, a white tent rises like a huge mushroom cap.
One girl raises her hand. “How many of us will make it to the final round?”
“Anywhere from three to seven. But there was one time that ten girls qualified, and we were all here until the wee hours.” Mrs. Hartwell’s gaze lingers on each of our faces like we’re something special. “I won’t be seeing you all again before Saturday, but you have my number and email, and I want you to contact me about anything at all. Even if you just need somebody to talk you off a ledge.” She laughs, even though that doesn’t sound too far-fetched to me. “Now, I’m going to start calling your names one by one, and we’ll practice interview entrances and exits.”
When it’s time to go, I wait for Nell as her riser empties out, hugging myself, wishing I’d brought a sweatshirt now that it’s getting cooler at night.
Mrs. Hartwell’s voice makes me look over. “It’s really not so bad.” She gathers her purse, bottled water, and clipboard, then touches her cheek. “Your face. The bruises won’t be gone by Saturday, but good makeup can take care of that. Green cover-up. Apply it with a sponge under liquid foundation. Works wonders for reducing discoloration.”
I put my hands in my pockets, then think of Mason, and pull them out. “I was thinking . . . maybe I should skip.” She stops what she’s doing. “I mean, I’ll look like a prize jackass with my face like this.”
She stands, big purse under her arm. Her powder-blue shadow makes her eyes intense. “Do you want me to talk you out of it, or talk you into it?” I hesitate. “I get the feeling you’ve needed a lot of talking-into since this process started.” She nods at Nell coming down the steps. “Like maybe you’re here for somebody else?” She’s got me; I don’t try to cover. “Well, I’ll tell you what I know. You’re no quitter. If you were, you never would’ve come here tonight, looking like you do. I know how tongues wag. That took guts.” She smiles, tugging her cardigan together. “Think you can finish what you started?”
It’s a thought, looking at this like a challenge, not a chore. Almost like making it onto the board in the barrens. After a second, I nod. “Okay. I won’t bail.” I take a few steps back, then say, “What was it like, when you won?”
It takes her a second to get my meaning. Then she laughs. “Oh, hon, I was never Festival Queen. I was never even a Princess.” You could knock me over with a tiara. “I wasn’t . . . well, let’s just say I wasn’t the type of girl who gets chosen for things like this. I was quite a bit heavier in high school, and so shy.” She laughs again. “Scared of my own shadow. I couldn’t have gotten up in front of all those people, even if I’d had the chance.”
“Then why do you do this?” I can think of about a hundred things I’d rather do with my August than spend it herding a bunch of teenage girls around.
“Because I enjoy it. My sister Gwen was Queen back in 1989. She passed away about fifteen years ago. I guess I like to stay involved because it reminds me of her, and how we were that summer.” She gives a soft laugh. “Young.”
“I’m sorry.”
She can tell I mean it, that I get how it feels when you talk about somebody you loved who died. “Thank you. But it’s nice to say her name out loud once in a while. Way too much time goes by without me saying it, I think.” She touches my shoulder. “Go on home and get some beauty sleep.”
TWENTY
WE’RE ON THE roof, the three of us, wearing jeans for the first time in months and sharing the last Coke from the fridge. The phone rings downstairs. None of us move.
Mags pokes me with her toe. “You know it’s for you.”
I grunt. After bringing Nell and me home, Libby handed me my phone messages, her face stony as Mount Katahdin. Jesse called three times while I was gone. And there was one hang-up, too, which must be my fault, apparently.
“Why don’t you want to talk to him?” Nell sits up on her elbow, her hair sliding over her shoulder.
“I just don’t.”
“But he defended your honor.” Mags and I snort. “Well, he did.” Nell sits forward, hugging her knees, wearing that look she gets whenever she drifts into one of her big-screen fantasies. “He came to your rescue, like a knight or Gregory Peck or somebody.”
I gulp the rest of the Coke without thinking. Mags sets the can on the windowsill, annoyed. “He got into it with Shea because it’s been a long time coming, that’s what I think.” It sure as hell wasn’t because he loves me; he made that pretty clear. I picture Jesse playing with his phone, waiting for me to call; why, I don’t know. I wonder what his bedroom looks like at his uncle’s place. I’m guessing medium-messy, a couple centerfolds on the wall. And books. I get the feeling he reads.
Mags takes her glasses off and rubs her face. “Darcy doesn’t need a knight, but if she did, I think she could do better than Jesse Bouchard.”
That reminds me of what she told me in the dressing room of Lehman’s. I turn to her. “He must’ve at least asked you, right?”