“Hold up.” Mom comes out of the kitchen with a small white box. My heart ratchets up that much more, because this is as close to misty as Mom ever gets, that quiet smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes.
It’s a corsage from Weaver’s, a white rose and baby’s breath. I can’t think what to say as Mom slides the elastic over my wrist. “We got you both white because Nell wouldn’t tell us what color her dress is.” She steps back and sighs, looking me over. “Well. You know we’ll be out there tonight.” She gives my chin a quick snip between thumb and forefinger like she used to when I was kid, then pecks my forehead. “Love ya.” I close my eyes a second, and then she moves away, going to get the camera while Mags holds the back door open for me so we can meet Nell.
We wait in the yard, me fidgeting with my wrap, twisting from side to side, my heels digging divots in the grass. Finally, Libby comes out of the trailer. She’s crying a little.
Nell steps out from behind her, and none of us can speak. Turns out the corsage will go perfectly, because her dress is pure white organza with one ruffled strap, the bodice fitted to the waist. The skirt is layer after layer of ruffles, belling out and nearly hiding her open-toed heels. I’ve never seen her wear her hair like that, side-swept and pinned in place with a rhinestone comb that matches her earrings. Her makeup is intense, smoky eyes and deep red lipstick with a high gloss. She looks like she stepped right out of old Hollywood. I’ve never met this woman. She sure isn’t my cousin Nell.
“Well,” I hear someone say behind me, and I turn to see Hunt standing beside Mom. He looks at Nell, tries to find something more to say, then takes off his old ball cap instead.
That opens the floodgates, and we’re all telling her how beautiful she is, how she doesn’t even look like herself, and Libby keeps on crying as she smiles. Nell says to me, “Told you it was the one,” smoothing her hand over her dress.
“You were right,” is all I can say back.
They take a million pictures of us together, standing side by side, the mermaid and the starlet.
TWENTY-THREE
THE FAIRGROUNDS FLASH neon. The Ferris wheel’s studded with a thousand bulbs. The Thunderbolt cranks techno as the cars slam forward and back. Shrieking and laughter are everywhere. The air’s thick with the smells of hot grease, fried dough, cotton candy, and manure.
I wish this was any other summer. I’d be waiting in line at the Zipper, eating a corn dog and checking out the guys from Bucksport and Ellsworth while Mags tells me to put my eyes back in my head. Any other year, my biggest worry would be where the party’s at tonight and how much beer they’ll have.
This year, I’m standing backstage at the pavilion with fourteen other girls in gowns and heels, everybody whispering and giggling half-hysterically and checking their makeup in compact mirrors. I’m holding Nell’s forearm with both hands, too freaked to even talk about how freaked I am.
She smiles. It’s weird to see flashes of our Nell through that sophisticated stranger’s face. “Don’t look so worried,” she whispers. “We’ll be okay. We’ve been practicing our butts off, right?”
Everybody stared at her when we got here, and the stares had nothing in common with how they’d looked at me in my ball cap and raccoon eyes on Wednesday. Maybe Nell Michaud the special ed kid isn’t so funny anymore. Maybe she stands a chance in this. Her style is totally different from everyone else’s; most girls wear pastels and the shellacked updos they specialize in at Great Lengths. It was pretty sweet to see Bella, all decked out in a glittery peach dress slit halfway up her butt crack, gape for a good ten seconds before she remembered to pick her jaw up off the floor.
Mrs. Hartwell comes in and holds up her hands for quiet. “Showtime, girls. Best of luck to you all. Remember, the judges are watching for smiles and energy, so let’s keep it up, up, up. Head over to your wings. I’ll be rooting for you.” She gives us a big thumbs-up and takes her place at the edge of the curtain.
Nell has to pry her arm out of my grip, giving a little wave as she leaves me for stage left.
You can hear them out there, a crowd of a couple hundred people all shifting and talking and eating fair food at once, sounding like one giant monster with its tentacles coiled through the grandstand, waiting for its annual Bay Festival sacrifice of girl meat. I try to remember that Mom and Mags are out there, and lots of people from school, too, like Kat. And maybe Jesse. Maybe Shea.
Mrs. Hartwell hauls on the pulley, and the curtain opens with a clatter. My eyes fill with spotlight. My breath is gone, my brain wiped of anything but light.
Dance music blasts from the sound system. The first girl in our line walks out onto the stage, smiling and doing exactly what we rehearsed. The crowd cheers. One by one, the girls climb the risers to hit their mark. I’m next, but I can’t move. The girl behind me shoves my shoulder. Please God, get me to the fifth riser.
I don’t know what pulls me up there, but then next thing I know, I’m in my place. I didn’t freeze, I didn’t fall. My first real thought is Nell, but she’s exactly where she should be, smiling straight into those lights, all charcoal hair and white organza and red, red lips. I straighten my back, angling myself out like I’m supposed to, and force my head up. It’s dusk now, and the bulbs studding the grandstand turn everything into glare and shadow. You can’t see any faces in the crowd.
“Welcome to the forty-third annual Bay Festival Queen Coronation,” says the emcee into his mic. Applause. “Our judges this evening are Alden Mercer of Mercer’s Appliance and Repair, Cathy Browning of Riverview Realty . . .”
We sit with our legs crossed as the intros finish and the Q-and-A segment begins. The judges work from the bottom riser on the opposite side to the top riser on ours, so I get to sit and watch most of the other girls go first. The cold sweats have dried, but now my stomach is nauseous and tight. Nobody’s ever gotten a crown after barfing on their shoes in front of most of Hancock County, I don’t think.
The questions are kind of dumb—“What makes you blush?”; “What do you think is the most interesting facet of your personality?”—but Bella gets nailed with, “What advice would you give the next generation of girls on navigating high school?” She hesitates for a second, then delivers this incredible load of crap about high school being a “stepping-stone to the rest of your life” and how important it is to balance academics with extracurriculars. This from the captain of the basketball team who bullies most freshmen into quitting within the first two weeks.