When it’s Nell’s turn, I squeeze the edge of the riser until I realize that Libby’s probably doing the exact same thing in the stands right now, and force myself to sit back and take a breath. Nell’s standing at center stage now. The judge asks, “If you could change one of your physical characteristics, which would it be?”
She takes maybe two seconds before answering. “I wouldn’t change anything. I think what some people call flaws are what make us special, and beautiful. The trick is to learn how to bring those features out, not try to cover them up.”
The applause is big. Really big. The judges thank her and off she goes.
The girls standing between me and my moment in the spotlight are disappearing fast, and none of them get applause like Nell did. I watch them dwindle down to three, then one, then none.
By the time I’m crossing the stage, filling my lungs is like blowing into a couple sandwich bags with holes poked through them. I stop where I’m supposed to, keeping my gaze on the mic as I stand there, pinned by hundreds of eyes.
“Darcy Prentiss, age seventeen, from Sasanoa,” the emcee says. People clap just like they have for everybody else.
In the silence that follows, I wait for Shea to yell something nasty from wherever he is. Nobody speaks. There’s a rustling of papers as the judges, who sit at a long table hung with bunting, shuffle their sheets of questions.
A paunchy old guy dressed in a light-colored suit and a loud tie clears his throat and says into his mic, “Miss Prentiss, in your opinion, what are the benefits of growing up in a small community?”
My silence is total. I may as well have never spoken before in my life, and never will. Time grinds down like a bare knee over gravel, and every twitch and tic of the judges’ faces are magnified times ten as I try to produce a single half-bright thought.
“I don’t really like living in a small town.” Somebody’s finally talking. I guess it’s me. “Maybe when I’m old I’ll look back and think it was great, but right now, I guess I’d like to know what it’s like to go to school with different kinds of kids. People who do and say and wear different things. And I’d like to know what it’s like not to have everybody know everybody else’s business all the time.” I’m rolling now; there’s no stopping this, for better or worse. “We’re lucky not to have to worry about being shot in the street and stuff like that, though. And it’s nice to be able to walk from school to the Quick Stop for lunch.”
I run out of positives and stand there, sweat popping out all over me, my legs trembling down into my sandals. For the first time, you can hear the fair sounds again, screams from the rides and crazy music.
One of the judges stops gaping long enough to thank me, and I go back to my riser.
The rest of the girls and I who didn’t make it to the next round are flagged down and ushered out the stage door during a ten-minute intermission by Mrs. Hartwell, who’s still smiling and telling every disappointed, crying girl what a good job she did, how nicely she held herself out there. “Darcy,” she says. She takes in my big relieved grin and laughs, shaking her head. “You were truthful. I’ll give you that.”
I feel awesome, all light and bouncy. I could eat about fifty corn dogs, wash them down with two gallons of Moxie, and ride the Zipper until they shut off the midway lights. I’m off that godforsaken stage, and Nell was chosen for the next round.
Bella and Alexis made it, too, and along with a couple other girls, but I’m not worried. Nobody can beat Nell tonight. There’s something special about her in that lily-white dress, something glam and so-not-Sasanoa. She’s taking that crown home and we’re going to nail it to the roof to show who’s got class.
Some of the girls leave right away, which, judging by Mrs. Hartwell’s expression, is a sore-loser thing to do, but the rest of us go stand by the fence along the grandstand to watch. I can’t see Mom or Mags, but they’re probably up toward the top of the bleachers so Libby can take pictures.
When the lights come back up, Nell and the four other girls who are left sit in a row on the bottom riser closest to the judges. Somebody’s brought out a fancy throne with red velvet cushions, which is where is the Queen sits for photo ops.
The judges start calling them up for questions one by one like before, but these questions are hard: How does social media affect young women’s body images? How can schools encourage girls to foster a lifelong interest in science and math?
When Nell’s standing back in the spotlight, they ask her, “Who is your role model, and why?”
She wasn’t ready for it. Neither was I. I have no idea what she’s going to say. After what feels like a long, long time: “Rita Hayworth.” She pauses, leans down to the mic. “She’s an actress. From the forties.”
One of the judges leans forward. “And why?”
Nell thinks. “Because she always knew what to do with her hair.” She shows us exactly what she means, doing the head toss we saw Rita Hayworth do in Gilda at the drive-in this June. The crowd erupts, hooting and whistling so loud that the judges have to wait a couple minutes so their “thank you” can be heard. I laugh my butt off. So maybe she didn’t sound brainy like Alexis or Bella. She still brought the house down.
When the Q and A is finally done, the emcee tells us that the judges will now confer, and starts thanking all the sponsors. I shift from foot to foot and finally kick my sandals off, squeezing my hands together as I wait.
It takes nearly twenty minutes, but eventually the results are taken over to the emcee. “Without further ado, the title of Miss Congeniality goes to”—big pause—“Eleanor Michaud!”
I scream. Nell screams. The dance music cranks up, and she runs out to the meet one of the judges, the old guy in the suit, who gives her a bouquet of white, pink, and yellow roses. He slides a satin sash trimmed with glitter over her head that says Miss Congeniality on it, and awkwardly sets a little tiara on her head, so as not to mess up her hair. So she didn’t win Queen—it’s a bummer, but she’s still shining up there.
Cameras are flashing everywhere. Nell’s crying. Behind my hands, two tears roll down my cheeks before I can wipe them away.
When the applause dies down, Nell’s sent to stand beside the throne while second runner-up is announced. Alexis. I’ll give her credit for looking honestly shocked as she rushes out to get her sash and tiara.
Drumroll time. If it’s Bella, I’ll eat my pantyhose.
“And this year’s Bay Festival Queen is . . . Rachel Pelletier!”