What Libby doesn’t know is that getting out of Sasanoa would be the best thing for Nell. Never mind that she’s almost nineteen, going into her senior year like me because she had to repeat first grade. The bad stuff has already gotten to Nell, the stuff that Libby thinks only happens out there—anywhere that isn’t in spitting distance of her doorstep. Nell and I, we’ve got secrets even Mags doesn’t know. The sooner Nell learns to stand on her own, the better, because I won’t be hanging around Sasanoa forever, playing guardian angel. Don’t ask me what I’ll be doing, but I won’t be doing it here.
Libby lets us out at the hall. “I’ll be parked right over here when you get out, Nellie.” Libby and I don’t say good-bye to each other; I’m not exactly sure when we stopped talking. Maybe it was when I figured out that she was talking trash about me behind my back, repeating town gossip to Mom and painting me as the black sheep. Or maybe it was when I started picking up on all her little put-downs and snipes that Mom doesn’t even seem to notice. Libby doesn’t try it with Mags. Just me.
There’s a paper sign taped to the door saying that the Bay Festival Princess Welcome Meeting is in the main hall, so we go in. It’s shadowy inside and smells like floor wax, old carpeting, and dusty radiators. Takes me back to all the holiday concerts we put on here in elementary school, roasting alive in ruffled dresses and sweater tights.
The main hall is full. I count fifteen girls, most of them from Sasanoa, most of them sitting with their moms. Even though I went out of my way to dress lazy—holey jeans, halter top, wedge flip-flops—I knot up inside when their eyes find me. Alexis Johnson’s mouth falls open, and she whispers to Bella Peront, who, shocker, also got nominated. Bella: living proof that beauty doesn’t come from within. She was voted Homecoming Queen last fall, which isn’t even supposed to happen. A senior always wins, since it’s their last year and everything. When Bella and I make eye contact, all the anger I felt January of sophomore year comes rushing back, making me strong, and I stare at her until she wrinkles her nose and turns away with a swish of her flat-ironed hair.
In study hall sophomore year, I overheard Bella making fun of Nell for taking special classes with Mrs. Hanscom and Mr. Ellis in the resource room, so I lit into her with a three-subject notebook. Nell does the same work as everybody else, but she needs more time and help understanding the directions. That notebook was the closest thing handy, but the spiral binding scratched Bella’s cheek and earned me a three-day vacation from Sasanoa Area High School. Mom didn’t even want to hear why I did it. She made me clean the house from attic to laundry room and shovel paths to the shed and back steps so Hunt wouldn’t have to do it. Then it snowed again and he came over on Sunday and did it anyway, which figures.
As far as Nell’s concerned, the only important people in the room are us and the lady running things. “Hi,” Nell says, giving her a thousand-watt smile, and pulls me into a seat next to her.
“Okay. We can probably get started now,” the lady says, shuffling her armload of photocopied packets. Guess they were waiting on us. She’s short and round and fortyish, with a fluffy sprayed hairdo straight from the Great Lengths salon on Main Street. She wears full makeup, and pinned to her short-sleeved cardigan is a button from last year’s festival with the slogan A Real Maine Agricultural Fair! 50 Years and Counting. “For anybody who doesn’t know, I’m Melissa Hartwell, treasurer of the Bay Festival Committee. Now, the competition for Queen is very dear to me, and I’m so glad to meet all of you ladies and be here to answer any questions you might have.” Bella’s already got her hand up. “Yes?”
Bella folds her arms. “I heard that if the committee doesn’t like your dress, you have to buy a new one.”
I say in Nell’s ear, “How is that a question?” She grins and puts a finger to her lips.
“We-e-ll, it’s more like they might ask you to tone down your look a little.” Mrs. Hartwell’s voice perks up. “This is a family event, after all. You don’t want to be flashing cleavage at your grandmothers. And you’ll each need to find a local business to sponsor you for the pageant. They’ll be the ones supplying the funds to buy your dress and flowers. There’s more information on that in the packet. Now, we want to include a photo and a short bio of each of you in the Festival brochure, so people know who’s in the running. Email me those by Wednesday, please, and we’ll get them off to the printer’s.”
A bio? Darcy Celeste Prentiss. Lives in the ass-end of nowhere. Rakes berries. Flunks algebra. The end.
Mrs. Hartwell goes on to tell us that rehearsals for the Queen’s coronation, which happens on the first night of the festival, will start Wednesday evening. At least it sounds like we just have to walk onstage, stand there, and answer a few questions from the panel of judges; nobody expects me to flip batons or make up a dance routine or anything.
“So, I brought this along today as a little treat.” She picks up a white box that looks like the kind pastries come in. “Most people never get this close, but I think it really says something that you’ve been nominated as Princesses. Your town chose you. Remember that.” She opens the lid and folds back tissue paper to bring out a crown.
It’s actually sort of beautiful. Made of some kind of thin metal, it’s all twisted and swirled, set with glass stones ranging from sky-blue to jade-green. Nell grabs my hand and squeezes tight.
The drive-in screen finally flickers to life, and I whoop, honking the horn along with a dozen other yahoos. Mags pushes my hand away. “Easy, killer.”
The Sasanoa Drive-In is like most Maine outdoor theaters, a clearing in the woods with mounds for cars to drive up onto. They tore out the speaker posts a long time ago, and now you listen to the movie by tuning to 89.3 FM on your radio, starting your engine every now and then to keep the car battery from dying. Some of the migrants are here with their kids, watching them run around and throw Frisbees and holler. Whole families roll into Sasanoa in July for the harvest, driving RVs and rusted-out vans from as far away as California or Florida; I’ve seen a kid no more than four years old working right next to his dad with a child-size rake, until the sun got to be too much for him.
I reach back through the seats. “Moxie.”
Nell digs around. She’s got blankets, pillows, popcorn, and enough soda to guarantee that we’ll spend half the night making bathroom trips. Everybody except her is here to see the second movie, some new action flick, so people are out of their cars, leaning in friends’ windows or walking to the snack shack during the first show, some classic called East of Eden.
The word Overture appears on the screen across a shot of waves crashing on rocks, and people boo. I prop my feet on the dashboard, ready for boredom—but you know what? The movie’s actually good. It’s about a boy named Cal (Mags says the blond guy playing him is James Dean), whose mom took off and left him and whose dad is super strict and thinks Cal is no good. His brother Aron is the favorite, and he has a girlfriend named Abra, who Cal wants really bad. At one point, I reach back for popcorn and see Nell hugging her pillow, eyes wide, drinking in every detail on the screen.