“I think you’re bullshitting, yeah.”
When he turns around, he has a hunted look. “Don’t go around saying that.”
“Why not?” I keep my face hard. “You threw me under. Why shouldn’t I do it to you? Why shouldn’t I go right to the cops?” Bluffing, but he might not know that.
“Darcy, seriously. Just leave it alone.”
“What’s the deal, Kenyon? The truth. You owe me.”
He curses softly. He looks skinnier than usual, his Bob Marley T-shirt and skater jeans hanging off him. His jawline’s so sharp it almost looks delicate, the sun turning the fine blond stubble transparent. “I told you. She asked me to take her car.”
“You said you borrowed it.”
His voice is so quiet that I strain to catch his words. “She had to get away.”
I sink slowly onto my bed, hands curled in my lap. My room seems very still now in the afternoon quiet, almost like one of those shadow boxes we made in elementary school: tiny bed, tiny bureau, miniature people. Whatever I’m feeling, you can’t call it relief, exactly, but it’s heavy, stealing my strength and voice for a long time. When I finally speak again, it’s in a whisper. “From what?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what. She couldn’t tell me. Not wouldn’t, but like, couldn’t, you know. Like it hurt too much.” He shrugs and sniffs. “She was messed up bad that last year. We kind of talked around it a bunch of times, but the night of the party, she started crying. Saying she couldn’t stay here anymore.”
I try to fit the memory of the bubbly, smart-ass fifteen-year-old I knew into this frame. Doesn’t go, and I shake my head. “Because of her parents or something?”
“Kind of. She said they wouldn’t miss her ’cause they were too wrapped up in their own drama. That’s the reason she raked blueberries last year, so she could make some money of her own to bring with her. She didn’t want the car, didn’t want the cops putting out an APB and catching her. I told her I’d hide it at our camp until she got away.”
“She burned her bag on purpose.”
“She wanted to make it look like maybe she was dead. That way people would keep searching for her right here. Plus, I think she just didn’t want any of that stuff. Anything that made her who she was. Not her ID, nothing.” He looks down. “I didn’t really think about what would happen if I got caught with the car until I sobered up.”
I fold my arms. “She bother telling you where she was going? How she was getting there?”
He shakes his head slowly. “She promised to text me after, but she never did.” He meets my eyes. I see a guy who has had his heart carved out. “I don’t even know if she’s okay.”
I try to hold back, I really do. I don’t even breathe for what feels like a full minute. “Well, that’s awesome. She didn’t tell you anything so you couldn’t blow her big stupid plan, and now you’re on the hook for it, and you don’t even hate her. Christ, Kenyon, does she have to come back here and literally kick you in the balls to make you realize that she never cared about you? She never liked you, she used you, and now you’re gonna go to jail because of her.”
He doesn’t move, just keeps on watching me, his eyes steady, his mouth in that slanted line. “You can’t tell anybody.”
“Why not? She treated me like dog crap. I’m supposed to keep secrets for her?”
“She was right. You hold a grudge forever.” I stare. “She told me what you did with that guy in the parking lot. How you let him pop your cherry.” His mouth twitches. “Then you blamed her for it.”
“Because it was her fault. It was her idea. Then she went around telling everybody what a slut I was. She tell you that part?”
“Yeah.” It takes me a second to process what he said. “She wasn’t into it that night like she thought. So she got out of there. What’d you want her to do, jump him anyway?”
“No.” I hunch, going through all the dark, ugly baggage again, pulling stuff out and holding it up and remembering how bad it all makes me look. “If she hadn’t run her mouth.” My voice is thick. “She didn’t have to do that. We could’ve stayed friends.”
“She talked shit about you before you could do it to her. Typical sophomore. She thought it was her fault that you gave away something special. Like maybe if she’d never set it up that night, later you never would’ve”—I watch him mull over his words—“been with so many guys.”
I’ve got two words for both him and Rhiannon, and they ain’t Merry Christmas. “So she tried to fix it by making fun of me?”
“She never said it was smart.”
I put my head in my hands, working my fingers into my hair, my nails over my scalp, until it hurts. “You know where she is, don’t you? She told you.”
He shakes his head. “All she told me was she had a friend picking her up. Late, after everybody left the party. I don’t know who.” He lets out a breath. “She talked about killing herself that summer.”
That takes the wind out of me. We’re quiet. None of this makes sense. Sly-smiling sophomore-year Rhiannon, the version who knew how to dress all fringe with her messenger bag and Chuck Taylors, who hung out in the smoking woods with the stoners and under the bleachers, offing herself. I can’t picture it. But then, I didn’t really know that girl. “You gotta tell the cops.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t answer. “Don’t be stupid, Kenyon. The cops think you did something to her.”
He walks to the door and stares into the hallway, watching dust motes drift in sunlight. “We should let her go, Darce.”
The stairs creak as he goes down.
When I open my eyes the next morning, sunlight lies in four windowpanes across my bed. I listen to the sounds of Mom and Libby moving around downstairs, the toilet flushing.
The Bay Festival starts at ten thirty a.m., one hour from now. Over at the fairgrounds, they’ll be gassing up grills, hanging 4-H banners in the livestock stalls, counting out cash drawers. Only nine hours until Nell and I need to be at the pavilion for tonight’s coronation.
I take a deep breath, pull the sheet up over my head, and sink like I’m in quarry water.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Nell starts to sing.
“I can’t believe she’s going like that.”
Hours later, Libby’s voice carries upstairs to my open door. I roll nude pantyhose, slip my toes in.
“Not that I’m surprised you’re gonna let her. If she wanted to leave this house stark naked, you’d say okay.” Her voice drops to a hiss: “For God’s sake, she looks like she got beat up by a pimp.” Mom snorts and mutters something. “You think that’s funny?”
“I think you’re being ridiculous.”
“Wait and see if everybody isn’t saying the same thing tonight. She’s gonna be up onstage in front of the whole town, Sarah. This ain’t the kind of thing people forget. This story’s gonna follow her. You want that?”
I fasten my strapless bra. Nell did my makeup an hour ago before she went to get ready. My only slightly mangled face stares back at me in the mirror. I hear the thud of Hunt’s ladder against the side of the house as he shifts, spreading his brush across the clapboards.
“And let me tell you something else.” This I have to strain to hear: “I saw a boy come out of the house yesterday while you were working.”
I feel Mom’s hesitation. “Jesse Bouchard?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t one of Nell’s friends.” Another way of saying he’s trash.
I slide the mermaid dress, all sea foam and silver, over my head. I can almost see Mom situating herself around this news, filing it away for later. “They’re allowed to have friends over. No rules against boys.”
“Maybe there should be.”
I spray my hair, wrap a strand around my curling iron, rolling it so close to my scalp it burns. Libby makes a disgusted noise. “I’m gonna go check on Nellie.” Our back door will be lucky to stay on its hinges after what Libby’s put it through this summer.
I stump downstairs in Nell’s silver k
itten-heeled sandals. Mags leans in the kitchen doorway, eating an apple and acting like she wasn’t waiting for me. She checks me out head to toe. “Nice.”
I shrug, looking at myself, then back at her. My heartbeat’s like some crazy kid banging cymbals. “Curls too much?”
“Nah. Wait.” She comes over and smooths one ringlet back, which I figured she’d do. “There. You’re good, butthead.”
“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.
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. Peopl
e 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.”
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