Around us trumpets and tubas blared warm-up scales. Horse hooves clip-clopped on the pavement. At the corner where the parade route officially began, the crowd shuffled and murmured and laughed as they settled into the bleachers, looking like a rippling colorful patchwork quilt. The noon sun made everything feel sharp and too bright.
“Okay, my princesses and Queen,” Ms. Sparrow called out, “Group hug!” She waved us all around, her coppery hair tousled from the breeze and her cheeks flushed. The Court’s faces glowed with excitement, and their eyes glistened. Their perfume mixed with the sickly sweet smell of the flowers, making me feel a little ill.
“Places, everyone!” Ms. Sparrow called out. One of the Brown Suiters handed each of us a tiny radio earpiece so we’d be able to follow the parade announcer’s feed throughout the route. Two others began to help us board the float.
Jardine stiffened. “Where’s Trista?” she asked, refusing to take another step. “We can’t board without Trista!” She crossed her white-gloved arms over her chest. “My whole Court needs to be together.”
Kendra nodded. “We’re Festival family. We can’t just leave her!”
“I’m sorry, ladies. There’s no time,” Ms. Sparrow said, waving us toward the giant half clamshell we were supposed to stand in front of. “I’ve sent some folks to look for her. She’ll be along any second, I’m sure.” She cringed and lifted her shoulders apologetically. “But you know as well as I do how Trista felt about being paraded through the whole town in a dress today. We have to stay on schedule, no matter what. It’s our big day. Your big day.”
My insides turned to ice. Grace pressed her arm against mine. The image of Trista whirling, twirling, pouting, and strutting around the room in her blue dress had to be tumbling through her head too. I wasn’t sure if my heart was still beating at all. I definitely wasn’t breathing. Trista was in trouble.
Reluctantly, the Court let the Brown Suiters help them up to the float. The noise of the crowds and music faded behind the roar of panic filling my head. I looked down the gently sloping parade route, past the ragged bluffs, and fixed my eyes on the solid still blues of the water and sky, hoping the sight would calm me. My heart only beat faster.
Near the line of TV cameras under the announcer’s booth I spotted Mr. Zimball taking his place next to Harrison Lee in the parade’s lead car, an old Model T. They sat with one of Grandpa Young’s friends from the VFW, the oldest war veteran in town. Dressed in his full Navy uniform, he saluted the waiting crowd. I felt for the dog tags hanging around my neck and said a little prayer for Trista.
“Up you go!” a Brown Suiter took my hand as she helped me up the portable boarding stairs. My legs felt shaky. Grace reached out from the float to steady me, then led me forward into our positions. Jardine took her throne under the giant clamshell and closed her eyes as if she were meditating. Danica and Denise looked at each other worriedly. But when the herald trumpeters blasted their horns to signal the parade’s start, Jardine’s eyes blinked open like someone had turned on a switch, and her lips spread in a dazzling white smile.
It was Festival time.
“This is it, Royal Court!” Ms. Sparrow called, beaming from the street as she gave us the “washing the window” parade wave we’d been practicing all weekend. “Now remember. No need to worry, just—”
“Be ourselves!” the Court echoed back, giggling.
“Only better,” Sienna added with a smile.
I squeezed Grace’s hand and smiled too. For a moment, I even wondered if everything might turn out okay after all.
Mr. Zimball and Mr. Lee’s Model T backfired as it rattled forward, startling the crowd. The Royal Court thrust their shoulders back and exchanged secret looks, smiles blazing. I pasted on my own smile and met their eyes, desperately wishing the adrenaline bolting through me was because I was excited too. I kept twisting my neck, looking for Trista to come rushing down the street, dress flying behind her like a superhero’s cape.
“What do we do, Grace?” I muttered like a ventriloquist through my clenched smile. In a minute we’d be pulling out of the line-up and passing the first set of bleachers.
“I have no idea, Sophie. Get through this?” She turned and blew a kiss to a little girl along the sidewalk jerking a balloon up and down to get our attention. Behind her a clown on stilts teetered around twirling fire batons as several onlookers oohed and ahhed.
The speakers suddenly blared with marching-band horns, and the floats in front of us lurched forward.
In the announcer’s booth at the top of the grandstand, the longtime “Voices of the Festival,” Mr. Diaz and our local Channel 5 newscaster, Elise Hoffman, kept up a stream of goofy narration when they could get a word in edgewise above the bands. It crackled over our radio earpieces.
“Now how great is that?” Mr. Diaz boomed, and I worried he might dive into a long history of the Palominos again. “Kicking off our ‘We Are Family’ theme in style is the It’s All Relative! float, one of the several entries sponsored by AmStar this year. This one commemorates the hundred-year anniversary of Albert Einstein’s theory of relativity. As I understand it, creating ol’ Albert’s wild mane of hair required half a truckload of white pampas grass! Now that’s some circumstantial pampas . . . or should I say . . . pampas circumstance?”
Elise Hoffman chuckled along with the adults in the crowd at what I guessed must be some kind of pun. “Speaking of pomp and circumstance, Fred, here comes everyone’s favorite, the Route Integrity Team, otherwise known as our beloved Pooper Scoopers! Look at this fine crew of young men and women, ably led by Mr. Joshua Katz.”
“You know, Elise, I’m not sure white is the best choice of color for those jumpsuits. Talk about dirty work!” Mr. Diaz guffawed.
Huge outdoor TV screens across from the main grandstand flashed images of the Palomino riders in full Western gear. Small monitors hidden in the mini seaweed-covered treasure chests on the float in front of us displayed the same feed. I squinted at one of the screens and spotted Rod in the crew behind the horses, his shovel glinting as he twirled it. The crowd roared and laughed as one of the crew scraped up something from the road and dumped it in the gray trash barrel that Rod tugged along with his free hand. The Pooper Scooper team took bows as the marching band behind them raised their horns and burst into Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration.” Rod joined in the team’s funny little dance as he grinned at the crowd. At least one of us could enjoy the moment.
“This is some parade route, isn’t it, Fred?” Ms. Hoffman continued cheerily. “These bands will be marching two miles in the sunshine today, but it’ll be worth it. This first half-mile stretch ends at right at Luna Vista’s stunning bluffs, then they’ll turn south onto Vista del Mar and continue with a gorgeous ocean view the rest of the way.”
The marching band in front of us lifted their horns and high-stepped ahead, knees bobbing. Our float jerked forward to fill the empty space. I sucked in a breath. It was happening. It wouldn’t be long before Mr. Diaz announced our float.
“Here she comes, Elise,” Mr. Diaz called out as Luna Vista’s 125th anniversary Root Beer float wheeled past them, its giant frosty white “mug” puffing out soapy bubbles as Ridley root beer advertising jingles through the ages blared from its hidden speakers. “If you don’t drink Ridley, you don’t know diddly!” went one cheesy tune. “Bring good cheer, buy Ridley root beer!” ordered another.
“The first-ever remote-controlled Festival float,” Mr. Diaz sang out. I recognized the AmStar employee beside him, who grinned and held up a black remote-control box he was steering the float with. “Thanks to AmStar’s team of top engineers and the help of techno-whiz Royal Page Trista Bottoms, there’s one less driver sweating away in one of those tiny compartments today,” Mr. Diaz declared. “Now what would our founder Willard Ridley make of that?”
Grace turned to me with a wince. If Trista were safe, she’d have been with us—or at least watching.
“He’d be pleased as punch,
if his twin is anything to go by,” Elise chimed in as the outdoor screens filled with the towering animatronic figure of Willard Ridley atop the float, sporting a root beer mug in one hand and waving with the other. He looked a little too jolly, like my Grandpa Young after a night of playing cards at the VFW.
As our float rolled to a stop in front of the first set of bleachers, the Court began their ‘wiping the window’ waves to the crowd. Grace nudged me, and I pulled my lips back into the best smile I could manage. I squinted as I waved, scanning the crowd ahead for Trista.
“Now, the engineers say anyone can drive this float. It’s that easy,” Mr. Diaz exclaimed.
“So we’ve pulled someone from the crowd to launch this beauty in style,” Ms. Hoffman asked. “And style is the key word here. Please welcome the most stylish lady of them all, our own special adviser to the Queen and her Court, Ms. Lauren Sparrow!”
The Court hooted and hollered behind us as Ms. Sparrow’s face splashed across the screens. The engineer standing near Mr. Diaz handed her the remote control.
Grace and I traded a look. My stomach heaved. Lauren Sparrow was last person who should have the honor of launching Trista’s brilliant invention.
“Now, given what I’ve heard about some of the driving around the Festival lately, we were worried about handing this task off,” Mr. Diaz joked. The crowd murmured and looked horrified by his tasteless joke. “But you seem to be doing a great job, Lauren.”
Ms. Sparrow grinned bashfully. Her eyes were redder and puffier than I’d ever seen them. Allergy medicine was no match for the pollen of five jillion fresh flowers, clearly.
The marching band in front of us burst into “Under the Sea” and my heart leaped to my throat. Our float rolled into action again. The Court stood at attention.
“The Royal Court, Ladies and Gentleman!” Mr. Diaz exclaimed when we reached the main grandstand. The audience roared. The band blasted. We all waved. I tried to spot my family in the stands but couldn’t find them among the endless blur of pink and brown faces in the stands. Danica, Denise, Grace, and I picked up the giant palm leaves on the float and turned to fan the Court with them, pretending to be their real servants. Their royal eyes glistened with tears as they waved, faces tilted to the crowd in amazement.
“Serving the Court this year are royal pages, Danica and Denise Delgado, and Luna Vista’s town heroes, Sophie Young, Grace Yang, and Trista Bottoms,” Mr. Diaz continued. “The Winter Sun would not be shining today if it weren’t for the work of these girls and Luna Vista’s finest. Let’s hear it for them!”
The crowd applauded, but a murmur rippled through the bleachers as people lifted their heads, looking for Trista.
I shot Grace a helpless look. Wave, she mouthed as she dropped her palm leaf and did just that, her elbow hinging back and forth like a pendulum as her hand swept daintily through the air. No sooner did our marching band finish their version of “Under the Sea” than the speakers ahead of us squealed with feedback. The crowd cringed and reached for their ears.
“Uh-oh, there seems to be some technical trouble with the music on the Luna Vista Root Beer float,” Mr. Diaz’s voice floated through our earpieces. “Can you do something about it with that whosie-whatsit, Lauren?” The camera zoomed in on her as she shrugged. Grace flashed me a puzzled look.
“What’s that?” Ms. Hoffman cupped her ear. “You’re in the clear, Lauren,” she joked. “The engineer tells me the music can’t be operated from the remote control.”
“But who’s going to stop that racket?” Mr. Diaz asked.
The crowd groaned as the ad jingles stuttered from the float in deafening bursts. When feedback shrieked a second time, and the halting spurts of music restarted, it hit me. The music was blaring in a pattern. I waited for a pause, then counted. Four blasts, three blasts. Silence. Three blasts, four blasts. Silence. Then, again: four blasts, three blasts.
It was a Polybius code.
I didn’t have to decipher it to know it spelled disaster.
Chapter Thirty-One
Trista at Sea Bottoms
My fake smile fell. I counted the blasts again as the music erupted once more into the same, clear halting pattern. There was no doubt about it. It was an SOS.
“She’s in there!” I screamed to Grace. “Trista’s inside the Root Beer float!”
Grace’s face twisted in shock, then she whirled toward the small TV monitor in front of us. Lauren Sparrow’s image filled the tiny screen as she gripped the remote control and waved it at the camera playfully.
“Better keep your eyes on the road, Lauren!” Mr. Diaz yukked it up. “You’ve got a whole marching band ahead of you.”
I squinted down the sloping hill of the parade route. The paved road curved gently to the left at the bottom, not far from the jagged cliffs jutting above the ocean. Panic bolted through me as I realized what Lauren Sparrow might have in store.
“The bluffs!” I shrieked. “The floats have to turn before the bluffs, Grace! What if . . .” I pictured the Root Beer float rolling straight past the turn, plowing through the dusty lookout point, and tumbling right over the cliff’s edge.
Grace grimaced. “I know!” she shouted back as The Royal Court shot us nasty looks between their waving and smiling. The crowd beamed and cheered cluelessly as a skywriter dotted the perfect blue sky above them with a HAPPY WINTER SUN FESTIVAL! greeting.
Lauren Sparrow couldn’t be that crazy. Could she?
I looked toward the bluffs again. They looked red in the noon sun. Crazy or not, we couldn’t risk it. I whirled around to Grace and reached out my hand, palm down. “On three. Ready?” She nodded and slapped hers on top of mine. “Break!” I shouted. We flung up our arms and dashed to opposite sides of the float, dodging Danica and Denise as they stared at us in horror.
I grabbed one of the dolphin’s fins and leaned over the side of the float. The asphalt below rolled by in a blur. We weren’t moving fast. Just a few miles an hour. But the cut of my dress made it impossible to jump.
The float rocked, and I turned to see Grace leap over the side, her dress billowing behind her like a parachute. I glanced back at the announcer’s booth and my heart stopped.
Lauren Sparrow was gone.
Mr. Diaz and Ms. Hoffman were grinning, flipping through their notes to comment on the next entry.
Did she still have the remote?
I wasn’t about to wait to find out. I leaned over, hiked up my dress, and stuffed its ends into my pantyhose, Grace-style. At least I wasn’t wearing Wonder Woman underwear. The top folds of the dress bloused back around me like a puffy miniskirt, thankfully. I sucked in a deep breath, then sprang off the float through one of the ocean “waves” of white flowers, bending my knees to cushion the short drop.
Then, I ran. I ran past Neptune’s silvery trident pointing ahead. I ran past the marching band, the saxophone players looking at me out of the corner of their eyes as their cheeks puffed like fish. I know I must have run past my family in the bleachers, too. I cringed thinking about how I must’ve looked—dress half shoved in my stockings, ruining the whole Festival.
In my earpiece, I heard Mr. Diaz and Ms. Hoffman, papers rustling, uhing and aheming as they scrambled to say something. “Was this planned?” Mr. Diaz asked, his voice muffled, obviously thinking that he’d safely covered his microphone.
My lungs bursting, I strained to pick up my pace. Ahead of me the blue-and-white-striped uniform of the band’s leader marching was a hazy blur through my wind-stung eyes. His baton thrust upward as he kept time. I thought of the staffs we’d been practicing with in tai chi class, and a plan sprang into my muddled head. The baton was only half the length of our staffs. Still, my idea could work. If only I could get my hands on it in time . . .
Just then something soft caught my legs and sent me sprawling to the asphalt with a sharp sting. I winced and pushed myself onto all fours, only to find myself staring into a wild-eyed grin. Pookums. He panted back at me, thrilled, his tiny tiara
off-kilter.
“Go back! Back to Kendra!” I stood up and pointed, but he just danced around in his sparkly blue vest and yipped. The Root Beer float barreled on ahead of us, the wide blue ocean looming in the background behind it. I spotted Grace on the other side of the marching band, sprinting, chin high as she held her dress at her waist.
We didn’t have time for games. I faked out Pookums and made a break for the bandleader. The little puffball followed, barking and weaving his way through a line of bewildered trumpet players. They tried to step clear, their legs tangling. Seconds later, I heard a jumble of drooping trumpet notes and a crash of cymbals on pavement. I didn’t dare look back again. The crowd’s puzzled shouts joined the uproar as I zigzagged through the flute section and dashed behind the bandleader. I hesitated only a moment, then hopped onto my tiptoes and snatched his baton midthrust before charging onward like a football player headed for the end zone. The root beer mug towered ahead, right next to the red cherry that I’d nearly fallen off scaffolding to decorate. My skinned knees burned and I could barely breathe, but I was almost there.
“Folks, it looks like we have a little situation to clear up. Not to worry. Everything’s under control!” Mr. Diaz practically yelped. Then, in the background, he rasped to someone: “Where’d she go? She didn’t take the remote, did she?”
A piercing shriek rang out behind me. I glanced over one shoulder and saw Kendra tearing after Pookums, strands of blond hair from her former updo flapping around her face like wet party streamers. Her cries seemed to only push Pookums faster and farther away, like a leaf cartwheeling away in a gust of wind.
“Look at these Royals showing off their athletic talents,” Ms. Hoffman chimed in for cover. “An unusual choice for the anniversary year, but it sure is a memorable one.”
The spectators murmured skeptically. A stabbing pain split my side, but I pumped my arms harder and jetted past an acrobat doing handsprings and the fire-twirling clown on stilts. Finally, I approached the float. It was rocking from side to side as someone—it had to be Trista—pounded against the driver compartment hidden behind the cascading scoops of white cotton fake whipped cream on a sundae. The float’s Willard Ridley figure toward the back of the float swayed a little with each of the blows, his white grassy beard rattling like maracas.
The Tiara on the Terrace Page 22