39

RUBY

If it wasn’t the way the door slammed when she rushed in during the final round of the pageant that got my attention, it was definitely the way she snagged the microphone wire on her foot as she found a seat in the front row, pulling it from the announcer’s hand, which made him kind of awkwardly shuffle down to pick it up without exposing that the back of his suit was actually “tailored” with fabric tape.

And so now I’m standing onstage beside the other semifinalists—fifteen down from forty—perfect posture, neck arched as long as it can go, leg angled to accentuate the slit of my gown, chin tipped down, smile wide—staring into Morgan’s eyes with my heart thrumming in my chest like a hummingbird on meth.

I’m next up for the interview question, which is possibly going to decide my entire future, and having Morgan here has me distracted. Consumed. In absolutely zero scenarios did I think the result of my note would be her charging in here. I wasn’t even she sure would read it. Did the lights just get a million times hotter?

“Next we have Ruby Gold Thompson,” the announcer says, reading off my bio and all my past wins and placements as I glide across the stage. The train of my gown flutters elegantly behind me, its beads glinting under the lights. Mom spent two whole paychecks on this dress, and now she’s not even here to see it. I swallow that thought down, bitter like bile.

I come to a stop beside the announcer as he finishes introducing me—perfect timing as always—and flash my best smile out into the audience. Morgan is sitting right behind the judges. Somehow, she looks just as nervous as I am.

The announcer lifts a glass fishbowl off the stand beside him and holds it out to me. Inside are dozens of folded-up questions, one of which I’ll have to spontaneously answer with some semblance of grace. Historically, I suck at it, but Charlene and I have been practicing this part the most.

“Now, dear,” he says, “please select your question.”

I slide my hand inside, shutting my eyes quick and saying a little prayer that I get something easy. Something where I can flash my smile and say just the right thing. My fingers catch on one, and I pull it out and hand it to the announcer.

He unfolds the paper and reads: “Tell us about the person you most look up to and how they will be your guiding light during your reign as Miss Teen Portwood County.”

He tilts the mic toward me. I take a step closer to him and fight the urge to clear my throat—that would be an unforgiveable number of points deducted.

I pray my score isn’t already dropping from my moment of silence, that I seem thoughtful and contemplative rather than totally freaked out. Because I know what I want to say. And I know what the judges want to hear. But I’m just not sure they’re the same.

“Thank you,” I say, buying myself a few precious seconds to steel my nerves.

He smiles at me reassuringly.

“This year, this spring, actually,” I say, looking at the judges with an expression that I hope conveys an open earnestness, “I had the opportunity to meet someone very special. Someone who really changed my perspective on a lot of things. Someone who is braver than anyone I’ve ever met and lives by her principles to a level I never thought possible. She has an unwavering faith in her ideals, no matter how much the world tries to tear them out of her. Most of us, we see bad things and we look away, but not her. Not Morgan Matthews. She’s different.”

I look at her just long enough to see her eyes go wide. So okay, maybe this answer is a little more intense than I’d hoped for, but it’s all I’ve got.

“I met Morgan when she transferred to my school, and every day since then, I’ve watched her work to make the world a better place, not just for herself and the people directly around her, but also on a greater scale.

“Morgan and I got off to a rough start when I almost hit her with my car. And then not too long after that, I actually did hit her, even though she’ll tell you she fell.”

A few people laugh. Someone coughs. Morgan sits stone still. Watching.

“Somehow, despite everything, we grew closer. She taught me that love and inclusivity are what make us human, that it’s okay to be . . . to be whoever you are.” I swallow hard, trying to stay poised, to stay perfect, but I can feel everyone’s eyes burning into me. “Morgan sees through me, to the person I really am, and because of that, I’ve learned to accept myself, to embrace it. To be proud.” I look at Morgan, her eyes welling up, and I take a deep breath. “And I love that about her. That’s why I’m picking . . . That’s why I’m asking Morgan to be my guiding light, whether I’m lucky enough to be crowned Miss Teen Portwood County or not. Because even in the short time that I’ve known her, I’ve seen what a force for good she is in this world. I want to be that too. Thank you.”

There is a smattering of awkward applause as I walk back to my spot in the row of contestants, nothing like Lilah or Hannah got after responding to similar questions with “my mother” and “Meghan McCain” respectively.

The announcer moves on, thanking everyone and reading off the official sponsors while the judges tally up their scores. I paste on my best Vaseline smile and stare at a spot on the wall, doing everything I can to not look at Morgan, terrified of what I’ll see if I do.

The names of the ten finalists are passed up. Somehow, I make the cut. I take my final lap around the stage, smiling and waving and praying that I make the top six, before returning to my spot in line.

It takes far too long for the judges to join our host up onstage, their arms full of sashes and bouquets, and I’m a trembling mess of nerves. The announcer exchanges his list of finalists for three bright red envelopes, opening the first one with a practiced smile.

“The second runner-up of the Miss Teen Portwood County Competition is . . . Pia Roth!” the announcer says, calling her up like a game show host. Everyone claps and cheers while she accepts her sash and flowers.

The rest of us wait nervously in our row. We grab one another’s hands and hold on tight. Later, we’ll go back to being fierce competitors, but right now, we’re just scared children wondering which of us the world loves the most.

“The first runner-up is . . .” he says, and I squeeze the hand of girl next to me. “Hannah Bronsky!”

Hannah walks out for her sash and roses and takes her place beside Pia. I take a deep breath. Only one spot left in the court. But there are still eight of us in the line.

“Now I would like you all to give a very warm welcome to our new Miss Teen Portwood County . . . Amber Valejo!”

The crowd goes wild, cheering and clapping as Amber is crowned. She does her victory lap to “There She Is, Miss America” while people throw roses on the stage.

It’s all very dramatic—and slow—and I fight the urge to grab the final score sheets off the judges’ table.

The curtains finally shut, and the winners clear off, hugging and crying, while the rest of us wait for placement. There are only three chances left for the scholarship, but there are seven of us still onstage. One of the judges comes over, checking our scores on the clipboard and pointing at various girls. “Four,” he says. “Five.”

“And six.” This time, he’s pointing at me.

Oh my god, I did it. I rush forward and hug him as he points to another girl and says, “Seven.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I say, before bundling up my skirt as best as I can and running offstage. I dip down the steps and peek out at the audience, searching for Morgan, but she’s nowhere to be seen. The high of winning the scholarship gives way to disappointment, and my eyes burn from the whiplash.

Maybe her coming here was like me going to states. What if she was just planning to ghost in and out? But her text . . .

A hand wraps around my wrist and drags me to a little hidden alcove. Suddenly, we’re face-to-face for the first time in what feels like forever. I want to kiss her so bad, but I don’t know if she wants that. I don’t know if this changes anything at all. I don’t know if I took too long to catch up.

“Hi,” Morgan says with a smile, and I melt.