32
Brynn
Every metal folding chair in the roomy multipurpose hall is filled with a familiar face. There are characters from seasons past, extras, guests that made a one-time appearance, and all the familiar regulars: Pop, Lois, Doc Martin. The gang’s all here.
Backstage is equally buzzing with excitement as all twenty-three Ms. Lobsterfest hopefuls in our matching seventy-fifth-anniversary T-shirts get ready for our opening number.
“You ready?” Luce nudges me with her hip, sneaking a peek through my secret crack in the curtain.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I tell her back. I pick up a lock of her freshly dyed pink tips. “You look amazing. I have a feeling the crown is yours.”
She rolls her eyes. “I appreciate the optimism. I’m just glad I have a fair shot.” She nods at my hair, which is still up in curlers under a silk scarf. “You ready to take those out? We’re about to go on.”
My eyes scan backstage for Poppy. She’s on the opposite side of the stage, engrossed in a conversation with Sheldon. Both of their backs are to us.
I nod. “Let’s do it.”
Luce undoes my hair. As each dark-brown curled lock comes out of its roller, I feel more and more like me.
Luce places the final curler onto the dressing table, then leans forward, squeezing my shoulders and meeting my eyes in the mirror. “Much better,” she says with a smile.
She picks up a can of hairspray and gives me a final spritz as a booming voice echoes through the speaker system: “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”
As the voice lays out the night’s events and snacking and flash photography rules, Luce and I take our places in a sea of excited contestants. My stomach begins to bubble with nerves, as if I’m only now realizing that I actually have to go out there and compete in a pageant.
The emcee’s voice echoes through the hall. “Please put your hands together and welcome this year’s Ms. Lobsterfest contestants to the stage.”
The cheesy elevator pop music pumps through the speakers. It’s the same tune we rehearsed to all week. I take one last deep breath, push all the remaining nerves as far down into my gut as they will go, and do exactly what I’ve been doing since I stepped into Sloan’s life—I force myself to smile.
When I step onto the stage, the lights are so blinding that the audience turns into one black blob with the occasional camera flash or eyeglass glimmer. Not being able to see anyone is kind of soothing.
Even though my brain is working on its lowest function, my feet go through the motions of the opening number completely of their own accord. I guess Poppy knew exactly what she was doing when she made us practice it over and over and over again.
The whole routine is a haze. I feel like I’m moving through Jell-O until Sloan’s name is called, and it snaps me back to reality so hard that it feels like I have whiplash.
The announcer turns to me and smiles. “Welcome, contestant number eight: Sloan Edwards. Sloan loves the beach, growing organic herbs, and designing fashionable and sustainable sundresses. Please give a round of applause for Sloan.”
I walk to the X, just like Poppy taught us. Shoulders back to show off my boobs. Jaw jutting forward to avoid the double chin. Mouth open slightly to make my face longer and leaner than it is.
This part is also well practiced.
Putting on my brave face.
My I’m totally fine look. The mask I’ve been wearing for the last four years. The one that hides the broken heart that, although mended, still sports ugly scars.
I’m met with roaring applause.
Cheers. Shouts. Whistles.
“Ladies and gentlemen, your Ms. Lobsterfest contestants. Let’s give them one last round of applause before they head off to change for the evening gown and interview rounds. Thank you, ladies.”
We exit the stage in a rush of half-naked bodies, shedding lobster-embellished T-shirts for silk and sequins.
Luce slides on the blue gown. It fits as if it were made for her.
“You look like a princess.”
She smooths the bodice with the palms of her hands. “Amend that to warrior princess, and I’ll take it.”
She eyes my red shorts and lobster shirt. “You’re absolutely sure you want to do this?”
I nod. “Never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Luce laughs, but her smile drops as her eyes shift to something over my shoulder.
“What the heck, Sloan?”
I turn to see Poppy glaring at Luce.
“Why is she wearing my dress?”
Poppy is in her own evening wear: a velvet body-hugging mermaid gown in such a deep shade of green that it’s almost black. Her hair is slicked back into a sleek ponytail, leaving not a single wisp to hide the look of utter disdain on her otherwise beautiful face.
“As I told you earlier, Luce’s dress is ripped.” I step forward, placing myself between them. “You had other things to worry about, so I came up with a solution. I think she looks beautiful.”
Poppy shakes her head. “No. Absolutely not. She cannot go out there in it. Take it off, now!” Poppy lunges. Her lacquered red nails look like talons as she grabs for the dress, almost as if she intends to rip it off Luce right here and now.
Luce, who ditched her heels earlier in favor of elegant flat sandals, has an agility not achievable in Poppy’s four-inch stilettos. Poppy’s hands grasp nothing but air as Luce ducks behind a crate of plastic lobsters, just as the emcee’s voice booms through the speakers. “And now, please welcome to the stage contestant number three: Ms. Lucille Cho.”
Luce’s eyes meet mine. I mouth a silent Go! while stepping in front of Poppy, arms outstretched, as if I’m fully prepared for her to drop her right shoulder and take me out with a diving tackle so she can chase Luce off the stage.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she turns the full force of her heated laser gaze on me. “You witch!”
There’s venom in her tone, and I’m surprised by how little it affects me. “It was the right thing to do, Poppy. You should have never ruined her dress. Even if you did it for me.”
Poppy swats my hands away. “Since when do you care about Luce?”
I hold up my hands again, this time in more of a gesture of defeat. “I am turning over a new leaf.”
“Well, turn it back.”
There’s a loud smattering of laughter coming from the audience. It halts our conversation. It’s a reminder that Luce is on the stage answering her question.
And from the sound of the crowd, she’s killing it.
Poppy stamps her foot. The crack of her heel is so loud that I’m surprised it doesn’t snap off.
“You’ve screwed everything up. You know that, right?”
I nod, knowing the repercussions are even worse than what Poppy’s implying.
She throws out her arm—a wild gesture in Luce’s direction. “Just so we’re clear, without a dress, there is no way in hell I am ever letting you out on that stage. Luce is going to win.”
“I am okay with that.” As the words come out, I know they are true. I am okay if Sloan never wins the crown—tonight or ever. Even if it means she never gets her supposed happily ever after.
She didn’t win fifteen years ago. It wasn’t the perfect ending everyone wanted, but she went on to do amazing things. Moved to Paris. Started her business. I have a feeling Sloan—I—will be okay this time too. Even if we’re not following the plan.
“Can I ask you something though?” I step toward Poppy, lowering my hands. The dress drama tonight sparked a thought about that season finale. A loose end that was never cleared up.
“Fifteen years ago, my dress. That was you too, wasn’t it?”
Poppy crosses her arms over her chest. “Guess you’ll never know.”
Guess I won’t. And I don’t need to. I’m done with Poppy either way.
There’s a round of roaring applause from the audience, the loudest I’ve heard all night. Poppy and I both turn and watch as Luce exits to the opposite side of the stage. Poppy adjusts her headset and glares at me one last time before turning her heel and heading in the opposite direction.
I’m alone when the emcee calls Sloan’s name. I debate, attempting to send him some hand signal to let him know that I’ve disqualified myself, but as I step toward the wing and catch sight of the audience, I realize that this may be my last opportunity to step out on this stage.
And I have something to say.
The announcer calls for Sloan Edwards again. In a split second, I make a decision. I sprint onto center stage before Poppy or anyone else can stop me.
The lights again blind me as I stumble toward the man with the microphone and try to remember precisely what I’m supposed to do. Find the X. Chest out. Smile.
My head is still swimming with everything that has happened.
An uncomfortable silence settles over the crowd as they take in that I’m still in lobster-wear.
I turn to the emcee. “I am ready for my question, sir.”
He hesitates for a moment, then repeats the same question he’s asked every contestant this evening. “If you could tell this town one thing on the seventy-fifth anniversary of Ms. Lobsterfest, what would it be?”
There’s probably a correct answer here, something to do with peace on earth, but there’s more I want to tell this town.
“I thought I wanted a life where everything turned out exactly as it was supposed to. Where your best friend always stayed your best friend, and the feelings of the boy next door never wavered. Where you stand up in front of the entire town and prove that you’re finally a woman worthy of love.
“But here’s the thing: I’ve spent the last few weeks falling for the wrong boy. And finding a kindred spirit in the friend who was supposed to be my enemy. I spent a disproportionate amount of time in a bar and had more fun than I can ever remember.
“The point is, nothing at all played out like it was supposed to, and it made me realize something….
“I want messy days that make me appreciate the really good ones, and I don’t so much mind that feeling of hitting rock bottom because it makes me appreciate that I’m a tough-ass bitch capable of crawling out of it. Divorce, despair, having my entire life pulled out from under me and tossed into a new dimension—I can take it.
“I am okay to wake up every morning and know that there aren’t guarantees in life, but that there is adventure. That there are new beginnings. That I need to love hard for whatever time I’m given because life can throw curveballs at any moment, and sometimes those curveballs are wild.
“So if I’m giving advice—and I really shouldn’t be, considering the current state of my life—it would be to take a good hard look around at this town that hasn’t seemed to change in the last fifteen years and ask yourself, is this safe and predictable life worth it? Because I think you’re missing out on getting to know some great people and experiencing some wild endings. Thank you, and good night.”
With that, I drop the mic, turn on my heel, and proudly exit stage left.
There’s nothing but silence—literal crickets in the audience. But as I enter the wing, another nagging thought surfaces that I need to get out.
I sprint back to my spot on the stage and pick up the mic still on the floor. “One last thing while we’re all gathered. Sloan Edwards has run a sundress empire for the last fifteen years. She doesn’t need a crown to tell her she’s smart, driven, talented, or worthy of anything. While thinking about everything I just said, you might want to consider nixing this pageant. It’s gross. Good night for real this time.”
This time, I exit the stage out of the left wing.
I don’t stop when Poppy attempts to corner me backstage with an Are you fudging kidding me, Sloan? Or when Sheldon calls my name as I exit through the back door.
I run down Main Street, unsure where I’m headed until I turn down the bar’s back alley and find the fire escape.
With each rung, I breathe a little deeper. Like a weight is slowly being lifted from my chest. I climb. Higher and higher. Until I can see the stars.