UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Out the heavy wooden door, down the white stone walkway, and across the grass I flew. My tears came fast and furious now, and I nearly stumbled over some sort of intricate stone labyrinth at the edge of the lawn.
I heard the camera people barreling behind me, one of them shouting, “Go right! I’ll circle around!”
“Blake!” Marsha’s voice. A near-wail. “Blake! Stop!” I turned to see her trying to keep up with the cameras, and I made out Amy, Betsy, Mura, and Sabrina standing on the front porch of the house, watching the commotion with their hands over their mouths.
I ducked my head and kept going. Faster and faster I ran, wishing I’d tried harder in gym class so my legs wouldn’t burn with the exertion.
There were a bunch of cypress trees straight ahead of me. I didn’t know where Audrey was staying, but it seemed like a safe guess that she’d be somewhere past the woods. It was the same direction her safari-man driver had taken her in the Jeep. Worth a shot.
I barreled through a cluster of trees, wincing as their branches scratched my arms. I heard a crash behind me and realized the camera people were closer than I thought. I tried to follow what looked like a dirt trail, but suddenly I was face-to-face with a wall of trees and no sense of which way was the right direction. “Crap,” I said beneath my breath. My lungs felt like they were on fire.
“Blake!” Marsha screamed again. The director emerged through the trees first in his Army-green vest and black cargo pants. When had he joined them?
“Hi, Blake, it’s me, Rich Gibbons.”
No shit, Rich. “I don’t have amnesia,” I said.
The camera people shoved through the trees, followed by Marsha, and then all five of us were standing on a small patch of dirt. A gray-haired woman held the camera closest to me. I hadn’t seen her back at the house. The cameraman was panting, but the woman had barely broken a sweat. The cameraman adjusted his lens and crouched to film me from a different angle. The woman wasn’t staring through her lens. Her camera was on, and it was pointed in my direction, but she was staring at me, considering me.
“Blake, tell us what happened back there,” Rich Gibbons said, his voice filled with concern, like Maury Povich.
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. I’d been tricked enough, and I wasn’t about to fall for this.
“Tell us how you’re feeling,” Marsha said.
I stared down at my What Would Heidi Klum Fly In? ankle boots. If I quit the show now, Audrey and I could jump on a plane tonight. I could show my father that I was in charge, and that I wasn’t some meaningless player in one of his power games.
The camerawoman broke the silence. “Let me talk to her alone,” she said. Rich Gibbons looked annoyed at first, but then he glanced between us and nodded. He beckoned Marsha and the cameraman back toward the trail. I watched as they retreated, the branches swish-swishing in protest as they pushed them aside.
The gray-haired woman turned off her camera. She peered over her shoulder like she was trying to make sure they couldn’t hear her. Gold studs dotted her earlobe. She turned back to me, staring with clear blue eyes. She reminded me of a grandmother.
“Look, Blake,” she said. “They’re maniacs, obviously. But they can use any of the footage we’ve already shot. They can show you crying in the house, and then bolting into the woods like Little Red Riding Hood.”
I smiled a little, and then so did she.
“So if you want to say something,” she said gently, “you may as well do it. It’s just me and the camera. At least we can show you how you really are.”
I sniffed. She seemed honest. “Okay,” I said, nodding.
She lifted her camera gently, and then gestured with her hand to let me know we were rolling.
“Hi,” I said softly, my voice raspy from crying. A part of me wanted to blurt out that my father had deceived me and arranged for me to be here. But Public was still in charge of what aired—they’d never show it. And even if we were live, like the show would be tonight, could I really do that to my father? No matter what he’d done to me, he was still my dad. I loved him no matter how broken our relationship was.
“I guess I just got a little overwhelmed in there, seeing all of those girls,” I said. I took a deep breath. The woods smelled smoky, like there was a barbeque nearby. “They’re all more beautiful than I am. And I suddenly felt sure America would see that I didn’t belong here, that I’m just ordinary. And that’s the thing: I don’t belong here.” It was the truth, at least. “I guess that’s why I’m so upset.”
The wind blew a dark strand of hair across my face and I didn’t bother fixing it. I wasn’t the most beautiful anymore. What did it matter?
“I know this is a pageant to be a Citizen Ambassador and a spokesperson for my generation,” I went on. “And I really want that. And maybe I don’t deserve it, because I haven’t always been a good person. But I’m trying harder now.” It felt strangely good to admit my vulnerability. Painful at first, and scary, but then satisfying. Like a bikini wax. “And I thought that being an ambassador would be a chance to set a good example. So I guess when I was sitting in that room with all of those beautiful girls, I realized that I was the odd one out, and that meant winning this contest was farther away than ever.”
I let go of a breath. I looked away from the camera at a spot over the camerawoman’s shoulder, feeling my gaze relax. A moment later, I turned and looked into the camera again. “But I’m really appreciative that I even got this opportunity,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to see LA. And now I have. So I’m grateful.”
I put my hand up to say good-bye. Then I turned and walked deeper into the woods, away from the camera, away from the contest.