Damian steps down and hands the banner to me. “So, he doesn’t remember giving you the chocolates?”
I wad the banner up and shove it under my arm. “Nope.”
“Did he give you anything else?”
Fin is all eyes, waiting for my reply. I think about the photo-booth pictures, about the past several weeks of pageant preparation and how far I’ve come. I certainly wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Cody, for his encouragement. Cody has given me a lot. This thought adds to the regret swelling within me. Cody and I—whatever we had—are no more.
“No,” I say. The banner is down now and everyone is ready to head home. Besides, I’ve blabbered enough about my screwed-up love life.
“Thank you for the sponsorship,” I say, realizing this might be the last time I see Damian.
“You bet,” he says and draws out his wallet. “In fact, you’re going to need more than that to get ready.”
Cash is drawn out. Fifties. Hundreds. I stare at the stack of money, my eyelids refusing to blink.
“Here’s three hundred—make that four hundred—for whatever you need to buy. Shoes, clothes . . . not enough?”
I blink. Damian’s eyes are searching mine.
“Five hundred, then?” he asks.
I’ve never seen so much cash in my life. “N-no. I mean, yes, but . . . you don’t have to.”
He puts the money in my hand. “And here’s an extra hundred for two reserved seats the night of the performance. Fin and I want front row. Can you do that?”
“Uh—y-yeah. Absolutely.”
“Great,” he says, his voice filled with the kind of confidence that only a man who isn’t used to being told no can have. “We’ll see you then. October seventeenth.”
“Right,” I say, my tongue feeling awkward as the right words evade me. They turn and leave. “Thank you!” I call out.
I watch Damian and his brother walk toward their black sports car, still shocked by the strange feeling of so much money in my hand.
Really, Damian has been nothing but kind.
CHAPTER 37
Julianna
Unanticipated excitement bubbles up when I open my eyes and realize what today is—October 17. The pageant. Never in a million years did I think I’d look forward to it. But I do. Until I swallow.
My throat pinches with pain.
My throat. My voice.
I sit up, denial rushing in. My talent depends on this. I need my voice.
Sunlight streams through my window, forming wavy lines of light on my bed thanks to my warped blinds. I brave another swallow, dread slicing through as my throat throbs in response.
I drink lots of water. I avoid talking—anything to preserve my voice. My interview with the judges is at 11:00 a.m., so I’ll have no choice but to use my voice then.
My skin is clear, my eyes bright. I think of the positives as I dress in my interview outfit, a lightweight neutral dress with a white blazer on top. Now, looking in the mirror, I wish I’d spent more money on this outfit, the first one the judges will see me in. It’s amazing what you can buy with four hundred dollars. It’s also incredible how fast you can run out. Clothes, shoes, and coordinating jewelry for multiple outfits.
Dad is already at the Tempe art gala when I leave. He took Rusty, leaving me and Vic with the used Buick he bought a week ago. Vic is still sleeping, so I have the Buick all to myself. Only me and an unfamiliar car and a million nerves. Walking into the interview room with six judges watching my every step is unnerving for sure, but as I move to my spot in front of them, I tell myself that at least there’s no audience for this.
They start by asking me about my platform, Advocating for the Arts in Education, and I tell them all about my Night with the Arts event, directing them to my platform portfolio for reference. The judges nod in approval. I can tell they’re impressed.
Then they delve into current events, posing questions ranging from violence in other countries to bullying online. Separation of church and state, stem cell research, specific controversial court cases, the environment, you name it.
I do my best, feeling pretty good about both my responses and my presentation. Then it’s on to the wrap-up miscellaneous questions.
Wrap-up—almost done.
“Would you like to be famous?” one judge asks. “If so, in what way?”
A trick question for sure. After hesitating for a beat, I opt for a comical tone, like I imagine Cody would. “Absolutely,” I say with a smile that hints at a wink. “I’m going for Miss America, right?”
Six smiles. One lady is beaming at me, a delegate from the Miss Arizona organization named LeAnn. I think I’ve at least won her over.
“What’s a down day for you?” LeAnn asks.
Again I stick with humor. “Waking up to a broken air-conditioning system in the middle of August and stepping on a scorpion on the way to the bathroom.”
LeAnn bursts into laughter and a couple of others laugh along. Another delegate from the Miss Arizona organization touches a hand to her chest, like the mere thought of such a day is horrific. Try living it.
“How do you set goals for yourself?” a judge named Jerry asks me, a stern guy who hardly cracked a smile at my previous answer.
These questions are harder than I imagined. “I’m learning that the best goals aim to make me a better person, to help me conquer a fear or stretch me in some positive way.”
I’m not sure where that answer came from, but I’m glad. It’s the truth, something it took being asked for me to realize.
One final question. And I need to nail it. I’ve done well so far. I think. This interview is worth 25 percent of the competition score. Now, standing here as one of eight contestants, I wonder what it would be like to win a thousand dollars in scholarship money and wear the crown. A thousand dollars. I keep my shoulders squared, my feet sturdy.
“When has your life most dramatically changed as the result of a random external event? How did it affect your life?”
I swallow hard once. Twice. One event jumps to mind, but I won’t go there. Not Mama. Not now. Last question. I part my lips to blurt out some vague response, anything that will suffice so I can get out of here, but I know they’d prefer something specific.
“At the beginning of this year my mom was indicted for mortgage fraud.”
I instantly have the keen attention of every judge. In this case I’m not sure it’s a good thing.
“My brother had a drug problem and we couldn’t afford rehab on top of the other financial demands of life.”
Drug problem. Couldn’t afford rehab. My heart thuds against my rib cage like it’s telling me off for being such a ditz. I’ve already committed, however, so I can’t stop now.
“She felt she had to help him, so she took matters into her own hands. It took me a long time to accept the fact that she was wrong, and I’m still adjusting to life at home without her.”
This statement is something of an epiphany, and it reminds me of the second part of the question. How did it affect my life?
“I used to be angry about my mom’s imprisonment. But really, anger does no good. I’ve learned that. Above all, I’ve learned that regardless of the bad luck or obstacles thrown our way, each of us is in control of the course of our lives.”
I smile and offer each judge a handshake in parting, knowing I’m screwed. I’m still beating myself up over my last response as I pack for the pageant that afternoon.
Information packet: check. Backup CD with the accompaniment for my song: check. I run through each of my outfits: the cowgirl hat, boots, and skirt for the opening number, my evening gown, my talent gown, my swimsuit, and my interview suit for the onstage question—heaven help me—each outfit bagged with coordinating jewelry, hair accessories, and shoes. Curling irons, lotions, and all the best in hair products and makeup—thanks to Cody and Damian’s money.
I drink a ton of water, feeling the effects of so much talking on my sore vocal chords. Then I pack everythin
g in the Buick and run inside for my purse and keys.
“I need the car,” Vic says the moment the keys jingle in my hand.
He’s watching TV, flipping channels from one sport to the next.
I take in a deep breath, not about to waste words fighting. “What for?”
“Got a date,” he says. “Me and Heidi. It’s been a year. We’re celebrating.”
Moments like this remind me what a softy Vic can be. He remembers the anniversary of their first date and he’s taking her out.
“That’s why Dad left the new car. Said Rusty’s been acting up.”
“But my pageant is tonight.”
“I’ll take you,” he offers, surprising me.
Easy enough. Dad said he’d try to make it to the end of my pageant, so I’ll catch a ride back with him. Vic turns off the TV, and together we head for the car.
It’s been a long time since Vic and I have been alone, no Heidi in the front seat. We talk about his date tonight. He’s taking Heidi to RigaTony’s, her favorite restaurant in southern Tempe, not too far from the pageant.
As we make the forty-minute drive to the Performing Arts Center at Maricopa High School, I’m reluctant to admit I’ve missed Vic, the Vic who used to spend time with me. Believe it or not, I even miss the Vic who teased me incessantly. The Vic who gave me no personal space, flicked my ponytail into my face, and stole bites of food off my plate. Even his locker pranks have stopped.
“Thanks, Vic,” I say as he hangs my outfits on a hook outside the dressing room.
He nods and turns to leave, looking uncomfortable so close to the girls’ dressing room and yet obviously appreciating the view as Denica struts out in a short robe, offering him a smile and a little wave on her way.
“Hey, Jewel,” Vic says as I open the door to the dressing room.
I turn back, praying Vic refrains from whatever derogatory statement he’s about to make. Vic is about as different from the other members of our family as could be. Where our mom is musical and a dreamer, Vic is anything but. Where our dad is artistic, Vic couldn’t care less. His life has evolved around playing basketball on city courts and getting into trouble on the side. And here I stand in front of him with an evening gown draped over one arm and two pairs of heels in my other hand, about to compete in a beauty pageant.
“Good luck.”
He’s already walking away before I can process what he said and the sincerity with which he said it.
“Thank you,” I say, but my throat is so clogged with emotion, it’s hardly loud enough for him to hear.
Nerves escalate as seven o’clock draws near. For all of us. Jenny fidgets her legs incessantly; Sophie’s fingers are bound to have joint damage after all of the rubbing and knuckle cracking; Candace, Laurel, and Aubrey are on their fourth layer of lipstick, I’ve chewed off all of mine, and Rebecca looks like she could be sick. Only Denica seems cool and confident. Genuinely keyed up. Then again, she did this last year.
Candace ignores me and I’m glad. I still can’t believe she lied to Cody about the sweater and lip gloss, stretching the truth to make me sound like a thief instead of the naïve girl I was. Let Cody think what he will. I push resentment away, won’t let it get to me. Not now. Not tonight.
The photographer and videographer set up their gear. The tech crew gets ready. I double-check with the ticket booth at the front door, making sure Damian’s two tickets and reserved seats are ready for will call.
With Trish in Disneyland, my dad at the Tempe art gala, Mama in prison, and Vic off with Heidi, Damian and his brother might be my only supporters in the crowd tonight. I doubt even Mindy will be here. She’s been evasive ever since I told her I wouldn’t need to borrow her dresses tonight.
I don’t let myself think about Cody as I get my cowgirl outfit on with the rest of the girls in the dressing room. I’ve avoided all contact with him during the past two and a half weeks. When I saw him heading off to the school gymnasium yesterday with Connor and a couple of the guys, a basketball slung under his arm, I seized the opportunity to dash over to his house to pick up the two pageant dresses.
Rachel told me she and her mom would be at the pageant if not for Lizzy’s dance recital. It made me happy for Lizzy; such a cute girl with so much potential and her whole family supporting her. And yet I’ve wondered how Cody’s family is planning to split this night between Lizzy’s recital and his tournament.
I try not to think of Mama either. If only Trish were here. She would have been my personal cheerleader tonight, probably would have recruited a crowd. Now, as I stand in position behind the closed curtain, I decide a crowd of supporters wouldn’t have been such a bad thing. Better than no one here cheering my name.
As the curtain parts, I remind myself why I’m doing this. Mama. All for her. To see her smile when I tell her about this night. I work up a smile, regardless of how alone I am in this or how badly I messed up the interview.
The western song blares from the speakers and an overwhelming crowd begins to cheer. I stare out at the audience in shock. Nearly every seat is filled. I pull my thoughts together in time to plaster a smile back on my face and start in on our choreographed dance.
Candace is rocking it next to me, shaking her hips and tossing her hair around like a true dancer. I step in beat with the music, but I feel stiff and inept. I curse my mother all over again for getting me involved in this.
Damian and Fin catch my eye. Front row, right behind the judges. Damian winks at me, and my smile involuntarily broadens. The judges wear various expressions, most smiling. LeAnn leans forward in her chair with a permagrin while Jerry looks like he’s staring at the stock exchange.
The entire pageant feels like a throwback to simpler times. Before long I’ve relaxed more than I thought possible. Not even the swimsuit portion is as awful as I anticipated.
Unfortunately, my nerves return in full force before the talent portion. I take in a few deep, controlled breaths and hum through some drills in the dressing room, extending my range with each drill. My voice has loosened up as the day progressed—thank heavens.
Rebecca’s Irish dance is impressive. Laurel proves herself an accomplished violinist. Aubrey does her cheerleading routine. Jenny’s ventriloquism act is cooler than I expected and Sophie’s pre-performance finger warming pays off during her incredible Rachmaninoff piece on the piano.
Candace and I are the last performers. As I watch her unbelievable modern dance performance, I pray for my voice to hold together. Candace’s dance is impossible to beat. The round of applause she receives at the end sends panic through me. I’m next.
“Good job,” I whisper and offer a smile. She walks off stage, all smiles as she marches past me.
The talent portion is worth 35 percent of my overall score. Thirty-five. This is big.
I’m tempted to back out until a random thought slips in: it could be worse. A lot worse. I could be stuck in a cell, months and even years of life—real life in all its everyday monotony and beauty—taken away from me. Truly alone.
And yet here I am, dressed in the kind of dazzling red gown and heels I never dreamed of wearing. I might be alone, but that might not be such a bad thing. Standing here backstage, I decide perhaps it’s in the silent, solitary moments that we dig deep for strength. Reach for our goals.
I pull my shoulders back and hold my head high, drawing on the presentation skills we practiced in workshop. I walk into the spotlight.
My piano accompaniment begins to play, and I begin the mental countdown until I join in. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, imagining an auditorium of empty chairs, only me and the microphone and the song Rachel picked out.
I sing the lament of the anguished Fantine from Les Misérables. “I Dreamed a Dream.”
I read the abridged version of the book for English my junior year, but I never thought of the universality of emotions, the vast reach of its message. My voice carries over the microphone—clear, resonant, emotive—lending my confidence a s
et of wings as I continue.
I think about Mama. I think about her hopes and dreams, just like Fantine. I imagine her darkened prison dormitory at night. Mama’s dream was different from the hell she now lives, too.
I finish the last verse, deep emotion poured into every line. That’s it, three short verses, my eyes closing as the words sink in deep. One minute and forty seconds of music lingering in my ears and sweeping me away.
The crowd erupts into applause. My eyelids flash open and I take in the sight. People cheer, people whistle, people stand. All around, one by one, until a good portion of the crowd is on their feet in the kind of ovation that can only be brought on by music that reaches inside the soul and draws something out.
My chest swells. I stand frozen, just a girl under the spotlight who was never meant to shine.
I did it.
No, I didn’t do it. Not alone, at least. In fact, I wasn’t alone in this at all.
As I step away from the mic and bow like I’ve practiced, I recognize how much help I’ve had along the way. From the art club to Mrs. Legend, Barbara and Donna, Cody’s mom, Vic dropping me off tonight, even my dad’s criticism. Perspective shifts as gratitude rushes in. One person, above all, I have to thank.
As the applause dies down, as the spotlight fades and all that’s left are lingering feelings soaring at an all-time high, I understand. This is what can happen when a boy like Cody Rush believes in a girl like me.
CHAPTER 38
Cody
Dribble, dribble, hold. Dribble, dribble, hold. Foul shot. Focus. The basket is all mine. I fix my eyes on the rim and block out all sounds of spectators in the bleachers, the ball perched in my hands. Can’t let the pressure get to me. I’ve practiced this shot a thousand times. Thirty seconds and the game is over. This could be the winning shot. I’ve got this.
The ball flies in a high arc and sails right through the net. The crowd cheers.
The opposing team makes a mad dash for the other end of the court. We’re all over them on defense. Sweating. Energy high. Determined.
Between Now & Never Page 29
