A Handful of Stars

by Cynthia Lord

  “Like Salma,” I said. “I wish I was brave like that.”

  Pépère grinned. “Well, I’ll tell you a secret. I had to give Danielle a pep talk every year on the church steps. She’d suddenly get so nervous that she’d want me to take her home and forget the whole thing.”

  “Mama? Really?” I’d only seen the photos of Mama after she’d won. “What was she scared of?”

  “That people wouldn’t think she belonged up there with the other girls. Or that she’d embarrass herself and forget the words to her song. Or she’d trip on her dress.”

  I stared straight out the side window of the truck and let the blueberry barrens turn into a green-blue blur. I had never imagined Mama scared about anything.

  Salma was waiting for us at the entrance to the camp. “Ready?” Pépère asked as she hopped into the truck beside me. “Let’s go get you gussied up.”

  Pépère and I quizzed her on blueberry facts all the way to the arts and crafts barn at the fairgrounds. We couldn’t stump her, though. Salma knew every answer.

  Once we arrived, everyone got quiet. One end of the arts and crafts barn was in the process of being set up with the prize-winning quilts and flower arrangements and baskets and other things that people had made. The far end of the barn looked like a beauty parlor. Some pageant contestants were already wearing black plastic capes and sitting in the folding chairs with hair stylists behind them. Hannah was there, the front of her blonde hair up in clips, while her hairdresser curled the back. I was glad that Hannah was busy talking. I wouldn’t have known what to say after “Hi.”

  There was a weird combination of smells: old barn wood and hair spray. In the background were banners announcing the pageant and posters advertising hair products. On the opposite barn wall was a double line of eight-by-ten-inch framed photos, starting with black-and-white and ending in color—every Downeast Blueberry Queen since the first one in 1942. Right in the middle of the line was Mama smiling back at us three times.

  I’d seen these photos before, but I looked again, searching deep into her eyes. I hadn’t ever noticed, but along with the happiness on her face, I saw relief. I felt closer to her knowing she’d been scared.

  “I’ll pick you girls up here in an hour or so and take you to the church,” Pépère said, beside me. He turned and strode up the long center aisle back toward daylight, like it was too hard to be there another minute.

  Each hairdresser from Glorious Hair Styling had been assigned one potential blueberry queen. Salma’s girl had “Brittany” on her name tag.

  As Salma climbed into the chair, a surprised look passed between Brittany and Marcy, the stylist next to her. Brittany had dark hair, but with lighter stripes in it, kind of like a skunk. I found a folding chair so I could sit close enough to stop her from doing that to Salma.

  “Could you sit up straighter?” Brittany asked Salma. “And where do you live, honey?”

  “Mostly Florida,” Salma said, “but my family is working at Winthrop Blueberries for a little while longer.”

  “Oh, are you staying in one of those cute, little blue houses?” Brittany asked brightly. “I’ve always thought that would be fun. Like camping.”

  “It’s not camping. It’s work,” I snapped.

  But Brittany chatted on. “I like to camp in the mountains. We pitch a tent and cook outside.” She picked up a lock of Salma’s hair and studied it. “You have beautiful thick hair. But you have some split ends at the bottom. Can I trim them? It’ll give your hair more bounce.”

  “How much are you cutting?” I asked. Salma’s mom wasn’t there to make sure Brittany didn’t go wild with Salma’s hair, so I’d do it.

  Brittany’s thin, little eyebrows went up, like she was just noticing I was there. She pinched Salma’s hair between her index and middle finger and showed about two inches. “Right here.”

  “That’s a lot,” I said.

  “If it’ll make my hair better, it’s okay,” Salma said.

  Brittany looked smug, like we’d been fighting and she won. “What does your dress look like, honey?” She clip-clip-clipped, hair falling to the floor.

  “It’s blue and silver,” Salma said. “Hannah loaned it to me. She wore it last year.”

  I glanced back to Hannah still talking to her stylist. I couldn’t hear the words, but her tone carried—extra cheerful, already in pageant mode.

  “Oh, I remember that dress!” Brittany said. “Hannah is such a nice girl. I did her hair last year, and she won! We did side ringlets and a bun for her. That wouldn’t look right on you, though. Your hair is too thick for that. I could give you an updo, but I’m thinking your hair would look really pretty in a side-swept style.”

  I fidgeted until Brittany finally put down her scissors and picked up her comb. She moved the part in Salma’s hair a bit to the right, and then brushed Salma’s hair all over to the left. She held it in a side ponytail. “We’ll give you a pony that ends in a mass of curls. Or we could do a braid if you’d like. What do you think?”

  “Curls,” Salma said.

  I had to admit Salma’s hair was looking very pretty, though it didn’t really look like Salma. Then again, Pageant Hannah didn’t really look like Regular Hannah, either.

  “Close your eyes, sweetie,” Brittany said when she finished curling.

  Salma coughed at the cloud of hair spray.

  “You look fabulous!” Brittany unhooked Salma’s plastic cape. “Now, when it’s time to get dressed, be sure that you step into your dress. Don’t pull it down over your head or you’re going to mess up all my hard work. Here’s a mirror so you can have a look.”

  Salma held up the hand mirror and her whole face changed. A huge smile lit up her eyes. I was so happy that she liked how her hair looked.

  “Mama!” Salma said, hopping out of the chair.

  Mrs. Santiago was coming up behind us. Salma ran to her and hugged her. Holding up her ponytail, Salma showed her mom her curls.

  “What does this cost?” Mrs. Santiago opened her purse.

  “Nothing,” Brittany said. “We donate our services to the pageant. But a pair of dangly earrings would really complete Salma’s look.” She showed off her own earrings and then pointed to the items for sale. “We sell some over on the product wall if she doesn’t have any.”

  “It’s okay, Mama,” Salma said. “I don’t need earrings.”

  But Mrs. Santiago was walking to the display of shampoos and nail polishes and sparkly jewelry and bows. She came back with a pair of rhinestone dangly earrings that glittered. “These are good?” she asked, handing them to Brittany.

  Salma hugged her mom’s side. “They’re perfect!”

  Mrs. Santiago put her arm around Salma and spoke softly to her in Spanish. I didn’t know the words, but I could tell from her tone that it was a mom thing. I looked down at my flip-flops, wishing Pépère was there to get me.

  “Lily, here.”

  I looked up to see Mrs. Santiago holding her other arm open to me. My feet ran without me even telling them to. Holding me, she rested her cheek on my hair and said something tender in Spanish.

  It was a mom thing.

  As we walked through the front door of First Parish Congregational Church, Mrs. Santiago carried the pageant dress, still in its garment bag, over her arm and the white sandals in her hand. Beside her, Salma held her three bee houses.

  “Rosa, we’ll save you a seat,” Pépère said to Salma’s mom. “Come on, Lily. The good seats go fast.”

  Part of me wanted to go with Salma and her mom, but there probably wasn’t enough room in the ladies’ room for all three of us.

  “Good luck, Salma!” I held up my hand and crossed my fingers. “We’ll be cheering for you.”

  She held up one hand and crossed her fingers, too.

  The closest Pépère and I could get to the front was the third row of pews. Hannah’s mom and dad were in the front row. Last year, I would’ve gone over to say hi, but it felt too awkward now. I wasn’t
sure what Hannah had told them or what kind of reaction they’d give me. “If they turn around, I’ll go over,” I decided, but they were busy talking to some people I didn’t know. One of them was a boy.

  Was that the Amazing Brandon? The hair color looked right, but I couldn’t be sure. I’d only seen a few photos and never one of the back of his head.

  My feet bounced, until Pépère reached over and put his hand on my knee. “You’re shaking the whole row,” he whispered.

  “I can’t help it!” Waiting for something you want is so hard. I wished the pageant were already done, and Salma had won, and I had earned enough for Lucky. Everyone would be happy.

  But after the festival, blueberry season would be just about over. And then Salma would go. I didn’t like to think about that.

  I tried to stop fidgeting, but that just made it worse. Like trying not to scratch a bug bite. By the time the church was nearly full and Salma’s mom had joined us, I felt like I would burst from waiting.

  “Is Salma okay?” I asked her.

  Mrs. Santiago nodded. “She is ready.”

  Music started and I turned to look back toward the door. A line of girls was coming down the aisle, like a bunch of blue sequined bridesmaids at a wedding.

  In the back row of pews sat a group of workers from the camp. I hadn’t thought about how they might show up to encourage Salma—but she was part of a whole community there. Salma’s dad was smiling. He was dressed up in an embroidered red shirt with buttons. Not a T-shirt like he usually wore.

  I couldn’t help feeling a pinprick of jealousy that Salma’s dad and mom were both there. It didn’t feel fair to envy Salma, but it was a big thing to have your parents come to watch you do something new and important. There were lots of things I would’ve traded to have it, too.

  There were ten girls, all in blue, except one girl in purple and Hannah in silver. Hannah’s stylist at Glorious Hair had created lots of ringlets that bobbed as she walked.

  But Salma stood out, too. Her dark hair and brown skin drew your eye right to her. “She looks beautiful,” I whispered to her mom.

  As they reached the stage, each contestant took a seat in the line of folding chairs. I let go a deep breath to see that Salma was in the middle. Probably the best place to be, I thought. Not first. She’d have the chance to watch some others before her. But not last, either, where she’d have the most time to feel nervous, waiting through everyone else.

  Mrs. LaRue walked up to the pulpit. She was dressed in a long blue dress and a glitzy necklace and high heels. She pulled the mic down closer to her mouth. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to this year’s Downeast Blueberry Queen Pageant! Let’s begin by standing and singing ‘America, the Beautiful.’ ”

  The church filled with creaky-board sounds as people stood up from the pews. The organ played a few bars of getting-ready music, and we sang.

  O beautiful for spacious skies,

  For amber waves of grain,

  For purple mountain majesties

  Above the fruited plain!

  I wondered if “fruited plain” included blueberry barrens. Or if the migrant workers from Honduras and Mexico knew those words.

  I turned to peek. A few workers were nodding their heads to the music, but most just stood there, wide-eyed, like they didn’t really know what to make of all these sequins and sparkles in church. Or that big lady at the pulpit singing heartily off-key.

  America! America!

  God shed His grace on thee,

  And crown thy good with brotherhood

  From sea to shining sea!

  Mrs. LaRue belted that song out like an opera singer on public TV. I wondered how all this sounded to Salma and her parents. Crazy, probably.

  “Now I know you will recognize our master of ceremonies!” Mrs. LaRue said.

  Bob Kiddle, the TV weatherman from Channel 5, came to the mic, followed by a peppering of applause. “Thank you. It’s going to be a wonderful pageant and a great start to the Downeast Blueberry Festival,” he said. “But first, I’d like to introduce a few people. Your judges tonight are Lorraine LaRue, Jack Winthrop of Winthrop Blueberries, and Sheriff Mark Cotton. We also have some visiting dignitaries. Let’s give a big Downeast welcome to the Strawberry Queen and her court from the Hillsborough Fair! Girls—or should I say ‘Your Majesties’? Please come up onstage!”

  Three girls, wearing crowns and red dresses, came forward: two about my age, and a little one. The Strawberry Queen and Princesses smiled and waved, then sat in a line of chairs beside the judges.

  “And Miss Maine Sea Goddess and Sea Princess from the Lobster Festival.”

  Up came two more girls wearing crowns and waving, except they had rhinestone starfish in their crowns.

  Beside me, Mrs. Santiago ran her fingers along the strap of her purse, over and over.

  “Some past Downeast Blueberry Queens are in the audience! Ladies, please stand up and be recognized!”

  Clap, clap, clappity-clap. I looked around to see various women stand up. If Mama had been here, would she have been proud, like these women? Or embarrassed? Maybe she would’ve given a funny royal wave to the crowd and a wink to me.

  I wondered if Pépère was thinking of her, too. I reached over and put my fingers over his.

  He gave them a squeeze.

  Bob Kiddle said, “Now, it’s time to get down to business. The Downeast Blueberry Queen! This year, we have a beautiful set of young ladies. Let’s get to know them.” He picked up a page of notes. “Step forward and tell the audience where you’re from when I call your name.”

  The first girls just said a town. “Machias.” “Addison.” “Milbridge.” But when it was Salma’s turn, she stepped forward with her hands clasped in front of her and said in a clear voice, “Florida.”

  Bob Kiddle chuckled. “Well, now! You’re a long way from home, Salma!”

  He teased the other contestants, too. “You’re blinding me with those sequins, Hannah!” “Josie, you are certainly a Monroe with that red hair!” but somehow that didn’t seem hurtful. Mémère might’ve said I was being too sensitive, but I thought Mr. Kiddle was not being sensitive enough by pointing out that Salma wasn’t from here.

  “The contestants are scored for beauty, knowledge of blueberries, talent, and personality,” Bob Kiddle explained to the audience. “All those scores will be added together, and the highest score will be our new Downeast Blueberry Queen and the winner of the $5,000 savings bond. The runner-up, Blueberry Princess, will receive a one-hundred-dollar festival gift certificate, and all the contestants get a coupon to use at Glorious Hair Styling. Are you ready, ladies?”

  The girls onstage nodded, curls and earrings bobbing.

  Beside me, Salma’s mom was now clutching her purse. “She’ll do well,” I whispered to her. “She knows the answers.”

  She nodded.

  “First up is the blueberry round. That will determine which girls go on. Amber, we’ll start with you,” Mr. Kiddle said. “What percentage of lowbush wild blueberries in the USA is harvested in Maine?”

  Darn! Salma would’ve gotten it right for sure.

  “Ninety-eight percent.”

  “Very good, Amber!” Bob Kiddle said. “Carly, tell me a health benefit of wild blueberries.”

  “Wild blueberries are a rich source of antioxidants!” Carly said.

  “Hannah, when is the wild blueberry season in Maine?”

  She smiled and leaned into the mic so everyone could hear. “The wild blueberry season is late July to early September.”

  “Excellent!” Bob Kiddle said. “Salma, what special name did some of the early Wabanakis have for blueberries?”

  Salma grinned and looked right at me. “Star berries, because there’s a five-pointed star on the top of each one.”

  I grinned back, my whole inside collapsing with relief.

  As the questions came and went, I thought the answers in my head when Salma’s turn came up. Just in case ESP worked and
she could read my mind.

  “When was the first blueberry rake invented?”

  1910. 1910. 1910.

  “1910,” Salma said.

  It was hard to keep track of all the questions and who gave the best answers, but Salma only missed one.

  “Salma, what famous poem was written by Robert Frost about our state fruit?” Bob Kiddle had asked.

  Uh-oh. She glanced at me, but I didn’t know, either. That wasn’t in the brochures. I shrugged, palms up.

  “Blueberries for Sal?” she asked.

  “No, sorry. Blueberries for Sal was a children’s book, written by Robert McCloskey. ‘Blueberries’ is a poem by Robert Frost.”

  But other contestants had gotten some answers wrong, too. Mindy Gaudet forgot half the ingredients of a blueberry pie, and Amy Osgood said blueberries were canned during the Revolutionary War.

  “Well done, everyone!” Mr. Kiddle finally said. “Have the judges picked the top contestants to go on to the next round?”

  Mrs. LaRue brought him a folded white card.

  “The three contestants moving on, in no particular order, are—” Mr. Kiddle opened the card.

  He paused so long that I wanted to run up onstage and snatch the envelope out of his hand to read it myself.

  “Amber.”

  “Hannah.”

  Mrs. Santiago grabbed my hand. I clenched my teeth together as hard as I could. Please, please, please.

  “And Salma!”

  If I hadn’t been in a church, I would’ve jumped up and screamed. But one look at Salma and I knew something was wrong.

  Even from the third row, I could see her hands were shaking.

  As Bob Kiddle set up a standing microphone for Amber to sing “Amazing Grace,” Salma had her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

  Amber didn’t seem to think “Amazing Grace” was enough on its own, so she added a lot of up and down notes to jazz it up. I looked to see how the judges were taking it. Mrs. LaRue was smiling, but her eyes weren’t pleased. Mr. Winthrop looked amused, and Sheriff Cotton was reading his notes.

  “Some things don’t need bee-dazzling,” Pépère whispered to me.