The evening gown competition was a parade of tiny satin and tulle. Lily walked with her eyes forward, chin high, the way her grandmother taught her. Chloe walked barefoot—she’d forgotten her heels at the motel—and still, somehow, she glided like she was walking through water.
Then it was Lily’s turn. She tapped perfectly. Every shuffle, every flap, every ball-change was crisp as a new dollar bill. The smile on her face never wavered. When she finished, the applause was respectful, but not loud.
The summer of 2001 smelled like hairspray and chlorine bleach. Backstage at the Memorial Civic Auditorium, twenty-seven girls aged eight to twelve buzzed like a nest of glittering hornets. Mothers wielded curling irons like weapons, and the air was thick with the sweet, cloying scent of nervous sweat and Juicy Fruit gum. junior miss pageant contest 2001
Lily forced a smile. “It’s called focus.”
The audience was quiet. Then someone started clapping. The evening gown competition was a parade of
Chloe looked stunned. She walked to the center of the stage barefoot, and when they placed the rhinestone tiara on her head, it slipped down over one eye. She laughed—that wind-chime laugh—and adjusted it.
“Junior Miss Lincoln County 2001… Chloe DeLuca!” Then it was Lily’s turn
Chloe shrugged. “My mom says winning just means you get to carry the heavy trophy.” She held out her hand. “Want to split a candy bar? I have a Three Musketeers in my bag.”