“I’m sorry,” Hannah says.
I feel the world slip out from under me. “Just what in heavens did you girls go and do?”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIXSARAH LYNN
I made sure I watched that camera footage before handing it over to Mrs. Campbell, double-checked that Mr. Magnuson never once appeared in any of the videos. The night of the party at The Hollow, his truck had been parked just out of the camera’s range.
And I was glad about that, at least, because then no one would ever see the way he rejected me.
That night, when I spotted his truck parked in the trees, I peeled off from the group. When I stepped from the dark, my body felt lit from within, buzzing on booze and pot and the rush of diving naked while the boys gawked. I’d been so sure Mr. M. would be just as captivated.
But as soon as his eyes caught on me, he stepped back.Sarah Lynn? Oh God, was this you?He held up his phone.
I clasped my hands behind my back, swayed innocently, aware of how good I looked in my bikini even though I was literally frostbitten.Do you want it to be me?I’d asked.
He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing toward the splashes and laughter by the well, like he was realizing what it was—a kid party.
He put a hand to the door of his truck.I need to go, he said.Be safe, okay?
And he drove away, leaving me feeling stupid there in the woods.
But later, floating beside Olivia in the well, her fingers twined in mine, and the water so cold that I couldn’t tell where my skin endedand hers began—I felt how unimportant his rejection was. What mattered was the three of us—me, Olivia, and Hannah—together.
Now Hannah and I steel ourselves and knock on Olivia’s door. Emily answers, voice dialed low like in a hospital. “Come on in, girls.” She glances toward the couch where Olivia lies facing the back cushions. “I’ll give y’all a little privacy.” She slips out, shutting the door without even a click.
And we are left alone in the room with Olivia and the heavy blanket of her grief.
“Liv?” Hannah whispers, creeping closer like she’s approaching a wild animal.
Olivia turns her head, and her eyes are raw, lashes clumped with tears. She sniffs, then rolls back to the cushions.
Hannah sits on the couch at Olivia’s feet. I curl in behind her, spooning her. I can feel her heartbeat through her back, thudding right up against mine. Hannah leans across, draping an arm over both of us.
“Y’all are going to suffocate me,” Olivia mutters, but it’s wrapped in a snotty laugh as she pushes herself up to sitting.
“What do you need?” Hannah asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Anything.”
“Anything?” Olivia drags the heel of her hand across her nose, and when she looks at us, her voice is steady, blazing. “I want to do the pageant.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVENINGRID
I watch Travis chatting with Ben over in the corner. Travis leans back in a chair, one ankle crossed over the other knee, hands animated in a story. And it makes sense, I suppose, that Travis would be the one to talk to Ben when no one else will. He isn’t from Anhalt, doesn’t harbor years of suspicion against Ben, against the whole Sherman family. But still, I can’t shake the thought of that recording on his phone. Can’t figure out why he would have it.
The Events Hall has a strange energy, everyone exhausted, nerves frayed raw, but now a kind of manic cheer has been laid on top as they set up the room, absurdly, for the pageant. Men reset the chairs into neat rows. Women pass out programs. Mark is arranging two tripod construction lights, like spotlights pointed at the stage. The girls are off in the dressing room.
When Olivia finally emerged from her room, she had all the pageant girls rallied behind her.
We can’t do the pageant now, someone said, reasonably.
Why not?Hannah asked, and she had a point. All the contestants were here, the audience, the dresses, and the judges, and we had nothing but time on our hands.
It was Olivia, though, who convinced everyone.This last week, prepping for the pageant with Mom, she’d said,those are my best memories of her. I want to do it for her.How could anyone argue?
Even Mom has a little color back in her face. She’s refreshed hermakeup and tamed her hair, and she’s sitting in the front row, ready for her moment to bring the crown up to the stage.
Outside, the night is inky black, the soft flakes swirling. It’s like one of Izzy’s snow globes in reverse. I think of how the room would look from out there, all of us encapsulated on the inside, lit up and displayed like specimens in a jar.