The Tiara on the Terrace (23 page)

“Something so big she was willing to kill for it,” I said, not believing the words coming out of my mouth.

“It's a lot less crazy than Barb Lund, when you think about it. Taking out everyone in town who kept your daughter from becoming fake royalty?” Trista made a face.

“You guys,” I said glumly. “If any of this is right, Barb is missing her favorite day of the year. While sitting behind bars.” I pictured Ms. Lund's overstuffed office spilling over with all its Royal Court headshots and souvenirs, and felt a stab of guilt. Barb Lund was “odd,” as Rod's mom had said, but it had started to sink in that we really might have misunderstood her. All her commands and barking at everyone with her megaphone—it could be because she cared just a little too much. I could see why Rod's dad had taken one look at her threatening email and gone to her to ask about it. It was crazy . . . but it was also very her.

Grace shook her head, and sighed. “Listen, we still have some time.”

“Her office is shut tight, but if we get a chance to sneak in . . . ,” I said.

Trista smiled. “I never met a lock I couldn't pick,” she said.

We made a quick plan. Grace and I were going to see if we could get back to Steptoe's office and check his search history for those Pretty Perfect videos. Trista was going to find a chance to sweep Sparrow's office either on her way to or from trying to fix the Root Beer float so it could hit its full speed. When Grace and I shot each other a hesitant look, she scolded us in a perfect whisper. “I got this spying thing down, I swear! Though . . .” Her satiny dress rustled as she wriggled around. “It's hard to go stealth in this.”

Grace and I stifled our laughs. “Speaking of which, Soph—you have to get ready!”

Trista, Grace, and I reached for each other's hands. “We've got this, Wonder Women,” Grace said. “I know we do.”

“All right. Off I go,” Trista said. She reached for her cargo jacket on her bed, then changed her mind. She spun back to us and outstretched her arms. “Better without?”

“Better without,” Grace and I replied, grinning.

Trista nodded and smiled at herself in the mirror one more time before disappearing through the door.

“T
here you are, pages!” Ms. Sparrow greeted us as we walked into the Queen and Court sitting room. Grace had hurriedly helped me change back into my dress. It clung so tightly to my legs I had to take tiny steps and shuffle along like a penguin. Behind Ms. Sparrow hairstylists buzzed around the Court folding beautiful hair into all kinds of impossible updos, braids, twists, and flowing curls. The tiaras sat in a row on plush velvet holders in front of the make-up stations we'd set up the day before, sparkling in the light that streamed in through the blinds. My heart thudded against my chest. It was a miracle everyone in the room couldn't hear it, even with all the swishing of dresses and chattering.

Ms. Sparrow frowned. “Where's Trista?”

“She had to do a final check on the Root Beer float.
She'll be here in a minute,” I said with a shrug.

“Ah, of course.” Ms. Sparrow nodded. Then she smiled at us, eyebrows raised questioningly. “Everything . . . a little better?”

Grace and I looked at each other and nodded, flashing her our own fake smiles. “We all make mistakes,” Grace said. She gripped my hand so tightly that it throbbed. “Right, Soph?”

“Right,” I said, squeezing her hand back. We might have been acting for Ms. Sparrow, but her words felt true. I hoped they were.

Kendra and Sienna nudged each other and mouthed an
a
www.
Ms. Sparrow held her smile as she pointed to Grandpa Young's dog tags around my neck. “Those don't match so well, do they?” she said, as if I'd simply forgotten to take them off. She leaned forward to help me slip them over my head.

“Oh, no,” I cut in, stepping back. “They're for luck,” I explained.

Ms. Sparrow's eyes twinkled with amusement. “Ah, I see,” she said, then waved us over to help the stylists.

Grace and I set to work, trying to appear as normal and cheerful as possible as we handed over brushes and compacts, brought herbal tea to the princesses, and checked
their dresses for stains and loose threads. I didn't even flinch when Sienna asked me to rub sparkly bronzer over her shoulders. Meanwhile, Grace dabbed concealer over Kendra's tiara injury. Danica and Denise tended to Her Majesty Jardine, who spouted a constant stream of regal orders. Ms. Sparrow breezed in and out so unpredictably we couldn't find a chance to slip away, but we darted glances to the door, expecting Trista any minute.

She never came.

By our 11:30 a.m. float-boarding time Grace and I were fighting to hide our panic that Trista was still missing as the Brown Suiters ushered us all down the grand staircase. We swished across the wide lawn and through the tall wrought-iron mansion gates to the Luna Vista Boulevard staging area where the floats were parked in order. The bleachers that Jake and other high-school volunteers had set up weeks ago lined the sidewalk just ahead. Families crowded in front of them with folding chairs. Brown Suiters rushed around in a flurry, fresh Coral Beauty roses pinned to their lapels next to round buttons printed with Mr. Steptoe's favorite motto: THE WINTER SUN ALWAYS SHINES. My throat tightened as I realized that Grace and I had to make sure that it really did.

Music blared from speakers, filling my chest with a bass thump and making my heart race even faster as we approached the Royal Court float. The dolphins Grace and I had hidden behind as we eavesdropped on the police now leaped gracefully over waves made of irises and Queen Anne's lace. A figure of Neptune jutted out from the front of the float, his grassy white beard flowing into the “waves.” He pointed the way down the parade route with his trident made of silverleaf toward the real ocean, blue and sparkling below the bluffs. Grace reached for my arm. I clutched it as if she'd thrown me a lifesaver.

Rod's dad buzzed by on a white scooter, then circled back to check on us. “Look at you two! The best ambassadors the Festival could hope for,” he said with a smile. “I just saw your families sitting in the main bandstand. They couldn't be prouder of you all. And I couldn't be more grateful,” he added. Then his face clouded over. “Where's Page Bottoms?”

“Oh, she'll be here any minute,” Grace said, trying to sound casual.

“I was worried she'd had second thoughts!” he said. “Rod says hello, by the way,” He pointed to the huddle of white jumpsuits behind the prancing team of Palominos we'd seen at the barn. “But, as my dear old friend Jim would have
said, ‘Doody calls.'” He winked and zipped off on his scooter again.

Grace and I traded a look. A drip of sweat trickled down my back. “Maybe she's using the parade as a distraction?” I whispered hopefully. “While we're all out here, she went in there.” I jerked my head to the mansion.

“And miss seeing her Root Beer float in action?” Grace looked skeptical. “I hope you're right.” She glanced toward Ms. Sparrow, who was striding past Neptune, her eyes flitting around frantically. I felt the air squeezing out of my lungs, and it wasn't just because my mermaid dress was so tight. I craned my neck to look for Grandpa Young among the VFW vets in their military uniforms lining up several floats behind ours, but I couldn't make him out.

Around us trumpets and tubas blared warm-up scales. Horse hooves clip-clopped on the pavement. At the corner where the parade route officially began, the crowd shuffled and murmured and laughed as they settled into the bleachers, looking like a rippling colorful patchwork quilt. The noon sun made everything feel sharp and too bright.

“Okay, my princesses and Queen,” Ms. Sparrow called out, “Group hug!” She waved us all around, her coppery hair tousled from the breeze and her cheeks flushed. The Court's faces glowed with excitement, and their eyes
glistened. Their perfume mixed with the sickly sweet smell of the flowers, making me feel a little ill.

“Places, everyone!” Ms. Sparrow called out. One of the Brown Suiters handed each of us a tiny radio earpiece so we'd be able to follow the parade announcer's feed throughout the route. Two others began to help us board the float.

Jardine stiffened. “Where's Trista?” she asked, refusing to take another step. “We can't board without Trista!” She crossed her white-gloved arms over her chest. “My whole Court needs to be together.”

Kendra nodded. “We're Festival family. We can't just leave her!”

“I'm sorry, ladies. There's no time,” Ms. Sparrow said, waving us toward the giant half clamshell we were supposed to stand in front of. “I've sent some folks to look for her. She'll be along any second, I'm sure.” She cringed and lifted her shoulders apologetically. “But you know as well as I do how Trista felt about being paraded through the whole town in a dress today. We have to stay on schedule, no matter what. It's our big day.
Your
big day.”

My insides turned to ice. Grace pressed her arm against mine. The image of Trista whirling, twirling, pouting, and strutting around the room in her blue dress had to be
tumbling through her head too. I wasn't sure if my heart was still beating at all. I definitely wasn't breathing. Trista was in trouble.

Reluctantly, the Court let the Brown Suiters help them up to the float. The noise of the crowds and music faded behind the roar of panic filling my head. I looked down the gently sloping parade route, past the ragged bluffs, and fixed my eyes on the solid still blues of the water and sky, hoping the sight would calm me. My heart only beat faster.

Near the line of TV cameras under the announcer's booth I spotted Mr. Zimball taking his place next to Harrison Lee in the parade's lead car, an old Model T. They sat with one of Grandpa Young's friends from the VFW, the oldest war veteran in town. Dressed in his full Navy uniform, he saluted the waiting crowd. I felt for the dog tags hanging around my neck and said a little prayer for Trista.

“Up you go!” a Brown Suiter took my hand as she helped me up the portable boarding stairs. My legs felt shaky. Grace reached out from the float to steady me, then led me forward into our positions. Jardine took her throne under the giant clamshell and closed her eyes as if she were meditating. Danica and Denise looked at each other worriedly. But when the herald trumpeters blasted their horns to signal
the parade's start, Jardine's eyes blinked open like someone had turned on a switch, and her lips spread in a dazzling white smile.

It was Festival time.

“This is it, Royal Court!” Ms. Sparrow called, beaming from the street as she gave us the “washing the window” parade wave we'd been practicing all weekend. “Now remember. No need to worry, just—”

“Be ourselves!” the Court echoed back, giggling.

“Only better,” Sienna added with a smile.

I squeezed Grace's hand and smiled too. For a moment, I even wondered if everything might turn out okay after all.

Mr. Zimball and Mr. Lee's Model T backfired as it rattled forward, startling the crowd. The Royal Court thrust their shoulders back and exchanged secret looks, smiles blazing. I pasted on my own smile and met their eyes, desperately wishing the adrenaline bolting through me was because I was excited too. I kept twisting my neck, looking for Trista to come rushing down the street, dress flying behind her like a superhero's cape.

“What do we do, Grace?” I muttered like a ventriloquist through my clenched smile. In a minute we'd be pulling out of the line-up and passing the first set of bleachers.

“I have no idea, Sophie. Get through this?” She turned
and blew a kiss to a little girl along the sidewalk jerking a balloon up and down to get our attention. Behind her a clown on stilts teetered around twirling fire batons as several onlookers oohed and ahhed.

The speakers suddenly blared with marching-band horns, and the floats in front of us lurched forward.

In the announcer's booth at the top of the grandstand, the longtime “Voices of the Festival,” Mr. Diaz and our local Channel 5 newscaster, Elise Hoffman, kept up a stream of goofy narration when they could get a word in edgewise above the bands. It crackled over our radio earpieces.

“Now how great is that?” Mr. Diaz boomed, and I worried he might dive into a long history of the Palominos again. “Kicking off our ‘We Are Family' theme in style is the It's All Relative! float, one of the several entries sponsored by AmStar this year. This one commemorates the hundred-year anniversary of Albert Einstein's theory of relativity. As I understand it, creating ol' Albert's wild mane of hair required half a truckload of white pampas grass! Now that's some circumstantial pampas . . . or should I say . . . pampas circumstance?”

Elise Hoffman chuckled along with the adults in the crowd at what I guessed must be some kind of pun. “Speaking of pomp and circumstance, Fred, here comes everyone's
favorite, the Route Integrity Team, otherwise known as our beloved Pooper Scoopers! Look at this fine crew of young men and women, ably led by Mr. Joshua Katz.”

“You know, Elise, I'm not sure white is the best choice of color for those jumpsuits. Talk about dirty work!” Mr. Diaz guffawed.

Huge outdoor TV screens across from the main grandstand flashed images of the Palomino riders in full Western gear. Small monitors hidden in the mini seaweed-covered treasure chests on the float in front of us displayed the same feed. I squinted at one of the screens and spotted Rod in the crew behind the horses, his shovel glinting as he twirled it. The crowd roared and laughed as one of the crew scraped up something from the road and dumped it in the gray trash barrel that Rod tugged along with his free hand. The Pooper Scooper team took bows as the marching band behind them raised their horns and burst into Kool and the Gang's “Celebration.” Rod joined in the team's funny little dance as he grinned at the crowd. At least one of us could enjoy the moment.

“This is some parade route, isn't it, Fred?” Ms. Hoffman continued cheerily. “These bands will be marching two miles in the sunshine today, but it'll be worth it. This first half-mile stretch ends at right at Luna Vista's stunning
bluffs, then they'll turn south onto Vista del Mar and continue with a gorgeous ocean view the rest of the way.”

The marching band in front of us lifted their horns and high-stepped ahead, knees bobbing. Our float jerked forward to fill the empty space. I sucked in a breath. It was happening. It wouldn't be long before Mr. Diaz announced our float.

“Here she comes, Elise,” Mr. Diaz called out as Luna Vista's 125th anniversary Root Beer float wheeled past them, its giant frosty white “mug” puffing out soapy bubbles as Ridley root beer advertising jingles through the ages blared from its hidden speakers. “If you don't drink Ridley, you don't know diddly!”
went one cheesy tune. “Bring good cheer, buy Ridley root beer!”
ordered another.

“The first-ever remote-controlled Festival float,” Mr. Diaz sang out. I recognized the AmStar employee beside him, who grinned and held up a black remote-control box he was steering the float with. “Thanks to AmStar's team of top engineers and the help of techno-whiz Royal Page Trista Bottoms, there's one less driver sweating away in one of those tiny compartments today,” Mr. Diaz declared. “Now what would our founder Willard Ridley make of that?”