The Moment Before

Chapter Twenty-Eight

TWENTY-EIGHT

Mom, Dad and I sit in our pricey Rose Festival Queen Coronation seats, and in front of us, in a semi-circle up on the stage, is a wave of pink. The princesses are ethnically diverse, but they are all sisters today in matching gowns, each of them delicately arranged on a chair, sparkly silver tiaras nestled upon their royal coifs.

            Nick is nowhere to be seen. This morning I helped Martha apply gobs of concealer, rubbing out the black circles under her eyes. Years of charcoal shading has given me a terrific skillset. If I don’t make it as an artist, there’s always a career in makeup.

            “He didn’t take it very well,” she told me.

            “But, you told him what you heard, right?”

            Martha assured me. It’s over. Nick is history.

            Now, gazing upon her calm face, her perfect smile, you’d never know she just broke up with her boyfriend. Of course, the pill she popped probably helped.

            I tell myself to calm down. Enjoy the outing with my parents. Aside from his mandatory Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, it’s Dad’s first public event since his heart attack, and, twenty pounds slimmer, sober and well-rested, he looks like the handsome old dad of years ago. Mom and he are holding hands like a new couple. For the moment, I’m thinking, everything is perfect.

            A Rosarian, dressed in a dashing red tuxedo, takes the podium and talks about how each of these girls is an example to young people everywhere. They are the future of our city. Even though there’s only one girl who will be crowned Queen, they are all winners.

            Bullshit, says Sabine. Sabine, who earlier told me to pocket the key to her car. Now, my fingers reach down into the pocket of my raincoat and dig the metal notches into my skin.

            A few more speeches, a list of donors and sponsors, a plug for Pacific Power.

            Then, the moment we’ve all been waiting for.

“All princesses please stand.”

            The pink wave rises. I grab Dad’s hand.

            A disembodied announcer’s voice booms out the echoey loudspeaker.

            “It is my pleasure. To introduce. This year’s Rose Festival Queen…”

            The princesses are rapt. Trying to look poised, because the close-up cameras are zeroing in. God forbid you scowl when your name isn’t the one bouncing off the coliseum walls.

            “…Martha Hornbuckle.”

            Dad pumps his fist in the air. Mom stands and claps so loud you’d think Martha was her own daughter. And me? I’m happy in a quieter way. A fairy-tale ending way. Martha is Cinderella up there, without Prince Charming, but with all the riches and treasures.

            Good for her, says Sabine, meaning it.

            The Jumbotron hanging from the center of the coliseum zooms in on a little African American boy in a white suit. He holds a jeweled crown on a pillow and walks slowly, carefully to Martha, who, at this moment, is being draped in a long robe.