“We have rehearsals in a half-hour,” Jemma said, as if I couldn’t read my responsibilities in black font on the page. “If you miss that?—”
“I won’t miss it,” I said through clenched teeth. “I just need a few minutes to collect myself.” I scanned the list of activities—Ihad no time for a ride. I would have to be content stomping out my rage against the sheriff before my next obligation.
“Fine. I’ll see you in a few. Wash your face and buck up, cowgirl,” Jemma said. Then, she walked ahead, leaving me alone.
I took several deep breaths and a few laps around the gardens before stepping onto the wide back lawn and into the first Through the Decades tent.
It was astounding. The space following an obvious organizational structure from the 1920s through to the 2010s: five massive tents on one side and five on the other of a wide strip of green. I was right on time, and a mix of contestants and staff was milling about. I breathed deeply and then made my way down to the 1950s for rehearsal.
At the entrance to the tent a sign readingRose Pageant Soda Shopstood next to a life-size cutout of a soda jerk in full uniform, holding two malted milkshakes. As I looked around for someone in charge, my eyes took in what must’ve been every shade of pastel known to man. It was like the 1950s wanted visitors to know just how perfect things had been before it threw up all over you.
Not only was there a malt shop with a giant menu of ice cream flavors, a counter, and rounded stools, but the 1950s tent also featured the interior of a small mid-century home complete with light yellow walls, baby-blue cabinets, and low-slung, blocky furniture. Giant cutouts of a smiling Elvis, Elizabeth Taylor, and James Dean stood between the front of the stage and a dance floor stenciled with giant letters that readSOCK HOP.
Women rushed around the stage, a few of them with costumes flung over their arms. I spotted Jemma standing in front of a full-length mirror, bobby-pinning an orange domed hat that looked a bit like a repurposed cereal bowl to her head.She seemed to have recovered better than me from our chat with the sheriff.
“Hey,” Summer called, waving me over in front of a cart loaded with boxes and hanging bags. The cart was rusted in places and had been splattered with paint along the bottom edge. “You need to grab your costume.”
I looked around at the stacked containers near the stage. “From there?”
“Those are the giveaways for everyone who comes to the fifties,” Summer said, tapping the top of the cardboard.
“What’s the prize?” I asked, thinking about that decade’s icons and inventions. “Oooo… I know! Birth control pills?”
“Nope. Too suggestive.” She laughed. “I believe these are hula hoops.”
“How’s Savilla?” I asked.
“I dropped her at the hospital, and she went straight inside to be with her stepmother, so I drove back here. I’m hopeful.”
I couldn’t help but smile at Summer’s optimistic outlook.
The sheriff, talking with one of his officers, ambled to the outskirts of our tent, but when he stopped and took in the surroundings, bewilderment settled across his face. I caught the other women watching him, a couple of them starting his way, most likely trying to either flirt or find out what happened to Mrs. Finch.
I hated the amusement creeping onto Sheriff Strong’s face as he took in the colorful 1950s décor, the multiplicity of staged settings, the barrage of lights and music. This was the Aubergine I’d always known and loved, the town that would be incomplete without its Spooky Tricks & Treats Fall Festival, the Living History Presidential Parade, the Pink and White Valentine Sock Hop, or the Hide a Bunny Easter Festival. I’d participated in all of them during my childhood, and here, through a new-in-town man’s eyes, I suddenly felt protective of where my family hadlived for generations. He had a lot to learn if he was planning to be sheriff in this county for long. To start, he needed to realize that, in Aubergine, we go all in.
I tried to dismiss the sheriff from my thoughts as Summer ran over and handed me a dress originally labeledSavilla Finch.Her name had been crossed out, and mine had been added. This dress, a size too small for me, was red with white polka dots, a lacy short collar, and had a white apron. In it, I would appear to be a moving target that screamed, “Kill Me Next.”
I thanked Summer, who scurried away, and I wandered toward Jemma, who was once again a girl-boss—although in a flared yellow skirt, she looked like a 1950s housewife version, if ever there was such a thing.
Gone was the concerned and almost vulnerable girl from the Finch apartments. Instead, Jemma gave me the rundown in her usual authoritative tone: Along with two girls named Gina and Nina—which wasn’t at all confusing—we were set to perform a living history skit a few hours after the tents opened to guests on Saturday. The decades tents and the show, which seemed a pretty generous term for ten minutes of subpar acting, was a “treat” for the centennial, according to the pageant program.
Jemma handed me pages as I walked into a kitchen with a fake stove and pink laminate countertops. The set—complete with the kitchen, a living area, an entryway, and a front door— was all a façade. Nothing functioned. “Learn your lines. We rehearse in a few minutes.”
“Any acting notes?” I joked.
Jemma stared at me for several seconds, taking my question seriously. “It’s the 1950s. Embody the decade. Everything in this tent is legit from that era, and everything we do should bring people back to that point in time.”
“Suppressed proto-feminist. Got it,” I said, skimming the first page.
1950s Living History: A Rose Palace Pageant Girl’s Typical Cares & Concerns
Narrator (Nina): The 1950s pageant contestant encountered the same cares and concerns that twenty-first century gals experience today. Take Mildred, for example. (Motions to Host)
She just finished college with a degree in Art History, and she’s returned home to live with her parents until she findsThe One. What’s a girl to do between learning to care for a home and waiting for a proposal? Perhaps compete in a pageant that will help with both of these endeavors? Let’s take a look.
Host (SavillaDakota): (In the kitchen, frustrated but composed. Makeup and hair should be perfect)Gosh darn it! I can’t believe my soufflé fell again. What will the judges think at the baking portion of the show when I can’t serve them anything edible? And what will Robert think when he comes over tonight? He’ll never ask me to marry him if I can’t learn how to cook. He might even tan my hide!
Uh. No. No, no, no, no.
