When I entered the ballroom, three contestants stopped their conversation and stared at me, two ladies gave me finger waves, and one of the staff members paused to let me pass in front of him. The mirror hadn’t lied. I looked like royalty.
After the photographer snapped a hundred or so group photos of all of us in our gowns, we were rushed backstage so the audience could enter and find their seats. As we lined up in the wings, I peered out at the crowd, at the judges’ dais, at Savilla, who sat sandwiched between Miss 1962’s hunched shoulders and Katie Gilman’s buxom frame. Savilla wore a floor-length white gown that looked as if it was made out of whatever angels wore. The smooth satin trailed around her like rippling water.
Katie, in a silver sequined sheath dress, poured Savilla a glass of water, and the younger girl leaned forward and whispered in her ear. Katie threw back her head and laughed. The action struck me as intimate, as familiar, as far from employer to employee as one could get.
It was almost time for the show to start, and although I wanted to keep an eye on those two women, I needed to mentally prepare myself for the evening ahead. Afterward, I could thinkabout the real Miss 2001 and why she had been hiding in plain sight—and if her hiding might mean something more sinister.
“You look amazing,” Summer said when she greeted me. “That shade brings out your eyes and your highlights…” She paused and brought her fingers to her lips in a semblance of awe. “You’re stunning.”
Jemma reluctantly agreed, so I knew it must be true. “You look just like the photos of your aunt the year she won.”
Until tonight I’d never seen the resemblance to Aunt DeeDee as quickly as everyone around me. Even Momma had called me Aunt DeeDee’s Mini-Me on occasion, because our mannerisms and expressions were so similar. Still, I had trouble believing I looked half as good as Aunt DeeDee had on her big night.
As I watched the room fill, goosebumps prickled my skin. Behind me, Summer rested a hand on my shoulder before heading to the other side of the stage. “Don’t worry. The show goes by super fast.”
Jemma offered a rare smile from a couple of contestants behind me. “You’ll blink, and it’s over.”
I took as deep a breath as my corset would allow.
“Places for the opening number, ladies,” Lacy called backstage. “Places!”
The Rose Palace Pageant’s theme song blared through the ballroom and the house lights dimmed as we made our way across the platform, waving our arms and stepping in time to the music. The lights on us felt like heat lamps, and I began to glisten. I was grateful when a single spotlight shone on my aunt at center stage.
“Welcome,” Aunt DeeDee said to the room filled with people.
Resounding applause and a few cheers echoed. Every seat was filled.
“We couldn’t be more thrilled to have you here with us to celebrate the one hundredth anniversary of the Rose Palace Pageant, as well as these remarkable women.”
Her arms extended toward us, and I found myself proud to be among these contestants: Jemma with a hard outer shell that hid a deep love for her family, and Summer with aspirations to help every child in need. Some of them could be silly or mean or ridiculous, but most were just women with insecurities and flaws, strengths and dreams.
Next, Aunt DeeDee segued into a video of this week that had been spliced together. We exited to the dark wings of the stage, and those up first for the talent portion prepared quickly. As we waited, I caught images on the giant screen of us ladies making silly headpieces, conversing at morning tea, and rehearsing in the tents. Photos flickered across the screen, conveniently leaving out the darker side of the last few days: the murder and poisoning, the missing crown and the discovered corpse.
“And now, it’s time for our first performance of the evening. Please welcome to the stage… Summer Patel.”
The staff rolled a giant piano across the wooden stage, and Summer sat in front of the keys, a calm resolution on her face as she placed her hands on the ivory and began to play. I recognized the piece as “I Hope You Dance”by Lee Ann Womack, a song I would’ve thought cheesy except for the fact that it had been one of Momma’s favorites.
She played lyrically, her fingers gliding over the notes and I couldn’t tear myself away from the edge of the velvet curtain as the words came back to me, a mother’s wish for her child. I felt a hand on my shoulder and caught a whiff of Aunt DeeDee’s perfume.
“I miss her too,” she said softly, reminding me of another thing we had in common. Aunt DeeDee handed me a Kleenex from her cleavage, and I dabbed at my eyes.
Several acts passed quickly as women danced and mimed and played instruments.
I perched on the edge of a stool as I waited for my turn to showcase my talent. I studied the judges. Miss 1962 wore a flat expression; Savilla sat with a straight spine, taking her new job very seriously; and Katie Gilman was all smiles.
Forty-five minutes later, Jemma walked onto the stage and began singing and dancing toRent’s“No Day But Today,” and my breath caught. Jemma, this law-student-turned-barista who wanted to produce an off-Broadway show about her brother, was an incredible performer with a mystifying stage presence, though I had to admit that this song didn’t have the same kind of soul as the one she’d sung in the tunnel when she’d been calming our fears. Still, her talent was astounding.
I was reminded that the women here contained multitudes—and I was next. I went quietly to where Lacy had left my saddle, a stand, and a brush. Then, I slipped out of my heels and stepped into my boots, grabbing my tools of the trade and pressing the leather against my hip. I set them at the edge of the curtains so I could pull my supplies onto the stage and finish as quickly as possible before making my exit.
In what seemed like mere seconds, Jemma ended the song to applause and bowed twice before hurrying off-stage.
“Good luck, cowgirl,” she said, her smile playful.
I grabbed my supplies and put one foot in front of the other until I stood under the bright lights, trying to keep myself from shielding my eyes in the glare as I spoke.
“Hello. My name is Dakota Green,” I said, my nerves rising to the surface. How I wished I could rope a calf or even ride a bucking bronco—anything to take the attention off of me and onto a majestic animal.
I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, and a couple of hoots came from the audience. “I love your boots,” one woman yelled from the back.
