“Yeah,” I say. “I know that feeling.”
“Now can I ask you something?” Chicky says.
I nod.
“Why now?” she asks. “You have two years. No one in our grade enters. You know that.”
“Except Kendra.”
“Right. Exactly.”
If she says I’m too brown/too chubby/too wobbly on high heels to win a pageant, I’m leaving. I know all that, and I don’t need to hear it from her.
When she doesn’t, I answer her question.
“You know how you literally can’t do it anymore?” I ask.
She nods.
“I literally can’t wait two years,” I say.
I wince, waiting for her to ask why, knowing I won’t tell her.
I only told Bruja Lupe—weeks ago, when the first ribbon of stardust appeared—because I thought she’d know how to make it stop. The air in our house has felt a little sadder ever since the night she told me she couldn’t, didn’t know how. Ever since every remedio didn’t turn it back.
But Chicky doesn’t ask why.
Instead, the sunflowers in the centers of her eyes brighten, as sudden as clouds clearing. “And you’re sure you have this in you? Prancing around in sparkles?”
“If I had the stomach to help you steal Fresa’s tweezers, I have the stomach for anything.”
“Oh my God!” Fresa comes thundering toward the booth. “That was you two! I knew it!”
“Run,” Chicky says under her breath.
I slide out of the booth.
Chicky lopes after me.
Our only salvation is that I’m pretty sure Fresa’s nails are wet—I can tell by how they’re shining—so she won’t grab the door and come after us.
But we’re still running and laughing, and we could almost be out with the cactuses again, years ago, when we were friends and Miss Meteor was something we acted out in old evening gowns under the desert sky.
Chicky
I’M SITTING AT the kitchen table, stress-eating pickles and wondering what I’ve gotten myself into, when the fight breaks out.
“Give me back my leggings!”
“You guys, can’t we handle this without screaming?”
“I’m gonna KILL you!”
I roll my eyes, putting the pickle jar back before taking the stairs two at a time. I’ve been avoiding this moment. Asking Fresa for help with the pageant makes it more than just nostalgia. More than remembering Lita and I in the cactus field, her in too-big high heels, me with a clipboard shouting out instructions.
If I get Fresa involved, that means we’re doing this. For real. In front of God and Kendra Kendall and Junior and Mr. Hamilton and everyone.
Everyone . . .
In the hallway outside our bedrooms, Uva is still standing between Cereza and Fresa, but I can tell her courage won’t last much longer.
“You know those are my leggings,” Cereza says, in a voice that will probably convince patients to agree to risky medical treatments someday, but it does nothing for Fresa, whose pupils are dilated in a way I have associated with danger since I was six years old.
“They’re my leggings,” she says. “I bought them because Berto said my ass looks good in them. Like I would forget that.”
“Oh yes, because the objectifying comments of a guy who drinks tall cans of Modelo out of paper bags in the gas station parking lot hold any sway in this argument whatsoever.”
“Hey, Fresa,” I say, knowing I’d be better off waiting for the next ice age than the end of one of their legendary arguments. She doesn’t even turn.
“Maybe you wouldn’t be so mad if anyone ever told you your ass looks good in something,” Fresa retorts. “In fact, you know what, Rez, you can have them. My gift to you. Maybe you’ll get laid and stop being such a b—”
“Oh, like I even want your ho charity!” Cereza screeches.
“So you admit they’re mine!”
“OH MY G—”
“HEY, FRESA!” I yell, and for once, they all go silent. Three pairs of surprised eyes turn my way. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Uh, sure, Flaca,” she says, turning back to Cereza. “You’re lucky I’m such a good sister, bitch. Wear those leggings tonight, and your hoops. Thank me later.” She turns and beckons me into her room before Cereza’s face can go from red to purple.
“So, what’s up?” She pulls a pillow onto her lap. I haven’t been in this room for months. There are cutout photos of greased abs on every flat surface. It’s nauseating.
“It’s . . . about Miss Meteor,” I begin, and she perks up instantly. “I’m not entering,” I clarify quickly. “But . . . Lita wants to.”
I wait for her to laugh.
“You mean in the cactus field like you guys used to when you were little, right?” she asks, her eyes narrowing. “Great, I’m glad you found a hobby, hermanita. Because you can’t possibly be talking about Lita Perez and the actual Miss Meteor pageant.”
I exhale loudly. “Except that I am.”
“Take it from me,” Fresa says, with an expertly arched eyebrow. “Try underwater welding or something. It’ll be safer.”
“I’m . . . pretty determined.”
Fresa blows her bangs up, then fixes me with a penetrating stare.
“Why on earth would you do something that stupid? Is this about your weird obsession with Kendra Kendall again?”
“No,” I say, instantly defensive. “Okay, yes.”
“I thought you wanted to humiliate her, not yourself.”
“Think about it, though,” I say, some of the delusional magic that made me say yes to Lita’s diner pitch infecting me again. “Losing to Lita? It would be total social devastation.”
Fresa would never admit it, but her eyes start to sparkle, just a little. It’s dangerous, like the glint of a streetlight on the barrel of a gun.
“To not just lose, but to lose to people like us?”
Fresa twirls a strand of perfectly blown out hair around her French-manicured index finger. “Okay, I mean, in theory I kind of love it. But Lita, really? I mean . . . she has even less of a chance at winning than you do, and that’s . . . really saying something.”
“Why do you think we need you?”
Fresa’s eyes unfocus, like she’s gone somewhere deeper in search of an answer. It’s a few minutes before she comes back.
“Fuck it, I’m in,” she says.
“Just like that?” I ask, halfway through coming up with another prong of attack. I’m instantly suspicious. “What’s in it for you?”
“Duh, justice,” she says. “I mean, everyone knows I was robbed last year. And the only thing this world loves more than a dynasty blond girl is a good Cinderella story, right? So, we make Lita fucking Perez a real contender for the tiara. We upset the balance. We piss off the Kendalls and all their weird groupies.”
I can tell she’s serious, because she hasn’t said “bitch” in, like, five minutes.
“Worst-case scenario, she doesn’t win, but everyone’s talking about this for years to come. Kendra’s spotlight gets stolen. Best-case scenario, she actually wins, Kendra is ruined, and there’s finally a brown girl wearing that sash.”