When we hang up, I smile bigger than I have all week. Junior and I might be in a fight, or whatever it is, but he would never make me do this alone. I should have known better than to doubt him.
When I climb into the back of Cereza’s car, sandwiched between Fresa and Uva with Lita up front, I’m suddenly sure everything is going to be okay.
It only takes seven minutes to drive anywhere in Meteor, so we’re in front of the Bradley Dealership before my hopeful bubble has time to deflate.
It’s a massive building by Meteor standards, floor-to-ceiling windows, light spilling out of every one into the darkened desert. One of those glass and metal atrocities that reminds you of some fancy bachelor’s coffee table, but somehow with a giant fountain right in the middle of it.
Yeah. Inside. It’s just as ridiculous as it sounds.
The event is set up in the showroom, and there are three brand-new Corvettes parked in spotlights right there on the floor—an orange one, a blue one, and a silver one. Meteor Central High colors.
I look around for a massive shiny decorative vase to vomit in.
Instead, I see anyone who’s anyone in Meteor milling around through the windows while my sisters arrange Lita’s outfit by the car. It’s casual but classy, according to Fresa. Black pants, tapered at the ankle, a pair of Fresa’s suede booties in charcoal gray, with just a little bit of a heel. The top is Cereza’s, a deep purple flowy thing with a modest neckline, pinned in the back to account for Lita’s height—or lack thereof.
She looks good, as far as I can tell. Well, I mean she looks like someone else. Which I guess is the point.
“Okay, ready!” Cereza says.
“As we’ll ever be,” Fresa mutters under her breath.
“I don’t think we should all walk in together,” Lita says, stopping us. She has her “I’m on a mission” face on, and no one dares to argue with her. “I mean, we are trying to avoid looking like a motorcycle gang, right?”
Fresa snorts, but Cereza agrees.
“I’ll go in first,” Lita continues, like she’s a general in a field tent. “Everyone spread out. Say hello to people who say hello to you, ignore everyone else, and smile. Do one lap, then we’ll all meet up at the punch table to go over our next move, understood?”
We all nod, because no one has a better idea, but faced with the actual Bradley Dealership even my fierce-as-hell sisters seem a little cowed.
“Fresa and Cereza, set up camp by the table,” Lita goes on. “And Uva, you and Chicky go through the side door.”
“Capisce?” she asks me, and I smile.
“Capisce.”
They’ve really gone all out, I think as I follow Uva around the front to the side door. Those jerks. Aside from the stupid cars, there are bunches of orange, blue, and silver balloons bracketing massive banners advertising the pageant.
Well, they would be, if BRADLEY DEALERSHIP, HOST AND SPONSOR wasn’t printed bigger on every single banner than the name of the pageant.
I think of Fresa’s sabotage idea and imagine one of them on fire.
“No arson,” Uva says as we enter, trying to be incognito.
“How did you—”
“It’s just a look you get,” she says with a long-suffering eye roll. “It’s a Fresa look.”
I don’t know whether to be offended or flattered.
“I need to find Junior,” I say, when we’ve successfully found a corner where no one will hiss or boo at us. “His mom said he’s here, and I think he’s waiting for me.”
“Oh,” Uva says, and her face turns a little plum colored right in the hollows of her cheeks. “I don’t think he’s here yet. Maybe we should get some food instead? You know, check out the competition.”
“Why does your voice sound weird?” I ask her.
“It always sounds like that when I’m hungry. Come on.”
She takes my arm before I can argue anymore and drags me across the floor toward the food spread.
It’s worse than I feared. The Bradleys have gone for the hometown comfort food angle. Barbecue, baked beans, potato salad, little handheld mac and cheese with breadcrumbs made in foil cupcake holders.
Uva takes a mac and cheese cup, and I settle on a withering glare instead of an all-out wrist slap.
“What?” she asks. “I’m hungry!”
“You’re despicable.”
“Look, there’s Lita!”
I turn to look. She’s making her way across the super-shiny tile floor of the dealership with . . . determination, if not grace. We’ll take it for now. An old lady sucks her teeth at me as she goes by. I wait until she passes to stick my tongue out at her.
From across the showroom, I see Cereza draw a finger across her neck, her eyes locked on mine. I roll my eyes and go back to watching Lita.
Not many people stop her, and I wish I could hear what they say when they do. Whatever it is, she smiles that slightly too-wide smile (a little toned down, since Cereza finally gave up on the Vaseline) and shakes their hands.
So far, so good, I think. But that’s where I’m wrong.
Royce Bradley makes his grand entrance at that moment, coming down the massive, curving staircase in the middle of the room. He’s in jeans and a blazer, Kendra on his arm in a peachy-goldish sundress that catches every drop of light in the room and dazzles it right back out.
The music changes, the Meteor school song playing over the loudspeakers, and even though donors and board members and judges aren’t supposed to play favorites, they literally give Royce and Kendra a round of applause.
Daring Uva to say a word, I shove a whole mac and cheese cup in my mouth.
I’m going to need fuel.
Halfway through chewing the rubbery thing, though, I spot Lita, who’s clearly been thrown off by the appearance of Royce and Kendra. She looks uncertain now, and her clown smile has disappeared, and as I watch her she stumbles on the heels at last. That’s when everything shifts to slow motion.
Behind her, someone is carrying a massive flower arrangement to the punch table. I see the heel reach the last moment it can mathematically remain stable, then pass it, taking Lita backward as it topples.
She falls, of course, right into the flowers, which fly absurdly high into the air against the dramatic backdrop of the dark windows, raining down water droplets and foliage on everyone nearby.
Someone actually screams.
I hope whoever it is chokes on this awful mac and cheese. Just a little.
Lita is on the ground. Everyone assembled is stunned. Someone very oblivious or very cruel has cut the music, so there’s utter silence in the room.
Cereza and Fresa are already by her side, helping her up. Uva darts off, muttering something about the DJ. I’m about to do something—anything—to cause a distraction, when I see him across the room, his long, glossy hair twisted up into a knot on his head tonight, even though he’s told me a thousand times he’ll never stoop low enough to rock a man bun.
Even if the girls like it.
Even if I kind of like it.
My heart inflates just a little and then seems to disappear altogether.
Because Junior Cortes did not put his hair up.
He tamed it for the petite blond girl with heels as high as her ponytail.
The girl who is now hanging on his arm, looking incredibly smug.