Chapter Twelve #2
“Here’s what we’ll do,” Nancy says, folding her hands on the table.
“You’ll section off a part of the park where I can hold my Nancy convention.
You’ll provide me with a stage and seating for my Nancies.
You’ll set up a greenroom for me. And you’ll include my show and my Nancy convention in festival promotional materials. ”
“You want us to…have the Nancy convention at the festival?” Marina asks.
“I don’t see why my Nancies should have to suffer just because of your poor planning.”
I bite my lip. A joint apple festival/Nancy convention is not the nostalgic festival comeback we’d envisioned.
Juniper Park was supposed to be filled with apple festival vendors from one end to the other, not have a weird roped-off section to the side where Nancy could hold a glorified meet and greet with her so-called fans.
Plus I’d sold this event to Amanda as an easy PR win for Ryser.
Ryser helping Greenstead revive its apple festival is a straightforward, uplifting story.
Ryser helping Greenstead revive its apple festival and hold a fan convention for a local TV personality is…
confusing. I’d been planning to send Amanda weekly updates of our festival progress (partly to remind her how hardworking I am; partly out of paranoia that this was the unheard thing she’d asked for when she agreed to supply the funds).
I’m not quite sure how I’d spin the Nancy convention component.
“Unless you don’t want to,” Nancy singsongs, cutting a perfectly round slice from her wrap. “You could always hold your little festival in Mill Park.”
I exchange a look with Marina. She’s grimacing, but she gives a tiny shrug.
We need Juniper Park, even if it comes with Nancy strings attached.
And at least Nancy will now be promoting the festival on her show whenever she mentions her convention.
I could easily add a bullet about that in my update for Amanda: Secured media coverage on a widely watched local morning television show .
“Okay,” I say. “We have a deal.”
“Good. I’ll have my team send you my rider.” She pauses and sets her knife and fork down. “Oh, you’re probably not used to working with celebrities. A rider is a list of—”
“We know what a rider is,” Marina interrupts, but that doesn’t stop Nancy from talking over her anyway.
At the end of the meal, Nancy insists on paying, and we don’t fight her on it. She is the celebrity, after all.
“Well, that was wild,” I say once we’re back in my car. In the passenger seat, Marina gives a distracted laugh, but she’s occupied with her phone. “I can’t believe we got roped into throwing a Nancy convention,” I continue, pulling out of the parking space.
Marina hums in response but doesn’t speak.
I guess whatever had us exchanging looks and stifling laughs a few minutes ago has dissipated with Nancy’s absence.
It was just temporary Nancy-induced solidarity, and it’s over now.
What a sad thought, that our friendship needs Nancy Fletcher’s presence to get us back on our old footing.
As Marina stays buried in her phone, I quash my disappointment and turn the radio up to fill the silence.
I keep my eyes ahead, willing myself to focus on following the road back to Greenstead instead of sitting in the whiplash of Marina and me laughing at lunch one second and switching back to strangers the next.
But a minute later, Marina reaches over to turn down the radio and says, “Nancy’s season of Love Quest is on a streaming service called Lurv Plus, and Jen just gave me the password to her account.” She holds up her phone. “Do you want to watch Nancy look for love?”
“God, yes.” Remembering our sleepovers spent binge-watching rom-coms and Gossip Girl , I add, “If we want to do this right, we’re going to need a large cheese pizza and an order of cheesy bread from Pirate Pizza.
And a two-liter of Dr Pepper.” I hesitate when I realize reciting our sleepover staples might be taking it too far.
The corners of her lips turn down. I brace myself for disappointment. “Pirate Pizza closed down a few years ago,” Marina says. “But Top Slice’s cheesy bread is pretty good.”
I break into a smile. “Perfect.”
“We should also get H?agen-Dazs,” Marina says.
“And Cool Ranch Doritos.”
“Sour Skittles.”
“Raisinets.”
It doesn’t even matter that we’ve just had lunch. No movie night is complete without our favorite foods. Already my mouth is watering for pizza, cheesy bread, and those coffee almond crunch ice cream bars we love.
“Are we watching it at your house?” I ask.
“Oh.” She makes a face.
“It’d be cool to see your place,” I say. “Plus it’s Sunday, which means my dad and Wendy are taking over the living room to watch whatever they’re bingeing. Lately it’s The Crown .”
I joined them on the couch for an episode last weekend while I was waiting for my Bagel Bites to heat up, and I made a mistake by asking a question about the Suez Canal.
My dad paused the show, shocked that I hadn’t heard of the Suez Crisis, then spent the next twenty minutes alternating between delivering a detailed history lesson and bemoaning the state of the American educational system.
I refrained from pointing out that perhaps, as my eleventh-grade history teacher, he might be partially to blame.
Since then, I’ve tried to keep my distance when they’re watching TV. I relay this to Marina and fix her with imploring eyes.
“Okay,” Marina agrees. “We can go to my house.”
I’m not sure what’s driving that hesitation in her voice, but I know her house can’t be worse than my tiny, dark basement apartment in DC. Or an afternoon of history lessons with my dad.
The closer we get to Greenstead, the more energized I feel. We might be starting to fall back into step, at long, long last.