Chapter Ten. Sarah Lynn
CHAPTER TEN
SARAH LYNN
“Son of a bitch,” Hannah says beside me, her ankle wobbling on the cobblestone. I’ve forced her out of her usual Chuck Taylors and into some kitten heels, and I’m quick to loop an arm through hers before she tumbles.
“The stones are small, but evenly spaced. Aim the point of your heel in the dead center. Then listen to the click of your heels to keep a steady pace.”
“Like a fucking show pony,” she says.
“Language, Hannah Leigh,” I say, mimicking her mother’s country-twanged accent, and it’s a good thing we’re already holding on to each other, because we stumble in a fit of giggles.
That gets Mom’s head snapping back toward us.
I watch her eyes flick from Hannah’s fuzzy hair down to her rounded shoulder posture and plus-sized jeans, and I know exactly what she’ll say once we’re alone again: If you lie down with dogs, Sarah Lynn, you get up with fleas.
I guess a part of me knew she wouldn’t approve, which is why I’ve never brought Hannah around to meet Mom before.
Why, up until this moment, our friendship has been confined to our Smoothie Palace shifts.
As soon as we get home, Mom will drop Hannah down to the bottom of that corkboard, summing her up by her superficial parts and assigning her a score: No competition.
Zero threat. And it kind of pisses me off.
Because there’s so much Mom isn’t factoring in, like the way Hannah’s singing voice makes me want to cry or how laughing with her is a better ab workout than any three-minute plank Mom forces me to do.
But am I really any better? The truth is, I never would have invited Hannah to compete in Miss Lone Star Princess if I’d thought she had any chance of beating me. The realization makes me queasy, like that one time I did a cayenne lemon water cleanse and ended up questioning all my life choices.
“If you can walk on cobblestone, ladies, you can walk on the stage,” Mom says, before turning back around, her hair swishing over her shoulder as she does.
“Your mom is such a bad bitch,” Hannah whispers, completely oblivious.
“Yeah,” I agree. She’s not wrong. By anyone’s standards, Mom is impressive. Just look at her now, striding ahead in six-inch heels. It may only be a quarter-mile stretch of dinky shops in the middle of nowhere, but with every step, every flip of her hair, she simply owns it. Owns who she is.
People in town see the big house, the perfect smile, and they assume she was born that way—that life’s been easy as silk.
Sure, they might know she was raised by her Aunt Birdie, might even know that her mother lost custody of her when Mom was nine.
But they don’t know the details. They don’t know what she’s been through.
Or what she’s done to build the life she has now.
But I do. So, yeah, I get why she’s so hard on people. She’s a pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps kind of woman. In her eyes, you’re either the best you can possibly be, or you’re weak. And Mom hates weakness.
Hannah missteps again, nearly takes me down with her, but I don’t falter. I’m able to self-correct.
“You said walking was the easy part,” Hannah says.
“No, I said walking was the only thing you had to do. Now giddyup.”
We’re halfway down the block when Mom suddenly lets out a squeal that makes both of us jump.
“Oh my God!” Mom breaks into a sprint—an elbows-tucked-tight shuffle that is nothing short of miraculous in those heels.
I realize she’s running toward Ingrid Whitmore, who’s walking into Leake Family Pharmacy.
Iggy is technically my godmother, but I think the last time I saw her was at some wedding when I was fourteen.
She always sends Kayden and me gift cards on our birthdays though, gushes in the comments on my socials in that over-the-top I can’t believe how grown up you are, beautiful girl! way that older people always seem to.
I let go of Hannah’s arm to catch up with Mom.
“Iggy, you little sneak, you promised me you’d tell me the minute you landed,” Mom says as she throws her arms around her.
Mom’s been low-key stressing about whether or not Iggy will show up.
She’s been trying to convince Iggy’s mother, Barbara Whitmore—the very first Miss Lone Star Princess—to crown the winner this year.
For Mom, it’s all about pomp and circumstance.
She’s already envisioned the photographs, the local newspaper headlines, the way it’ll all play on social media.
And she knows if anyone has sway over Barbara Whitmore, it’s Iggy.
“I pulled into town not two hours ago, I swear,” Iggy says, laughing as she returns the hug. “I went straight to the hospital.”
“Drinks tonight,” Mom says. “Don’t even try to tell me no.”
“I promised my dad we’d do dinner. How about after?”
“Perfect.” Mom turns sharply and points to the ground beside her, marking my spot. “Sarah Lynn.”
I take my place, and Iggy’s jaw drops open. “Oh my gosh. Sarah Lynn, you look even more like your mother than you do in the pictures. Seriously, you could have stepped right out of the pages of our yearbook.”
It’s meant to be the highest compliment. I get it a lot. Just last week, we walked by a crusty old man sitting in a rocking chair outside Herman Smith’s boot shop. He watched us pass by, head turning to follow his eyes.
It’s like she spit you out right on the ground, he said, before spitting a dark stream of tobacco juice onto the concrete.
It was pretty gross, but I smiled at him anyway.
Like I meant it. And, if I’m being honest, that’s how I feel about it sometimes.
Being Mom’s mini-me. It’s cool, I guess. But it’s also kind of disgusting.
I lean over to Hannah, who’s finally caught up with us. “You are coming over to my house tonight. I’m going to find you something killer to wear to orientation.”
Because, fine, I don’t believe Hannah can win the pageant. And, I don’t want her to either. That crown is basically mine by birthright. But Mom isn’t right about everything, and maybe helping Hannah is how I prove it.