Chapter Twenty-Four. Sarah Lynn
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SARAH LYNN
We’re all sitting beside our mothers in neat rows, listening to Mr. Magnuson run through the numbers and walking patterns we’ll need to practice.
“And let’s remember, we’re all here to support each other, ladies.
But don’t worry. I won’t make you do any trust falls …
unless you want me to.” He winks, and the girls giggle like he’s up there doing a Netflix stand-up special.
Even the moms lean forward, hanging on every word, and I can’t help noticing the dimple that flashes in one cheek when he smiles.
Mr. Magnuson is so stupid good-looking that he could read a car manual up there and get the same reaction.
Thirst Trap Travis. That’s what the girls call him at school. We even made a game out of it, taking turns flirting with him, seeing who can make him stammer or drop his textbook. Hannah, with her crass mouth and inability to keep a thought inside her head, is leading by two.
Mom takes the mic from him and says, “All right, ladies, come on up. Let’s introduce ourselves.”
We line up along the stage edge, heels clicking against the wood floor.
I slip into a perfect T-stance, smile pointed right at Mrs. Mackey, dead center of the judges in the front row, because everyone knows she’s got the most sway.
This little round-robin introduction is anything but casual.
In a pageant, everything is a move on the chessboard.
And this is our first real opportunity to size up the field.
Girls on either side of me tug at hems and smooth their hair.
Sabrina Doyle is across the stage, fussing with her curls.
I can practically feel Mom’s eyes on me, even without looking—like a hand on my shoulder, reminding me what needs to be done.
Sabrina is one of her red-dot-level concerns, and Mom wants her rattled.
Sabrina and I run in the same circle—cheer squad, homecoming court.
I get along with her fine, but she has a tendency to be, well, a bitch.
Earlier, while we were all chatting by the table, she sidled up beside Hannah.
You haven’t bought your evening gown yet?
she asked. Oh my gosh, you have to go to Z Couture in Austin.
Then, all sugary sweet: Don’t worry, it’s very size-inclusive.
Hannah didn’t miss a beat. That must be a relief for you, she said.
I bet Sabrina’s still processing that joke.
I catch her eye, smile, and tap my top teeth, like she’s got something stuck there.
She doesn’t, but she doesn’t have time to realize it before her name’s called.
She walks up smiling with her mouth closed, hand half covering her face as she answers the judges.
Serves her right, and Mom has the smallest of smiles on her face.
When it’s her turn, Hannah manages to get her name out, but freezes up trying to come up with a “fun fact” about herself, and she just shoves the mic back into the stand and rejoins me in line.
Olivia is next, and I shoot her an encouraging smile. She looks pretty today, despite the whole dry cleaner fiasco, in a soft-yellow sundress and a braided updo, but I brace myself for the awkward stumble of someone as shy and quiet as her.
Then she walks across the stage. No. Scratch that.
She glides, as though across ice, chin level, shoulders back.
She meets the judges’ eyes and in the clearest voice I’ve ever heard from her, she says, “My name is Olivia Blake, and I’ve studied ballet at Encore Dance Studio since I was three years old.
I also volunteer in my free time as a dance instructor for the younger students, and enjoy helping them find confidence onstage. ”
Mrs. Mackey looks absolutely smitten, like someone just set down her favorite peach cobbler. She scribbles something down in her notebook, and my stomach knots.
I slide my eyes over to Mom. Her smile is flawless, but I know that vein in her temple, know that beneath that smile, her jaw is clenched tight.
“Where did that come from?” I whisper to Hannah.
“Oh, I know. She’s like a completely different person when she’s onstage. She’s always been that way.”
I nod, but my ribs knit in tight, and I can barely breathe. Because Olivia just proved Mom right, proved she’s exactly the threat Mom saw from the start.
And Mom never lets a threat go unanswered.
The line of girls keeps moving. I charm the judges, of course—I could do a pageant introduction in my sleep—but Olivia’s perfect delivery echoes in my head like a church bell.
When the introductions wrap up, Mom takes the mic back like a queen reclaiming her throne.
“A big round of applause for our girls,” she says, and polite claps echo across the room.
“And thank you to all our wonderful mothers. You’re the real foundation of this program.
These girls learn poise, generosity, and self-control from watching you.
I look around this room and see so many daughters taking after their mothers.
” The moms are eating it up, puffing up with self-indulgent pride, just like Mom wants.
She gestures toward the spread of pastries off to the side of the room.
“While your daughters practice the opening number with Mr. Magnuson, please help yourselves to the refreshments.”
Everyone is just beginning to shift in their seats, gathering their purses and welcome bags, exchanging soft words with their neighbors, when Mom adds, “Oh,” into the mic, like she’s just remembered something, and everyone’s attention snaps straight back to her.
Mom has this thing planned down to the second.
She doesn’t just suddenly remember a thing.
Her hand drifts over the microphone, but when she speaks, we can all still hear her clearly.
“Cat, there are mimosas over there. I didn’t even think about you, I’m sorry.
Is that going to be too much of a temptation for you?
” Her brow is knit with just the perfect amount of empathetic worry. Mom weaponizes concern like a pro.
Cat goes stone-still. The atmosphere in the room is suddenly thick as soup.
Women perk up to get a look at Cat, including Mrs. Mackey, pen still poised over her notebook.
Everyone knows that, as head of First Baptist Church’s Women’s Missionary Union, Mrs. Mackey is a staunch teetotaler—the kind of woman who’d side-eye communion wine.
A fellow judge leans over and whispers something in Mrs. Mackey’s ear.
Then they both turn to Olivia, who has gone so red, her ears look hot to the touch.
Mom waits for a response, eyebrows still raised with that sweet concern. She has Cat pinned down, because what can she say? Yes or no, the answer is the same. She’s a drunk.
But then she’s saved from answering at all, because the heavy glass doors clang open, and everyone turns.
From the stage, I can see the whole Events Hall, polished wood floor, gold balloon arches, sequined tablecloths, women in silk blouses and pearls, their perfumes competing in the air.
So when Abel Sherman shuffles in, wilted ball cap low, dirty hunting jacket swallowing his decrepit frame, an almost-empty whiskey bottle dangling from one hand, he looks like an actor who has stumbled onto the wrong set.
Whispers ripple uneasily, like a breeze stirring the hairs on the backs of our necks.
“Can we help you?” Mom says.
Abel Sherman stops at the end of the center aisle. “Y’all should be ashamed of y’allselves,” he says, flat and low. Then he holds out the whiskey bottle, pointing a finger off it and scanning it through the crowd. “Every last fucking one of you.”
Sheriff Ryan, who’s been posted up by the snacks table, eating up all the Danish, seems hit with a sudden sugar rush, hurrying forward to stand at the other end of the aisle. “Abel,” he says, “You don’t need to be here.”
“This is my land. This is my family’s land. You shouldn’t be here.” He jabs that finger directly at the sheriff like it’s a knife. “None of y’all should be here.” He swings his arm wildly, baptizing those close by in whiskey. “You thieving sons of bitches.”
He lifts the whiskey bottle to finish the last of it. When he does, his jacket rises just enough to reveal the handle of a gun. The room stops breathing.