Chapter Fifty-Three. Sarah Lynn
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
SARAH LYNN
Metal grinds against metal like a toothache as Olivia climbs the ladder, my foot planted firmly on the bottom rung to keep her steady.
Mom’s barking orders, clipboard in hand, as her minions—mothers, volunteers, and pageant girls, myself included—transform the Events Hall into a full-blown gold explosion.
Balloon arches, sequined curtains, foil streamers, tinsel, tassels—gold as far as the eye can see.
Mom would puff glitter straight into the audience’s eyeballs if she could.
It’s Miss Lone Star Princess’s Golden Jubilee this year, and she’s never been one to shy away from a theme.
What she has shied away from is the actual manual labor.
That’s where we come in. A group of us girls spent an hour arguing over the instructions for the scaffolding, like it was a group project from hell.
Sabrina got so frustrated, she chucked her Allen wrench across the stage and stormed off in a huff.
A tantrum like that doesn’t go unnoticed.
Mom says you’re never safe from judging. Not onstage. Not off it.
Eventually, we figured it out and got the whole structure assembled, even bolting down the heavy stage lights ourselves.
Now, Olivia’s looping a garland of glittering stars across the top of the scaffolding, stretching on tiptoe to adjust the strand just right.
Mr. Magnuson crouches near the stage lights, untangling wires.
I wore my white tennis shoes today, paired with the pleated skirt Mom picked out.
Short enough to show off my legs, still “sweet” enough to pass her inspection.
Mom says every moment is an audition—orientation, grocery runs, even hanging lights in a drafty Events Hall.
There’s power in controlling how other people perceive you.
I stretch my calves, arch my back a little, the way Mom taught me.
I peek over my shoulder, wondering if he’ll notice.
He doesn’t, not at first. Then when I call, “How does this look, Mr. M.?” his eyes flick upward, catch on the hem of my skirt, the long stretch of my thighs for half a second, before he jerks his gaze back to the cables.
“Maybe a little higher on the left,” he says, directing Olivia instead.
She flashes him a smile, all gratitude. “Thanks, Mr. Magnuson.”
“Sarah Lynn.” Mom’s voice, sharp as a snapped bone, cuts across the stage. She’s off to the side, arms folded. Her mouth is set in that line that means I’ve already disappointed her.
I whisper to Olivia as she climbs down, “Total mood killer.” Olivia giggles nervously, and we drag the ladder a few feet over. The spreader bar catches wrong; it doesn’t lock into place. Olivia doesn’t notice. She starts climbing again.
She’s near the top, shin braced against the last rung, reaching for the garland. One more step, and the whole ladder could fold beneath her.
I see Mom watching. She doesn’t say a word. Her silence says it all. Let it happen. Let Olivia’s own poor choices undo her.
For a second, I almost move aside. My body remembering Mom’s lessons.
It’s always been the two of us. Pacing the living room at midnight in my rhinestone heels, practicing my walk for evening wear, the overhead light catching the glittering edge of my gown.
Mom correcting, over and over, staying up for hours with me until my stride was fluid, my turn sharp, until the silent laugh that refreshed my smile came effortlessly.
Her hands on my wrists, guiding me into each pose—elbow soft, palm angled just so—until it was muscle memory.
But I think of Olivia’s hand in mine as we floated in the freezing water.
“Hold on,” I tell her, reaching for the lock. I snap it into place with a firm click. The ladder steadies under her weight.
She exhales, smiling down at me. “Thanks.”
Behind me, I hear Mom’s heels retreating, sharp stabs across the floor. I don’t turn to watch her go. The thrill of ignoring her instruction fizzes under my skin like soda bubbles.
When Olivia makes it safely down, I cross the stage to where Mr. Magnuson is kneeling by the rig. I drop to a crouch beside him, close enough that my knee brushes his arm.
“Need help?”
He doesn’t look at me, just gestures vaguely at the mess of cords. “Nah. Just trying to keep this from shorting out.” His voice is calm, but I catch the tension in his jaw, the stiffness in his shoulders.
I lean in as if studying the wires. And our bodies are so close to touching, but they don’t.
The inch of space between us feels like the slow pull between magnets.
I am aware of the heat radiating off his arm.
The smell of dust and stage lights. “You left quick last night,” I whisper.
Because, this is the part that I haven’t told anyone, not even Hannah and Olivia. The secret that belongs to only us.
At The Hollow, after Kayden got back with the beer, while everyone splashed in the water, I saw Mr. Magnuson’s truck pull up, the headlights off. I slipped away and met him where he had parked in the cover of thick cypress trees.
He glances up, our faces too close, then quickly looks away.