Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The amphitheater buzzed with quiet energy. Blankets dotted the crowd, thermoses steamed in the cooling air, and murmurs rolled under the eucalyptus trees. The orchestra tuned up as the narrator’s warm voice welcomed everyone to another summer of living art.
They found their spot on the hillside, settling in with the comfortable familiarity of people who’d done this before. Tyler adjusted his camera strap, then deliberately left it in his bag. Stella noticed and smiled.
“No documentation tonight?” she asked quietly.
“Some things are better just watched,” he said.
The lights dimmed. A hush fell over the crowd. The first tableau came out of darkness—people becoming painting. It was beautiful.
The harbor at dawn came to life on stage. A fisherman’s shoulder held perfectly still. A ribbon froze mid-flutter. A painted wave pretended to be motionless while somehow being pure motion underneath.
Stella felt the old itch—the reach for her camera, the instinct to catch the uncatchable. Her hand brushed the strap at her hip.
She let it fall.
Some moments wanted to be kept by eyes only.
The narrator spoke about patience, about illusion, about the work it takes to hold a pose and the team it takes to paint that light.
Joey appeared in the third tableau—sitting at a late-night diner counter, coffee cup in hand, looking contemplative in the harsh fluorescent light. The famous Hopper scene, “Nighthawks,” brought to life with Joey as Coffee Drinker Number Two.
“There he is,” Bea whispered, gripping Stella’s arm.
Stella smiled at her courageous friend and wanted to hug him—and she would, later.
When the final curtain fell and the amphitheater filled with sound again—cheers, sighs, happy chatter.
“That,” Bea whispered, “is the only kind of stillness I understand.”
They made their way down the hillside with the crowd, but lingered near the amphitheater entrance, waiting.
“How long does it usually take?” Anna asked.
“Twenty minutes or so,” Margo said. “They have to remove all the makeup and costume pieces carefully.”
“And Joey probably wants to savor it,” Meg added. “His first Pageant.”
Bernie appeared beside them, grinning. “Outstanding performance. Joey held that pose for what, four minutes?”
“Four minutes and twelve seconds,” Tyler said. “I was counting.”
“Without moving a muscle. Kid’s got serious discipline.”
“Months of practice,” Stella said proudly. “He’s been rehearsing that pose forever.”
Finally, the backstage area emptied, and Joey emerged—hair slightly damp, traces of stage makeup still clinging to his hairline, wearing the biggest smile any of them had ever seen. He spotted them and broke into a run.
“Did you see?” he called while still twenty feet away. “Did you see me up there?”
“We saw everything,” Margo said, opening her arms for a hug. “You were magnificent.”
“I didn’t move,” Joey said, breathless and proud, accepting hugs from everyone. “Not once. Not even when that bee landed on my hand.”
“There was a bee?” Bea asked, horrified.
“Right in the middle of the tableau. I thought I was going to break character, but then I remembered what you said about stillness being a choice, and I just... chose to stay still.”
“When did I say that?” Stella asked.
“This morning. When you were talking about your photos. About choosing when to capture something and when to just experience it.”
Stella grinned. “You were listening to that?”
“I listen to everything you say about art. You see things differently than the rest of us.”
Luke clapped Joey on the shoulder. “So how does it feel? Being a living painting?”
“Incredible,” Joey said, still buzzing. “I mean, terrifying, but incredible. There’s something about all those people watching you be perfectly still that makes you feel... I don’t know. Important? Like you’re part of something bigger.”
“You are part of something bigger,” Anna said. “The Pageant’s been running for almost ninety years. You’re part of that history now.”
“Laguna Beach history,” Bea added. “Very cool.”
“Are you hungry?” Meg asked. “We could go somewhere and celebrate.”
“Everything’s closed,” Tyler pointed out.
“The donut shop’s open,” Bernie suggested. “Twenty-four hours. Very glamorous celebration venue.”
They all turned toward Bernie and smiled. “Knew you’d turn up,” Margo said.
Joey laughed. “Perfect. I want to sit somewhere with fluorescent lighting and terrible coffee and tell you everything about what it felt like to be a painting.”
They walked through the quiet streets together, Joey describing every moment of the tableaux from his perspective on stage.
“You can see the audience, but they look like shadows,” he explained. “And the lights are so bright that everything feels like a dream. But you can hear people breathing, and moving, and whispering, and you realize that all these people are watching you not move.”
“That sounds terrifying,” Bea said.
“It was. But also amazing. Like meditation, but with an audience.”
The donut shop was indeed open, fluorescent-bright and nearly empty except for a tired-looking clerk and two teenagers sharing a box of glazed donuts. They took over the corner booth, Joey still talking.
“The hardest part was the coffee cup,” he said. “It was heavier than I expected, and my arm started shaking about two minutes in. But then I thought about how Margo holds her spatula at the grill—like it’s part of her hand—and I pretended the cup was part of me.”
Margo smiled. “Smart thinking.”
“What’s next?” Luke asked. “Are you going to audition again next year?”
“Definitely. Maybe for a bigger role.” Joey grinned. “Harold said I was a natural.”
“Bigger role?” Tyler asked with mock seriousness. “You mean like... someone who gets to hold two props?”
“Or maybe a painting where you get to stand up,” Bea suggested.
“I’m thinking really big,” Joey said. “Maybe next year I’ll be in a scene where someone gets to lean against something.”
“Very ambitious,” Margo said solemnly. “What if they only do paintings with running people?”
“Then I’ll master the art of looking like I’m about to run while not actually moving,” Joey declared.
“The almost-action poses are very probably very hard to get,” Stella said seriously. “Much more complex than peaceful sitting.”
“You know what?” Joey said, turning to Stella. “You should audition too. You’ve got the patience for it - I’ve seen you wait for the perfect shot.”
“Nah, mate,” Stella said with a grin. “I’d rather be the one taking pictures of you lot standing around trying not to move.”
“Fair dinkum,” Joey said, attempting an Australian accent that made everyone cringe.
“Please never do that again,” Stella laughed.
“You know what’s funny?” Stella said. “This morning I was so nervous about the Festival results. But sitting here, watching you talk about being a painting... I think I forgot that art is supposed to be fun.”
“It is fun,” Anna agreed. “When you’re not competing.”
“When you’re just making something because you want to,” Bea added.
“When you’re part of a community,” Margo said quietly.
They finished their donuts and terrible coffee as the night grew later and quieter around them.
“Thank you,” Joey said suddenly. “For coming tonight. For supporting me. For...” He gestured vaguely. “For being my family.”
“Always,” Meg said, and she spoke for all of them.
They separated slowly—Meg and Luke heading toward her car, Anna and Bea toward theirs, Margo toward hers. Bernie had already disappeared into the night, probably to update his betting records.
“Walk you home?” Tyler asked Stella.
“You bet.”
They fell into step together, leaving the bright parking lot for the quiet streets. The ocean was calm in the distance, and the moon reflected on the water, bright and peaceful.
“You okay?” Tyler asked as they walked.
“I am,” Stella said, surprised to hear the truth in it. “I thought I’d be wrecked if I didn’t win. I’m... not. I loved my wall. I loved seeing people stand in front of the Shack and smile.”
“They did,” he said. “Some cried.”
“Onion fumes,” she teased softly.
He nudged her shoulder. “You know, I kept wanting to shoot during the Pageant. And then I didn’t.”
“Me too.”
“Proud of you, kid.”
“I know,” she said, and it wasn’t teenage bravado; it was shared knowledge. “I’m proud of me, too.”
A salt breeze tugged at the hair Bea had styled so carefully hours ago. It was coming loose now, returning to its natural state, but Stella didn’t mind.
“Next summer?” Tyler asked.
“Next summer,” she said. “Different eyes. Same light.”
“I hope so,” Tyler said, and squeezed her hand.