Time to Roll: Chapters 1–6

It’s about five thousand degrees too hot for nuptials.
“Okay, wedding party, one more shot and then we’re golden!” Coralee shouts from where she crouches on her knees in the sand by the lake.

Mom nudges my knee with hers before letting me take the lead down the dirt path to the tent they’ve set up by the water for the reception.

All the most important conversations happen on the porch. It’s the place you go to iron out the wrinkles with your people. When you live in extra-close quarters like we do, you need a spot of neutral territory.

“It’s twenty percent coaching, eighty percent sheer willpower.”

“After this, proposing to Alice will be a piece of cake.”
“Speaking of cake,” I said, and pointed to a sizable crumb stuck to his chin.

“That man better hydrate,” she says, eyeing Pastor Clark, whose periwinkle bow tie is bobbing up and down as he coughs over by the gift table. “I did not tithe for over two decades to watch him collapse from heatstroke at my daughter’s wedding.”

His starched shirt hangs off him like a hanger.

“Poor woman looks like she’s been embalmed!”

Mom covers her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“Faces are meant to succumb to gravitational forces like everything else. It’s Newton’s first law of motion.”

I didn’t make a four- tiered coconut cake with coconut custard and fondant sunflowers for nothing.

I made your lemon poppy-seed crepes with the blueberry curd for my stepmother (who is not wicked) and stepbrothers (who aren’t either) and father (who might be). All my stepbrothers said was “Why are these pancakes so flat?”

I made the crepe batter and the blueberry curd last night, because I knew my nerves would be frazzled before they got here.

You always see characters in movies and books with “violet” or “cerulean” or “emerald” eyes. Mine are just plain old blue.

But they have spent the last year crinkling with laughter over checkers tournaments with Mema and Grandpa and peering at the replica of Eufaula’s tree-lined streets in Bert’s tiny town that he built in his shed and crying while chopping onions for the turkey and dressing I made for Thanksgiving while Coralee sat on the kitchen table and sang Reba McEntire songs.

Why did I think we could mesh like people do when they want to know each other?

Every day I’m supposed to draw a ball out of the jar and whatever number it is, I have to do that thing on the list. Bert is incredibly bothered that she put Write to your mother twice. He says she’s skewing the odds.

“No, Eric, I can’t pull up the file right now. Why? Because I am on sabbatical.”

The path winds between thick pines and what I now know are blackjack oaks, thanks to Bert’s tiny town and encyclopedic knowledge of basically everything.

“You know, I’m glad we’re going to get this time together, Ellie.”
I make a noncommittal mm-hmm sound and pick up the pace.

I hear Mom’s voice in my head: Enough with the snark, Ellie. But Mom’s not here. My buffer has left me. I can say whatever I want.
I look up at Dad, ready for a fight.

“Why didn’t you just text?” I ask.
“Because I knew you’d be in a funk with your mom abandoning you and you’d probably ignore me.”

I push myself up and pull my legs toward me so they cross like hers, our knees touching. My hamstrings are tight. They burn as they stretch.

Coralee waves her hand in the air, like my words are immaterial.
“Yeah, yeah. You love her. She loves you. This is a growing period for you both. Whatever.”

“My point is,” she says, rubbing her side, “that I have come with a massively fantastic, be-all and end-all distraction for you.” Cue her jazz hands.

It sounds like an army recruitment poster. Or a cult. To be honest, either of those options seems better than sitting here for the next month getting run over by toy trucks and patronized by my dad.

Since she moved out, Hutch and I turned it into a makeshift workout room.

Also, the fact that it is held this year in a theater that prioritizes tradition over current trends suggests that this pageant is running out of both monetary and societal support.

Then she takes both his hands in hers, and the look on her face can only be described as imminent total destruction. It’s too late for me and Bert, but if Finn and Patrick were here, I’d tell them to run for cover.

“I support you,” he says. “Of course I do. My feelings on the pageant are irrelevant. You’re my friend, and I will help in any way I can.”

“You stole cookies in front of my father’s grocery store?” Bert asks. I bet he’s regretting his promise of unconditional support now.

It is Day Six of my confinement. I have begun to carve notches in my bedpost to mark the days.

The alien visitors to this planet seem to be mostly harmless, though the small ones appear more destructive than their larger counterparts.

And then I see the dust cloud coming and race down the hallway like it’s the roller derby.

All four windows go up, and a cool draft from the vents begins to blow.

“However, I do know that casual wear may be bought off-the-rack or custom-made. And formal wear should be considered as Sunday best, Easter dress, party dress, flower girl, or junior prom–style.”

“Scoring: judges are qualified professionals from different industries.”
“That means car salesmen and former Little Misses,” Coralee explains.

“The interview takes place during casual wear, and contestants are judged on character, personality, stage presence, and overall modeling of their outfit, not the outfit itself.”

“Yeah right, not the outfit,” Coralee scoffs. “Last year in Checotah, a girl literally gave the answer to world peace and they tanked her because she wore a scrunchy in her hair.”

During formal wear, contestants are judged on facial beauty, poise, self-confidence, and presentation.