Time to Roll: Chapters 14–22

“Mrs. Jenkins, your order’s up!” Bert calls from behind the glass counter. Seeing him in his plastic hairnet is the sole reason I suggested this location for our pageant rehearsal. That and the free samples.

“Multitasking is a false supposition,” he says, slicing a log of salami into thin rounds. “The human brain is incapable of doing two things simultaneously. But it can switch back and forth at varying rates of speed.”

“Don’t say ‘um,’” Bert interrupts. “No ‘ums,’ ‘likes,’ ‘uhs.’ They make you sound unsure and uncouth.”

“Maaaaaya,” Coralee drawls.

I try not to think about the fact that Dad was the one who gave me the skillet. If I’m on a desert island, I can’t afford to toss one of my few means of survival, even if it came from a disreputable source.

“Actually, according to Merriam-Webster, either ‘octopuses’ or ‘octopi’ is correct,” Bert clarifies.

“But chances of catching one are slim unless you use a spear…,” he pauses, cradling a hunk of ham in his arms, “or trawling pot.”

She plays a country tune I can’t name, and her long, gauzy skirt sways in the breeze.

“So, what song are you going to sing for your talent?”
“Don’t know,” she answers with her eyes closed. “Dolly’s always my muse of choice, but everybody’s doing Dolly nowadays, so I might switch it up.”

“Our knight in shining armor,” Coralee croons as Will, who is home from college for the summer, loads my wheelchair in the back while Bert barks directions up front.

With his late afternoon stubble and his wrinkled beach T-shirt, he’s a taller, less polished version of Bert.

“I was just taking in the lay of the land. Isn’t this stage just perfection for our big show next week?” She gets up and sashays over to us with her arms open wide.

No, I don’t “got it.” But Rae Ann doesn’t allow any time for objections.

But I guess whatever we do is good enough, because Rae Ann claps so hard she jangles a gold bangle all the way off her wrist.

I’m disoriented, like when my old physical therapist used to let go while I was standing and I’d have to remember how to stay upright on my own two feet.

“Marianne, those door-to-door pest control people are back!” he shouts back down the hallway.
“What?” Mema yells from somewhere inside. “You tell them that I’m calling the police! That is criminal behavior! There is no soliciting in our dang neighborhood! They are harassing the elderly! They know—”

She just sits there with her nose turned up, wearing the mint-green skirt with the black fringe and matching top that I found for her at Timeless Treasures.

I can’t even begin to spell, much less define, the three words she lists. And I know I’m not the only one, because even though they’re trying to be subtle about it, two of the three judges are clearly googling the definitions on their phones.

But Rae Ann doesn’t give me even a second to compose myself before she says, “We here at the Boots and Bows Pageant pride ourselves on crowning poised, proud, and yes, pretty”—she titters—“winners as role models for our future Little Misses. So please tell us, Ellie, who is the biggest role model in your life?”

But Rae Ann doesn’t give me even a second to compose myself before she says, “We here at the Boots and Bows Pageant pride ourselves on crowning poised, proud, and yes, pretty”—she titters—“winners as role models for our future Little Misses. So please tell us, Ellie, who is the biggest role model in your life?”

“Umm.” Oh great, I’m off to a stellar start.

I’m already backing up, ready to roll toward the safety and darkness backstage, when Rae Ann throws one sinewy arm around me and traps me in place.

She purses her lips so hard they practically disappear.

“Who gets to decide what is beautiful and what isn’t? Societal ideals of beauty are evolving.”

She jumps aside one centimeter before we collide, and tumbles to the sidewalk.
“Are you crazy?” she yells up at me, brushing grit from her knees.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s true. From an unbiased observer’s perspective, I can tell you’ve formed some connection with the audience.”
“Bert, you aren’t unbiased. And it doesn’t matter anyway, because I don’t want to win!”

“I forged Mom’s signature and signed up. I know you don’t think a person like me stands a chance, but I’m doing it anyway, because my friend”—I push past the word—“asked me to.”

“I’m not good at...I’m not good at not being good at things,” Dad says now, rolling the glass of tea between his palms. “Let us remember the fishing fiasco,” he adds, but I don’t smile.

You were so fragile for so long. Your mother jumped right in there, changing tubes, suctioning out your nose and ears when you got congested, massaging your belly and your legs.

Her hair is purple now, and it’s pulled up in a ponytail so high the man with the video camera in the seat behind her has to crane his neck to see.

“Many home chefs find the Baked Alaska to be intimidating—all that work to get the ice cream just right and whipping those egg whites for the fluffiest meringue only to stick it in the oven and pray you’ve got the magic formula of cold plus heat so it browns, but doesn’t melt.”

Mom would murder me if she knew I pilfered it from the wedding leftovers.

“So, without further ado, I give you my Baked Alaska flambé!”

Blue bubbles of flame burst over the white peaks, licking the edges and toasting the meringue a perfect golden brown. It’s marvelous. A spectacle, just like I planned.

“That was both unpredictable and quite dangerous.” Then he offers me his hand to shake. “But the crowd appeal was enormous.”

“Well, I do have the whole ‘pity factor’ working in my favor, I guess,” I say, and face the stage, where they are hanging bunting covered in stars and stripes from the rafters for the final round.

“Well, I do have the whole ‘pity factor’ working in my favor, I guess,” I say, and face the stage, where they are hanging bunting covered in stars and stripes from the rafters for the final round.

“To cover the greatest amount of surface area in the least amount of time, you have to eat quickly and in concentric circles.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.” Coralee bites off a chunk of chocolate-dipped cone.

“My talents aren’t the kind that win pageants.”
“But they do win bees,” Bert asserts.

“I am not going to dignify that with an answer.”