Chloe walked over, tiara in hand. “Hey. You were really good.”
Her mother’s face went pale.
Lily watched from the wings, gripping her tap shoes. That’s not pageant material, she thought. Too messy.
The evening gown competition was a parade of tiny satin and tulle. Lily walked with her eyes forward, chin high, the way her grandmother taught her. Chloe walked barefoot—she’d forgotten her heels at the motel—and still, somehow, she glided like she was walking through water.
Lily’s answer was Amelia Earhart. It had been memorized for three weeks.
Lily nodded, but she felt hollow.
Brittany said her freckles. Savannah said her imagination. Mary Beth said her pet iguana, which got a laugh.
Chloe took the microphone. She was barefoot, her fake orchid now slightly askew. “I love that I’m not afraid to start over,” she said. “We just moved here, and I didn’t know anyone. But I figured, why not try? You don’t have to be perfect to be brave.”