11
As soon as I can manage, I excuse myself from the hotel room party and take shelter in the stairwell. The minute I’m alone, I pull out my phone.
I’ve got a few texts from Ginny, plus one missed call, but I ignore those and tap the little internet browser icon. I’m desperate for information on a certain pageant judge, and Google is my friend.
Within seconds, I’m on the Miss Starlight website, looking at pictures of smiling, delicate little girls with sparkling tiaras on their tiny heads, dressed in enough tulle to choke a Disney princess. I flip past photo after photo, with tears streaming down my face. I can’t bear to look, but I also can’t make myself put down my phone.
These little girls are brave. Special. They deserve to be celebrated . . . to be seen.
If anyone knows the value of such appreciation, it’s me.
I choke on a sob, but I keep scrolling. I take in every last picture, every glittering crown, every triumphant grin until I finally reach the end. The girls range from age five all the way up to the late teens. Some of them are bald from chemo treatments. Others walk down the runway pulling their IV poles alongside them.
Each and every one of them is beautiful.
Any of these girls could have been students at my school—kids I interact with every day, kids I care about. I wonder how many of them have passed away since they moved across that stage.
My heart beats hard in my chest. I’m afraid to know the answer.
I give into the weakness in my knees and sink down onto one of the steps. I scroll to the top of the website and click on a tab labeled History of the Miss Starlight pageant.
My hands tremble violently as I read the truth about Gray Beckham.
The Miss Starlight pageant began in 2010, under the direction of tech billionaire Gray Beckham. Mr. Beckham, a graduate of Harvard with a double degree in computer science and English literature, founded Miss Starlight in loving memory of his sister, Sonja Beckham.
Crowned Miss American Treasure when she was twenty-two years old, Sonja Beckham went on to study medicine at Vanderbilt University Medical Center and worked as a pediatric oncologist at MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, Texas. She was diagnosed with acute myelogenous leukemia in 2009 and passed away six months later at the age of thirty-two.
The Miss Starlight pageant celebrates the life and work of Dr. Beckham and is devoted to celebrating young patients who have been diagnosed with a terminal illness by shining a light on inner beauty and honoring who they are in front of family, friends, and loving supporters.
I sit staring at my phone until it goes dark.
A million thoughts are spinning in my head. First and foremost, I hate cancer. I hate it so hard. It took my mom from me, before I ever really had a chance to know her. It took Gray’s sister. But look at him—he’s turning his family’s pain into something positive and beautiful for the very kids his sister devoted her life to helping.
And in my ignorance, I mocked him for it.
I feel ill.
How could I have made such a damning assumption about a man I didn’t even know? A man whom I liked?
I keep hoping that if I wait here long enough, he’ll show up. I’m not sure what I’ll say if he does though. I’m sorry seems inadequate.
But it’s a start, right?
Minutes pass, and a few times I manage to convince myself that I hear the jingle of Hamlet’s dog tag echoing in the concrete stairwell. It’s never him, though. It’s just me, wiping my wet, tear-stained face with the sleeve of Ginny’s posh cashmere sweatshirt.
When I’m finally ready to face the outside world again, I get up and slip back into the hallway. The party is still going strong, if the sounds coming from Torrie’s room are any indication.
Good for them, I think.
My major faux pas from earlier seems to have blown over. I doubt anyone is suspicious enough to believe that I’m actually a librarian posing as her beauty queen twin, and if I knocked on the door, I’m sure they’d welcome me back into the fold.
I’m not feeling it, though.
I don’t want to be Ginny right now. The trouble is, I don’t want to be Charlotte either.
The room is dark when I let myself back into it with my card key, which seems odd. It’s only eight fifteen, far too early for bed.
“Ginny?” I whisper.
There’s no response, other than a snort that sounds more French bulldogish than it does human, so I tiptoe to the bathroom as quietly as I can and flip on the vanity light.
My plan is to strip down, take a hot shower and climb into bed. I just want to wash this horrible day away, but the vanity light casts a soft glow over the room and I catch a glimpse of something unfamiliar on the desk behind me.
When I left for the cheeseburger party, every available surface in our hotel room was covered with tools of the beauty queen trade—makeup brushes, contour and highlighting powders, hair spray, lashes, and every kind of sparkle imaginable.
But glam central has been cleared away, and now the desk is covered with room service trays. There’s a big bowl of spaghetti and meatballs—my favorite—plus two fat slices of chocolate cake. Twin glasses of milk sit in pools of condensation. The spread has been there for a while, it seems.
“I wanted to surprise you with all your favorites,” Ginny says in the darkness. “You said you’d be back within an hour.”
After the revelation of Gray Beckham’s identity, I’d forgotten my promise to my sister. Is there anything I’m not going to screw up today?
Buttercup wiggles out from under the covers on Ginny’s bed and scurries toward me, wagging her stumpy little tail in glee. I can hardly believe my eyes. It’s a breakthrough. She’s finally decided I’m tolerable. She might actually like me now.
But it’s the worst possible time for the dog to have a change of heart. Ginny’s brow crumples as Buttercup flops onto her back at my feet.
The bulldog’s sudden and over-the-top adoration nearly kills me. I don’t deserve it. Not today. “I’m so sorry, Ginny. I screwed up. I . . .”
“You made new friends.” She sniffs. “I get it. You were having fun, and you forgot we had plans.”
She’s only partially right.
I was having fun without her, and I’m also guilty of ignoring her texts and calls. It’s not the entire story, though.
I want to explain things to my twin. I want to confess. No one understands me the way that Ginny does. Even though the entire episode was my fault, she’d still find a way to make me feel better about it. She’d tell me there was no way I could have known what kind of man Gray Beckham actually is.
She’d take my side, just like always.
But I can’t tell her. Too much has happened. I’m in too deep, and trying to unravel the mess I’ve made would shine a bright, glaring light on all the things I’ve been keeping from her the past few days.
“Please forgive me.” I scoop Buttercup into my arms and sit down on the edge of Ginny’s bed. “I’m sorry. Truly.”
She shuts her eyes again, but I don’t budge.
I’ll sit there all night if I have to. I can’t go to bed until I make things right with at least one of the people I’ve hurt.
Don’t get me wrong. I know Ginny isn’t perfect. She’s said plenty of things to me in the past few days that have stung. But she’s my sister. My twin. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love Ginny. And even though I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if she wasn’t my other half—if I hadn’t been a twin at all, but just a regular person, just me—I’d never change the way things are.
I give her a gentle poke. “Please? You’re the reason I’m in this pageant in the first place, remember? I’d much rather be spending my time reading by the pool.” Or better yet, with my head buried under the covers so I’d never have to see any of these pageant people again.
“Fiiiine.” She drags her eyes open. “I forgive you. Happy now?”
My gaze flits to the chocolate cake. “Not yet, but I will be once we clean those plates. And don’t try to tell me you’re not hungry. I haven’t seen you eat a full meal in two days.”
“That’s because I’m scared to eat.” She waves a hand at her face. “Look what happened last time I feasted on room service.”
“You can’t starve yourself, Ginny. The pageant isn’t worth your health. Nothing is.” I give her a little nudge with my hip. “We could always go home, you know. It’s not too late. We could leave tonight if you want. You could see an allergy doctor tomorrow, and then you wouldn’t have to worry anymore.”
It would all be over . . .
Including Ginny’s dream of being Miss American Treasure.
“No.” Finally, she sits up. I haven’t managed to talk her out of this painful charade, but at least I’ve stirred her back to life. “We’re so close. I can’t give up now.”
I nod. “It’s your call.”
She presses her fingertips gently against her cheeks. “How does my face look? Any better?”
“A little bit.” I smile. “Let’s not worry about that now. We’ve got almost twenty hours until talent prelims tomorrow. Anything could happen.”
Ginny nods. “You’re right.”
My smile widens. “I know I am.”
She rolls her eyes and pelts me with her pillow. I breathe a sigh of relief. My twin has forgiven me, and everything between us is back to normal.
For now.
We wake up the next morning to chocolate icing in our hair and the sobering realization that Ginny’s face doesn’t look any different than it did the night before.
“I don’t get it.” She peers closer to the mirror to inspect her reflection. “Last night I thought I was getting better.”
So did I. “Do you want me to take you back to the urgent-care clinic?”
“There’s no time. The talent prelims start at three o’clock.” She pulls a face. “And, well . . .”
I finish for her. “I have no talent.”
Ginny holds up her hands. “You said it. Not me.”
“There’s got to be something I can do. I’m not auditioning for the Metropolitan Opera. It’s a beauty pageant.”
Ginny clears her throat. “Scholarship competition.”
I hold up a hand. “Don’t start. Please”
Not when I somehow have to learn ventriloquism or how to dance the hula or sing a Bible hymn while signing it in ASL in a mere handful of hours.
I gasp, struck with sudden inspiration. “What about a dramatic reading?”
I’ve been reading since I was four years old. It’s my thing. I wouldn’t even need to prepare. Off the top of my head, I can recite half a dozen monologues, from Romeo and Juliet to Macbeth to Hamlet.
I swallow.
The thought of Hamlet sends my heart tumbling. I’ve been doing my best to push Gray Beckham and his altruistic charms from my mind altogether. It’s been hard. So. Very. Hard.
But I can’t deal with that humiliating situation at the moment. There are more pressing matters at hand. Besides, I’ve been taking Buttercup outside as often as I possibly can without causing suspicion, and I haven’t seen Gray or his cute little dog at all. It’s as if they’ve packed up and moved out of the Huntington altogether.
Or more likely, Gray is going to great lengths to avoid me.
“A dramatic reading? You’re joking, right?” Ginny cringes. The gesture is so exaggerated that she looks more like an emoji than an actual person.
“Why do I get the feeling you think that’s a bad idea?”
“Because it is. Contestants only do dramatic readings when they’re not capable of doing anything else. As far as talent goes, it’s a last resort.” She eyes me up and down. “Dead last.”
Her comment doesn’t even bother me. It’s amazing how accustomed I’ve become to being insulted, all for the sake of a crown.
“What were you planning on doing for talent?”
Ginny has toyed with contemporary dance, traditional flamenco, and classical flute, among other talents. Unlike me, Ginny is blessed in the charisma department. She can get away with pretty much anything onstage.
“I was going to twirl,” she says.
This is unexpected. To my knowledge, her long list of competitive talent numbers has never included baton. “I didn’t realize you knew how to do that.”
“I’ve been taking lessons for the past six months.” Her gaze flits to the picture of our mother, still propped up in a place of honor on Ginny’s nightstand. “It’s what Mom did when she won.”
“That’s nice. It’s really sweet, sis.” I take a deep breath. “Teach me your routine.”
She lifts a brow. “Did you not hear what I just said? I’ve been taking lessons for six months. Six. That’s half a year.”
“I’m familiar with the concept of a calendar.” I sigh. “But as you’ve so bluntly pointed out, I can’t do anything else. We’ve got hours. Why don’t you at least try and teach me? Who knows? Maybe I’ll catch on freakishly quick.”
Maybe if I think of it as an extra-large wand I’ll be okay. Not to brag, but I was pretty good with the interactive plastic wand I bought in Diagon Alley at Harry Potter World. I was casting spells all over the place with that thing.
I nod toward Mom’s photograph. “It’s in the genes. I could be a prodigy. We’ll never know unless we try.”
Spoiler alert: I’m not a baton-twirling prodigy.
Ginny starts out by teaching me how to do a basic horizontal figure eight.
“Toe under, head on top. Toe under, head on top,” she chants, over and over and over again.
The end of the baton slams into my temple with a thud. “Ouch.”
“How do you even do that? The baton shouldn’t be anywhere near your head right now.” She takes hold of my wrist and pulls my arm out straight. “Try again. Toe under, head on top.”
My hand goes still and the baton stops moving, midair. “Why do you keep saying that? I don’t know what it means.”
Ginny takes the baton and points to the white rubber stopper-looking thing at the end. “This is the head. The other end is called the toe.”
Sounds simple enough. “How do you tell them apart?”
“The head is larger. Got it?”
I nod. But when I try the figure-eight move again, the head of the baton somehow ends up wedged in my armpit.
Twirling is so much harder than it looks. You have no idea.
“Okay, stop.” Ginny forces a smile. She’s trying to be nice to me, but her encouraging smile is starting to look a little strained around the edges. “I think we need to start with something easier.”
I hold the baton still. It no longer seems like a wand, more like an instrument of self-torture. “Good. The easier, the better.”
“Let’s try a salute. It’s super easy, but also important. Every baton routine begins with a salute to the judges.” She takes the baton from my hands, flips it around, and gives it back to me. “You’re holding it upside down again.”
“Sorry.” I grab it in the middle. So far, wrapping my fingers around the baton’s silver stick is the only thing I’ve managed to master.
Ginny flashes me a grin of encouragement. “Okay, now flip your wrist.”
I do as she says, and voilà—I don’t bonk myself in the head. Instead, I manage to whack Ginny in the nose.
She lets out a yelp and covers her face with her hands.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” I drop the baton like a hot potato, and it bounces a few times—head, toe, head, toe. My career as a twirler will never take off, but at least I learned something.
Ginny swishes past me, deftly moving around the baton without so much as stubbing her toe on it, and sinks onto the bed. “I can’t look. Tell me—am I bleeding?”
“No.” Thank God. “But I think I should get you some ice, as a precautionary measure. You probably don’t want any more swelling.”
“You think?” She groans, then flops backward so she’s stretched out on the bed. “Today’s a disaster. Yesterday was a disaster, and the day before was, too. What did I do to deserve this?”
Unknowingly steal my fiancé, maybe?
I shake my head as if I can rattle the unwelcome thought right out of my mind. Ginny did nothing wrong. Adam was an unfaithful jerk. I’m lucky I found out just how awful he was before I walked down the aisle and made the biggest mistake of my life. I dodged a bullet.
End of story.
“Nothing.” My throat goes dry. “You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s just a bad week. Everyone has those occasionally.”
Ginny shoots me a wry glance.
“Maybe not everyone.” Has Ginny ever had a bad day in her life? Not that I can recall. This week excluded, obviously. “It will get better. I promise.”
It can’t get much worse. That’s for sure.
“Sit tight. I’m going to get ice.” I grab the plastic ice bucket from the bathroom counter. “I’ll be right back.”
Buttercup follows me to the door. I’m not sure if she thinks she’s going for a walk, or if she just wants to stay glued to my side. I don’t know what’s going on with her, but suddenly she’s my biggest fan. She’s barely paid any attention to Ginny lately. The little bulldog even slept at the foot of my bed, not my sister’s, which isn’t helping Ginny’s mood.
“Stay here,” I whisper to the dog. I hold up my hand in the universal signal for stop. “Do you hear me? Stay.”
Buttercup plops her little bottom onto the ground in a perfect sitting position. I’m astounded. She knows commands? When did that happen?
“You have some explaining to do, dog,” I mutter. Then I slip out the door before she can follow me.
Halfway to the ice closet at the end of the hall, I realize I forgot to put on Ginny’s Miss Texas sash before I left the room. Nor am I in perfect pageant form. My face is bare—I’m not wearing a speck of makeup. I’m not even wearing shoes. I’m barefoot, wearing ripped, faded jeans, and one of my bookish T-shirts.
Curiouser and curiouser!
It’s from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll, the actual author of the book. My students are always shocked and dismayed to learn it was written by a mathematician in the mid-nineteenth century and not Johnny Depp.
But I digress.
If anyone from the pageant spots me like this, I’m toast. So I duck my head and make a mad dash for the door marked Ice in hopes that no one will see me. I push the door open, dart inside, and then slam the door shut, leaning my forehead against the smooth wood.
My relief is short-lived.
As it turns out, I’m not alone in the tiny room. Behind me, a throat clears. A deep, masculine-sounding throat.
It can’t be.
But it is.
My breath clogs in my throat, and I close my eyes and turn around. Maybe if I can’t see him, he somehow won’t be able to see me.
No such luck. When I open my eyes, he’s still there. Him.
Gray Beckham is standing by the ice machine, watching me in all his brooding, Darcyesque glory.
I think I might faint. I wish I would, actually. Escaping this awkward moment seems like a great idea, even if it involves temporary unconsciousness on my part.
But I don’t faint. I just stand there like an idiot, staring into his dreamy blue eyes. My hands shake so violently that I nearly drop the ice bucket. I’m not sure whether I’m thrilled to see him, or whether I want to dash back down the hall and shut myself back inside the room with Ginny.
“You,” I say breathlessly.
“You,” he echoes. His tone is far less flattering.
I suddenly have no idea what to say. I waited in the stairwell for nearly an hour last night, hoping for a glimpse of him. I’ve taken Buttercup outside at least ten times since the ill-fated cheeseburger party. For the past sixteen hours, I’ve basically been stalking Gray Beckham and now that he’s here, standing less than a foot away, I can’t seem to form words.
“Excuse me.” He moves to sidestep around me.
He’s leaving. Of course he is. Why would he want to stay and flirt with me again after the way I’ve behaved?
“Wait.” I leap in front of him, blocking his path.
He shifts the other direction, and so do I. As ridiculous a notion as it seems, it almost feels like we’re dancing. If we were, it would be one of those intense love-hate dances. A tango, maybe? I’m not sure. Maybe his judge friend, the Dancing with the Stars alum, could shed some light on it.
“What are you doing?” Gray Beckham pins me with a glare, and my knees go weak.
He’s so handsome. Too handsome. And despite the thunder in his gaze, I know that somewhere deep down, he likes me.
Or he used to, anyway.
“I’m apologizing.” Something dangerous is unspooling inside me. I feel like my heart is about to fall out of my chest and land at his feet.
He arches a brow. “Apologizing?”
“Yes. I said some things yesterday that I wish I could take back. Terrible things.” I take a deep breath and wait for some kind of sign that he’s going to let me off the hook. But my hopes are dashed when his stony expression remains unchanged. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry. I didn’t realize why you were here.”
He smirks and points to the judge pin on his lapel—the one I mocked earlier.
Of course he’s wearing it. Unlike me, he’s adhering to the pageant rules. He’s also wearing another impeccable suit, looking like he just walked off the cover of the International Best-Dressed List issue of Vanity Fair. I remind myself that he went to Harvard. He’s a tech genius. He’s a billionaire.
I might have convinced myself a few days ago that he was an outsider, just like I am, but I was wrong. The only outsider here is me.
“I knew why, obviously. You’re a judge. But I didn’t know who you were. I didn’t know about your sister or the Miss Starlight pageant.” Impossible, if I were a legitimate contestant. Which I’m not. But Gray Beckham isn’t privy to that information.
He’s still not saying anything, so I continue my constant stream of babble, digging an even bigger hole for myself.
“I know that doesn’t make sense. I probably sound crazy. But I’m not. My situation is”—fraudulent. Duplicitous. Pathetic—“complicated.”
I squirm while he continues glaring at me—except it’s not quite a glare anymore. Some of the hostility has left his gaze, and now he’s just looking at me as if I’m a puzzle he can’t quite figure out.
“Complicated,” he finally echoes. Then he takes in my shirt and his gaze moves slowly over the Alice quote. “ ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ indeed.”
I don’t know how to respond. Even if I did, I’m not sure I could form words at this point. Now that I’ve gotten my apology off my chest, I’m acutely aware of how close we’re standing to each other. He’s inches away, and the tiny closet feels so small. So intimate.
I’m no longer holding the ice bucket between us as a barrier. My arms are hanging limply at my sides, and the plastic bucket dangles from my fingertips.
He tilts his head. “Why do I get the feeling you’ll eventually end up leading me straight down the rabbit hole?”
I should be relieved he’s still standing here, willing to speak to me. And I am. But I’m also undeniably turned on. I know it’s wrong. As much as I’ve managed to confess, he still has no idea who I am. Or that I’m a big, fat cheater.
But there’s a delicious heat flowing through me all of a sudden. Our conversation has taken a beguiling little turn, and I like it. I like it far more than I should.
Why does he have to have a degree in English literature? Why? It makes him altogether too irresistible to a bibliophile like myself. Words from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland are spinning in my head and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from rising up on tiptoe, pressing my lips to his ear, and whispering, “Drink me.”
I clear my throat. But when I speak, my voice still comes out raw, with just a touch of ache. “I don’t think you’re a creep. Nor do I think you should move into Slytherin. Clearly you belong in Gryffindor.”
He laughs, and the sound of it makes me want to weep with relief. “Gryffindor? That’s high praise. Are you sure about that?”
“Absolutely. If anyone belongs in Slytherin, it’s me.” I’m the bad person in this scenario. I’ve told so many lies in the past few days that I’m starting to believe them.
He shakes his head. “I find that hard to believe, Hermione.”
The reappearance of my nickname makes me glow, and when he says it, I happen to be looking straight at his mouth.
I’m not just looking, though. I’m also thinking—wondering about things I shouldn’t, like what his lips would feel like against the hollow of my throat. Nice, probably.
Warm. Soft. Perfect.
“Can I tell you a secret?” I hear myself ask.
My heart beats hard. Its rhythm pounds in my ears, and it sounds like a chant. Tell him, tell him, tell him.
“Anything,” he says, and I swear he’s looking at my mouth in the same delicious way I’m regarding his.
The ice bucket clatters to the ground, and neither of us react.
“I shouldn’t be part of this pageant. I don’t actually belong.” As the words leave my mouth, I realize that I’m not just trying to confess. I’m also giving voice to my deepest secret—the terrible feeling I’ve been carrying around since Adam told me he’d fallen in love with my twin.
I don’t belong anywhere.
I’m invisible.
Ginny is more beautiful than me. More confident. Just . . . more. And I’m not only hiding or pretending. I’m slipping away. I’m becoming less and less, and sometimes I think I might disappear altogether.
“Nonsense.” He reaches to brush my hair from my face, then takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to meet his gaze. “ ‘We’re all mad here.’ ”
It’s another Alice quote, and this time, it’s too much. I’ve opened myself up to him, just a crack, but it’s enough to let the light in. His light. It feels like sunshine, flooding me with life and heat and something I haven’t let myself feel in far too long.
Desire.
I want the feeling to last. I want to grab hold of this moment and make it mine. I want to kiss this man who somehow seems to see me, the real me, when no one else does.