The Pumpkin Queen

by

Lauren McGill

A black velvet curtain separated several hundred empty seats from the chaos backstage. Most contestants had arrived early and were either getting dressed or putting on make-up.

I stared into a hand-held mirror, looking almost as nervous as I felt.

Brynna frowned at me as she brushed her golden hair. “Would you stop that?” she said, snatching the mirror from my hand. “I don’t know what you’re worried about—you’re gonna win.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said, “Then what are you doing here?”

“I happen to like this kind of thing. We can’t all be tomboys, you know.” Leaning over, she whispered, “But if I do win, I promise I’ll do something really nasty to Snotty-Ahhna for you!”

I laughed, but not on the inside. I longed to tell her what I really wanted, to explain why I was doing this in the first place. But it would have sounded too ridiculous.

“Oh, my God.” Brynna held her hairbrush in mid-air and studied some late arrival coming in through the back door. “Who the heck is that?”

Neither of us had ever seen her before. She had thick amber hair that gleamed like metal, and a curvy figure that made me cringe. We stared as she settled in and began to primp—not that she needed to.

“Wheeew,” Brynna whispered. “She might cause some trouble.”

Sourness seeped into my gut as a shrill, ringing noise shook the backstage area. It was Mrs. Shambach’s whistle; she was corralling us.

“Places, everyone!” she shouted. “Nearly show time!” She clapped the back of her clipboard with her free hand.

We hustled into place, and the overhead lights began to dim. My heart beat like a big bass drum. Then applause rippled on the other side of the curtain. It sounded friendly, and I relaxed a little. Next came silence, and then the clicking of shoes on hardwood.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” a male voice boomed out from speakers above the stage. “I’m Jason Hornbuckle, your master of ceremonies for the evening, and I’m pleased to welcome you to the Fifty-eighth annual Pumpkin Queen Contest of the Fifty-eighth annual Snodgrass County Harvest Festival.”

Jason was a goofy, freckled senior who worked part-time at Foodtown, a local grocery store. He made no secret of his greatest ambition, which was to become a local television news anchor. He probably thought this gig would be good experience for his future career.

“As most of you know,” he continued, “according to legend, the winner of the Pumpkin Queen Contest will be visited by the real Pumpkin Queen, who will grant her three wishes!”

The spectators applauded, and I could visualize Jason out there, grinning like a dog left alone for the night in a butcher’s shop.

“Sounds pretty good, huh?” he said. “So without further ado, let’s meet our contestants.”

The stage lights went up, the curtain parted, and there we stood, facing the crowd. I wore an evening gown for the first time in my life. It was a sapphire-blue loaner from Brynna, and beneath it, my knees rattled like maracas. I smiled hard at the audience because Brynna had said it was impossible to smile too big or too much. But I felt like a chimpanzee.

“And now,” Jason said, checking an index card, “Please welcome our first contestant, Nancy Arbogast!”

A beefy blonde stepped forward, holding her head high as she strutted along the new runway, added to the stage just this year. It put her right out in the audience, and made me think of pirate ships and walking the plank.

Later, when my turn came, I stepped onto the runway, walked to the end of it, and turned slowly around. I felt like a pork roast on a barbecue spit, but Mrs. Shambach had told us we had to give everyone a really good look. It was embarrassing, but also dangerous. A single misstep could catapult me right into the lap of some unsuspecting spectator.

The crowd studied each of us as if we were cows at a livestock auction, until every girl had made her appearance. Then Mrs. Shambach nodded from the wings, and we all about-faced to the right and marched offstage as the curtain closed.

We waited backstage for maybe ten minutes, and then Mrs. Shambach waved us back to our places. A moment later, the curtain was creaking open again.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jason Hornbuckle announced, “the judges have worked hard to choose ten finalists who will compete in the remaining portion of tonight’s contest.”

A hush fell. Everything depended on the next few minutes. If there was any truth to the legend, I would be a finalist. If not, this entire shindig would be nothing but a humiliating waste of time.

Jason lowered his voice. “Contestants, please come forward as your name is called. Ladies and gentlemen, please hold your applause until I have announced all ten finalists.”

He took a deep breath. “Tammy Arrington.”

Someone shrieked in an upper row, and shushing protests burst forth from every direction. Tammy stepped forward, beaming.

“Please hold your applause, folks,” Jason said.

He read the rest of the finalist names: Connie Carr, Ileanna Wheaton, Melissa Evans, Brynna Martin, LaBelle LaDuke (that strange redhead Brynna and I had spotted earlier), Lauren Walters, Tatiana Huffman, Brandi Jenkins…

Jason paused to draw out the suspense, and I counted the names in my head.

Only one left. I held my breath.

“And the last of our ten finalists is…”

My nose was itching, and beneath my satin gown, cotton underwear crept up to where no underwear should go. All I wanted was to get offstage to scratch and tug—without the entire county watching.

“Our last finalist is…”