Fruit by Brian Francis

just couldn’t figure out why Daniela was entering the contest in the first place. I kept thinking back to what Mrs. Bertoli had said, about Daniela saying how she had to do it for her. What did she mean by that and did she really think she’d win? Part of me felt guilty, like I was watching her walk into a room full of tigers. Another part of me felt angry at her for wanting to walk in the room in the first place. Daniela couldn’t be that stupid, could she?
    When Saturday night came, I sat on my front porch to watch Daniela leave for the pageant. She had some problems getting through the front door in her red dress and accordion, so Gianni had to push her from behind while Mrs. Bertoli pulled on her arm.
    “Careful!” Daniela yelled. “You’re gonna fuckin’ rip it!”
    Her hair was piled up and looked like a big black beehive. She had clumps of white stuff stuck in it, which I guess was the baby’s breath, but looked more like cobwebs to me. Mr. Bertoli had on a tie and a green shirt that was too tight. Mrs. Bertoli was wearing a dress that matched her toque.
    Gianni was wearing his Burger King uniform.
    “Good luck,” he said and got into his Camaro. “You fuckin’ cow!”
    Daniela started yelling back at him, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying because Gianni backed his car out of the driveway, squealed his tires, and roared off down the street.
    Then Mr. Bertoli made Daniela stand on the front lawn while he took pictures of her. “Hurry up,” she said. “My back is fuckin’ killing me. This accordion weighs a ton.”
    Just before Daniela’s parents squeezed her into the car, she looked across the street and saw me sitting on the porch.
    “What do you think?” she yelled and twirled around. “Pretty fuckin’ hot, eh?”
    I nodded and gave her the thumbs up.
    “I lost two fake fingernails pulling up my pantyhose and I got so much make-up on, I think I’m going to fuckin’ tip over.”
    I just hoped Daniela wouldn’t use the f-word in her speech.
    Once Daniela’s parents had her stuffed into the back seat, the Bertolis took off for the Basilico Club. A black cloud of smoke followed them all the way down our street.
    As I watched their car disappear, I started to wonder. What if Daniela actually won? What if she didn’t swear in her speech? What if she hit all the right notes on her accordion? What if the judges thought she’d make the perfect Christmas elf? What if she really did set an example for Italian girls everywhere by showing them that dreams can come true if you believe in yourself?
    I went inside the house, grabbed a box of Wheat Thins and a bottle of pop, went to my room, and locked it with the chair.
    “Bravo!” the people called. I turned my desk lamp so that it was staring me right in the eye. I squinted and smiled.
    “Bravo!”
    Lifting my hand to my side, I cupped it and slowly twisted my wrist, waving to them all. I brought my other arm against my chest, holding my bouquet of red roses. I mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
    “Do you want any popcorn?”
    It was my mom at the door. I quickly turned the desk lamp down.
    “I thought about making some, if you want it. What are you doing in there, anyway?”
    “Homework,” I said. “And no, I don’t want any popcorn.”
    I wouldn’t be surprised if my mom put hidden cameras in my room.
    I didn’t see Daniela at all the next day, but when I pickedup my papers on Monday after school, I looked through a copy before delivering them. On the first page of the “Local News” section, there was a photo of the new Miss Basilico 1984. It wasn’t Daniela.
    When I went up to the Bertolis’ house to drop off the paper, Daniela was sitting in the garage, cleaning off her tomatoes with a rag. She was sitting on a small stool, wearing a pair of ripped jogging pants and a white T-shirt. She still had white bits in her hair. I thought about pretending not to see her, because I didn’t know what to say. What if she started to