The Tiara on the Terrace by Kristen Kittscher

though, the happy mood felt creepy. Caterers flitted about under the white tents set up alongside themansion, fanning out cookies on platters and stacking teacups. Laughter echoed from clusters of well-dressed people mingling on a lawn so green and perfect it looked like a lush new carpet that had been rolled out for the occasion.
    â€œDivide and conquer,” Grace whispered as we headed for spots in separate rows so we could observe the suspects better. Our parents had been more than happy to let us sit wherever we wanted, probably because they wanted to be far, far away if there was any repeat of last year, when we’d been struck by an epic snorty-laugh attack for no good reason. Unfortunately, Trista had been roped into working the soundboard, but she’d promised to keep a lookout for anything strange. She already stood at her station set up in the center of the audience, her wiry, dark curls trying to spring free from the stiff, new LA Dodgers cap she wore to keep the sun out of her eyes.
    I was about to slip into a back row when Rod walked down the center aisle toward me, looking a little lost. His curls were plastered damply against his head, and his tie was knotted very tightly, as if he hadn’t had much practice dressing up. He gave a half-wave.
    â€œI like your blazer,” I said lamely, making a mental note to work on my greetings.
    â€œThanks.” Rod rubbed the back of his neck and shifteduncomfortably. “My mom and dad made me wear it.”
    I made a face and pointed to my flowery skirt. “Same.”
    â€œWe look nice, though, right?” Rod forced a grin, and I wasn’t sure if he was trying to compliment me. I blushed anyway. He glanced back at his little brother, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I guess I have to—”
    â€œI’m really sorry about Mr. Steptoe,” I blurted.
    â€œYeah.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he kicked his shoe against the grass. “I am, too,” he added quietly. He gestured awkwardly to the rest of his family, who sat—pale and unsmiling—a few rows behind me. When I saw them there all together, I kind of wished I’d sat with my parents after all. Maybe the day wouldn’t have felt so weird.
    I shielded my eyes from the sun and squinted at the Royal Court contenders sitting on the terrace, their hands folded in their laps. As the Festival’s official brass quintet warmed up next to them, the girls stared straight ahead, smiles frozen as if a tuba blaring inches from their ears was actually quite pleasant.
    I wouldn’t last a second as a royal page.
    Harrison Lee stepped up to the podium. Two men in white suits stepped forward on either side of him and raised silver trumpets. But instead of the brassy bursts that usually started the Royal Court announcements, sad, wiltednotes oozed from them. Harrison Lee bowed his head as if he were praying. As the cameras zoomed in on him, the forest of his thick, gelled hair filled the two large TV screens mounted on either side of the terrace.
    â€œToday is a difficult day,” he began, lifting his head again at last. He plucked a light-brown handkerchief from his front blazer pocket and dabbed at the sweat glistening on his brow. It was a warm day for December, but not that warm. I suppose it could have been nerves. He hadn’t had much time to prepare.
    My cell phone buzzed in my lap. It was a text from Grace:
    Look at Lee sweat! Guilty much?
    Lee took a nervous sip from his thermos on the podium and continued. “Many people thought we should cancel the Royal Court coronation altogether. But anyone who knew Jim Steptoe also knows he believed the show must always go on. As he liked to say: ‘The winter sun always shines.’” Lee brought his fist to his mouth and closed his eyes. I felt bad because even though he was probably struggling not to cry, it looked like he was holding back a burp.
    I looked across the aisle.