The Tiara on the Terrace by Kristen Kittscher Page A

Grace was scanning the crowd. I followed her gaze to the very back of the lawn, where Mr. Katz stood in his brown suit, shoulders stooped, waiting tousher latecomers to seats. His eyes darted across the crowd shiftily.
    â€œI hope all of you will join me in remembering his life in a special service at St. Luke’s on the Sunday after the Festival, when we can give him the farewell a great man like him deserves,” Lee added. Splotches of moisture darkened his tan shirt. I wasn’t used to seeing him in such drab colors. Usually he wore bright pastel golf shirts—and sometimes even screaming loud plaid pants.
    â€œIn presidential tradition, Jim chose this year’s parade theme,” Lee continued. “He was inspired by the lyrics of his favorite song—a song that sums up the Festival spirit.” He cleared his throat so hard I thought he was going to cough up a hairball right there on the stage, which was better than belching, I supposed. Some of the adults in the crowd nudged each other uncomfortably, and I was relieved I wasn’t the only one horrified by the weird funeral-parade kick-off combo. Poor Rod. It was bad enough that a giant marshmallow had taken out his family’s friend. Now he had to sit through a strange, sweaty, hairball-coughing tribute to him, too. It all felt like the kind of crazy bad dream I have when I’m running a fever.
    â€œWe. Are. Family,” Harrison Lee said, pausing dramatically after each word. “And we’ve lost a dear member of ourfamily.” A few sniffles rose up from the crowd. I caught a glimpse of Trista at the soundboard. Head cocked and mouth open, she looked as if she were watching a family of cockroaches scurry across the floor.
    â€œHowever, we’re here to announce the newest representatives of our Festival family. Please join me in congratulating our Royal Court finalists!” Lee swept his hand toward the contestants seated on the terrace. As applause rang out, their strained smiles grew even wider. Kendra Pritchard actually showed gum line, she was trying so hard. One of Jake’s friends, Sienna Connors, was the only girl who looked comfortable up there. Her sandy brown hair looked windswept, like she’d come to the announcements after a morning of surfing.
    The man next to me fidgeted and sighed as my cell phone vibrated with another text from Grace.
    Check out Barb. Purple muumuu. 10 o’clock.
    I was bad at following clock directions—but it wasn’t hard to spot Barb in the crowd. Women wearing bright purple have a way of standing out. She definitely did not look like a mother who’d waited eighteen years for that moment. Arms tightly folded, she looked, in fact, like someone who’d recently caught a hefty whiff of raw sewage. She fannedherself with a half-crumpled program. No way that was landing in Lily’s Royal Court scrapbook. Not without some serious magic from an industrial-strength steam iron.
    I caught Grace’s eye and gave a single nod. I wondered if, with every moment I went along with her, I was nudging us closer to being royal pages.
    The audience straightened in their seats as two Brown Suiters removed a fancy cloth covering the famous royal tiara pedestal and the velvet-lined glass case on top of it where the tiara itself would soon rise into view.
    â€œBut first, it’s time to unveil the Sun Queen’s tiara,” Harrison Lee said. “And the flower that Jim Steptoe chose to grace it.” A hush fell over the crowd. Each year just before the Festival started, it was tradition for the Festival President to choose a symbolic plant or flower for the parade, which was first revealed with the Sun Queen’s tiara. Only the jeweler who made the crown featuring the flower, and the president himself, knew the secret choice. We all realized that locking that tiara inside the secure hollow pedestal had to have been one of last things Mr. Steptoe ever