Lola Loud pulled on her gloves and set the tiara on top of her blonde head, then checked her appearance in the vanity mirror. "You are gorgeous," she told the girl staring back at her, and she was: Her skin was smooth and flawless, her eyes were soft and brown, and her gap tooth smile was radiant enough to power a small European nation for weeks, maybe even months.

She blew herself a kiss and turned; Lincoln leaned against the closed door with his arms crossed over his chest and a fond grin on his lips. He wore jeans and an orange polo shirt as he did most days - she was the one to decide orange was his color, and it absolutely was. "Do I look pretty, Lincy?" she asked in a teasing singsong voice.

A blush colored his face and he nodded. "You're beautiful," he said. She knew asking his opinion of her appearance made him uncomfortable, and that's why she did it - he was cute when he squirmed, like a little bug.

Not that asking him whether or not she looked nice was beyond his job description - he was her pageant coach, after all, and pageant coaches are supposed to tell you how you look. Granted, she did it a little more often than she had to, but teasing Lincoln was fun, and she really liked to see him blush.

Getting up from the stool, she crossed the dressing room with her head tilted back and her chin out, just as she would when she went onstage. When Lincoln first started coaching her last year, he told her to always be in character. It's something actors do, he told her, but only the good ones. As she went through her day, walking down the halls of Royal County Elementary, walking home, or simply walking into the kitchen to get a glass of milk, she pretended that every eye was on her, and that a panel of judges was watching her every move, mentally adding or deducting points based on poise, confidence, and grace - or lack thereof. She didn't like to admit it, but she was only human, and even she tripped, stumbled, and spilled things on herself. Regrettable, I know.

His teachings paid off, though: Of the last seven pageants she'd participated in, she won four, three of them in a row. The other girls were too proud to let on, but they were positively consumed with jealousy, especially that two bit tramp Lindsey Sweetwater. Lola didn't hate the others, but she did hate Lindsey: She was a stuck-up little twit from the rich side of town who thought she was soooo much better than her. That she could deal with, but the real reason she despised that thot was because she was her ony real competition. Lola was not a lesbian (a word she learned from Lisa), but even she had to admit that with her long red hair, porcelain skin, ruby red lips, and soft green eyes, Lindsey Sweetwater was pretty - far prettier than a lot of the other girls they competed against.

She was also tact, graceful, and well-spoken. Oh, and talented: Her ribbon dance was legendary on the Lower Michigan circuit, and her dancing was divine.

Lola hated her.

So much.

When she reached the door, Lincoln opened it and followed her out into the hall. "Don't worry," he said, "you're gonna do fine. Just remember everything - "

"I'm not worried," Lola replied, but by the tone and timbre of his voice, he was, and that made her chest clutch. Did he not think she was good enough? Did he suddenly lose faith in her?

Of course not, he was just a worrywart, and always had been. Lisa said he would develop an ulcer before he was fifteen, and Lola believed her. Even so, the thought of him no longer believing in her sent ripples of anxiety racing through her stomach. She was not a weak girl, she was strong, but even the strongest need someone to lean on from time to time, someone to light their way, and for her that had always been Lincoln. Of all her siblings, he was the only one always willing to help her, and he always took her bad moods, sharp words, and occasional bad attitudes in stride. She was closer to him than any of her sisters (except for Lana), and though she didn't always say it, or show it, he meant a great deal to her. His opinion meant a great deal to her.

"Good," he said, "don't be. You got this by the hair."

She smiled to herself. "Thank you, Lincy."

They were almost to the stage now: Lola could hear piped music accompanying one of the girls' dance routine. As she always did when she got close to the curtains, Lola felt a rush of anxiety. Her greatest fear was embarrassing herself in front of everyone - tripping and falling flat on her face, maybe, or bending over and ripping the seat of her dress, giving everyone a peek at her underwear. Doing so would confirm what the metaphorical voice of self-doubt whispered in her ear during her darker moments: That she wasn't enough, that every win wasn't her being the best...it was her somehow fooling the judges into thinking she was.

She stopped and turned to her brother; he dropped to one knee and laid a hand on her shoulder. His touch was soft and comforting, his smile warm and encouraging. A strange flutter, like the flapping of butterfly wings, tickled the inside of Lola's stomach, and her heartbeat sped inexplicably up. The air suddenly felt too warm, the floor too wobbly. She searched his eyes, for what she didn't now, and they were the softest shade of brown she had ever seen; her lungs stopped pumping and a strange sensation like electricity flowed through her body, starting at the tips of her toes and crackling along every vein and nerve ending until it reached her heart and shocked it into skipping a beat...or three.

"You're gonna do great," he said and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

She tried to speak, but her vocal cords were locked. "T-Thank you," she finally managed. She felt strange and she didn't know why - maybe she was going to have a heart attack onstage and die, or a blood clot was going to come loose from the wall of a vessel, block traffic, and give her the dubious distinction of being the first six year old to suffer a stroke.

He leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on her forehead, and her heart crushed painfully; her skin blazed with fever and a dreamy smile ruffled across her lips like the rise and fall of the tide. He pulled back and squeezed again. "I'll be in the front row cheering you on." He started to stand, but Lola surprised herself by springing at him and throwing her arms around his neck; he wasn't ready, and nearly fell back onto his butt.

"Thank you, Lincy," she said.

"You're welcome," he laughed and hugged her; the warmth of his body against hers, and the feeling of his heart beating next to her heart made her weak in the knees. She drew a deep sigh, his scent filling her nose, then let him go because something told her that if she didn't know, she never would.

He got to his feet and patted the top of her head. "Break a leg."

"I will," she said. For you, she added to herself.

When he was gone, she sighed sadly and turned to the curtain, the most peculiar feeling of loss and loneliness filling her - icy water replacing the hot.

"Awww, how cute," a mocking voice said.

A voice that Lola knew all too well.

Lindsey Sweetwater, clad in a blue dress with ruffles, leaned against the wall, her arms crossed. She wore black gloves pulled to her elbows and a dark blue bow in her hair, which spilled over her shoulders like red silk and curled at the bottom.

Disdain washed through Lola like battery acid, and her eyes narrowed to predatory slits. "Cram it, Sweetwater," she said tightly.

Instead, Lindsey pushed away from the wall, folded her hands, and pressed them to one side of her face. "I wuv my big bwuver," she said and batted her eyelashes. "He cuts my food up for me and everyting."

Lola's lips pulled back from her teeth in a sneer, lending her the appearance of a small and vicious dog. Lindsey's evil grin only widened when she saw she was getting to her rival. "Den he tucks me in and weads me a bedtime stowry." Here her face darkened and she dropped the baby talk. "The Little Pageant Whore Who Lost."

"I'm not the one who's losing, sweetie," Lola said, "you are...like you did the last three times running." She crossed her arms and lifted a challenging brow.

An angry blush colored Lindsey's cheeks and her brow lowered dangerously. "I'd win every pageant too if I cheated."

Lola gasped. "I do not cheat."

Lidnsey put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to one side. "Yes you do. Your brother probably sucks the judges off. Pwease let my sister win."

Searing rage burst in Lola's chest like a bomb, and her hands closed into fists. "Do not bring Lincoln into this."

One of the many things Lincoln had taught her over the past year was to never show how down, annoyed, frustrated, intimated, or sad you were. Always keep your chin up and smile, even if it kills you inside. Showing someone how much they're affecting you is tells them they're on the right track and to keep going. Lola tried very hard to apply that to her interactions with Lindsey, but that girl made her feel things she didn't know were possible: The fall of her hair, the set of her face, and the cutesy sound of her venomous voice were enough to drive a girl to murder even before you factored in what a huge bitch she was. Lola never called her mean names to her face, though, never, because as Lincoln said, she was above that, and if he thought so, she thought so as well. Lindsey knew this, and as soon as the insult passed Lola's lips, she realized her mistake. Uh-oh.

"I bet he does," Lindsey said. "I mean he has to be gay; what sort of man gets involved in beauty pageants?"

Her cruel, taunting laugher boiled Lola's blood. "My brother is not gay."

"Yeah?" Lindsey asked. "I bet you know from personal experience."

Lola blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing," Lindsey said, "just that he's not only your brother."

W-Was she saying Lincoln was her boyfriend? Ew, gross!

"You are disgusting," Lola said.

"I'm also going to win tonight," she retorted, "and next month...I'm going to win the Little Miss High and Mighty Pageant."

The Little Miss High and Mighty Pageant was the premiere event of the summer pageant season - Lynn once called it the Super Bowl of dumb girly stuff and she wasn't wrong - about the Super Bowl part, that is. Every year girls from across the state flocked to Royal Woods to participate and try for the first place prize: 10,000 dollars and a trophy so tall terrorists wanted to fly airplanes into it. Lola had been training all year for that pagent - not because the wanted the money or the trophy, but because she wanted to prove to everyone, especially herself, that she was the best, that she was talented.

There was no way in hell Lindsey was going to win.

"In your dreams, ho."

Lindsey threw her head back and laughed. "I'm not the one was practically fucking my brother."

"I WASN'T FUCKING MY BROTHER!" Lola roared, her fists balling and her body bending forward at the waist.

The curtains parted and a little black girl in a yellow dress came through. Onstage, the emcee called Lindsey's name, his amplified voice like God's. "There I am," Lindsey said, "watch how it's done, honey."

She went out, and, fuming, Lola stalked over, her heels clicking angrily on the floor; at the curtain she pulled it aside and glared at the little bitch, summoning all her energy and focusing in on making her trip on the hem of her dress. How dare she say those awful things! I bet he's gay. No he isn't, Lincoln is perfectly normal and manly - he even had a girlfriend, but she moved away. For which Lola was glad, she might add: When Ronnie Anne lived here, Lincoln rarely ever had time for her, and some days she wouldn't even see him, and for some strange reason that made her so sad she could cry.

Where was she? Oh, right. Lincoln was all man, and no, she didn't know from personal experience, she knew because he was everything a man should be: Kind, courteous, strong, gentlemanly, handsome, thoughtful…

In other words, he was amazing, but the thought of being her brother's girlfriend...of holding his hands and gazing longingly into his eyes, of kissing his soft lips and tasting his tongue, or curling up in his lap like a contented cat and letting him stroke her hair until she purred…

Her heart slammed against her ribs and she felt like she was going to be sick.

Because it was awful and gross.

That's why.

Onstage, Lindsey flicked her wrist and the ribbon fluttered like a flag in the breeze. Lola rolled her eyes - because it wasn't that good; people made such a big deal about it but bleh, I've seen better.

She clutched the curtain in her hand and glared at the floozy as she jumped and twirled, sticking every landing perfectly and whipping the ribbon around with a fluidity that didn't make Lola lime green with envy. She averted her eyes, and, as if drawn by magnetism, they instantly fell on Lincoln: He sat in the front row between Dad and Luan, his arms crossed and a bored expression on his face. Her heart started pounding faster and a smile she wasn't conscious of crept across her lips. He must have felt her gaze, because he turned and grinned. Lifting his hand, he gave her a little wave, and she eagerly returned it.

Sigh. Now she felt better. At peace, even. Lindsey finished her dance and the crowd went wild, clapping, whistling, and stomping their feet like a bunch of philistines. Lindsey strutted by with her head back and her eyes pointed down her nose at Lola. "Beat that."

"I will," Lola growled.

"Go do it then."

Trembling with rage, Lola stalked out onto the stage and into the hot spotlight. She was so angry that she wasn't paying attention to what she was doing, and stepped on the hem of her dress.

No one in the audience that night had ever seen a more epic face plant, or a bloodier nose.