Lincoln drummed his fingers on the edge of the table and stared into his cereal as though it were a crystal ball: He saw only milk and overprocessed bits of sugary O's and not the future.
It was the next morning and everybody was gathered for breakfast - everybody except for Lola, that is. Lana said she was awake but didn't want to 'face' everyone. Lincoln expected as much, but hoped that she would be better today than she was the night before; he wanted, nay needed to see and comfort her, and every moment that he didn't, every second that she was alone and self-loathing was an eternity of excruciation. He felt the urge, as he had a thousand times over the past twelve hours, to go into her room and comfort her whether she wanted it or not, but stopped himself because he was being selfish - thinking of what he wanted and not what Lola wanted. Even so, resisting that temptation was the hardest thing he had ever done, and even now it took everything he had to keep himself from going to her.
Noon, he decided, he would give her until noon then he would try. Knowing her and how traumatizing what happened was for her, she wouldn't come out on her own, he would have to go after her.
When he looked up from his bowl, he realized that all of his sisters were watching him with something like expectation. They all glanced away as if they had been caught doing something wrong, but none of them spoke.
"I'll talk to her in a little while," he said.
"I don't know if it'll do any good," Lana said.
"He has to do something," Lynn declared. "We can't just let her stay up there forever."
Leni touched her finger to her chin and rolled her eyes up to the ceiling in thought, then brightened when an idea came to her. "I know. We should, like, make her a card...with little doggies on it."
"Given her mental and emotional distress, I doubt a card would suffice," Lisa said, then softened her tone. "But it would be a nice gesture."
"I should write her a song," Luna said.
"I should write her a poem," Lucy added. "About darkness."
Lincoln sighed. "Everyone just leave her alone. I'll talk to her later. For now just...go about your business." The last part came out sharper than he meant, and a few of his sisters (Lynn, Lori, and Luna) shot him dirty looks, but no one was in the mood to argue, and maybe, just maybe, they knew he was right: The best thing to do at the moment was to leave her be, and when the time came to step in, it should be him and not them.
He checked the time on his phone: 9:45. Two hours and fifteen minutes. That's all; not very long at all.
Only it was.
Maybe he should do it now; waiting until some arbitrarily set deadline didn't make much sense when you got right down to it. She was hurting now and she would be hurting then; she was ashamed and hating herself at this very moment, and here he was doing nothing about it, letting her stew in her own misery while telling himself that waiting was best. This isn't about me, he told himself but maybe it was...maybe he wanted to put it off as long as possible because looking into her sad eyes and seeing her wounded nose, her anguish and dejection, would kill him just like it did last night.
He loved his little sister dearly, and her pain cut him like the serrated edge of a knife; it kept him awake into the early hours of the morning and even now made him sick, literally sick. He didn't want to look upon it again, he really, really didn't.
Sighing, he pushed away from the table and got up, his sisters tracking him with their eyes. He took his bowl into the kitchen and dumped it into the trash, his movements slow, mechanical and his mind already with Lola. He dropped the bowl and his spoon into the sink and went through the dining room, ignoring his sisters when they all turned their heads to watch him go. At the bottom of the stairs, he laid his hand on the bannister and paused. Was he doing the right thing?
Yes, he decided, and ascended, his stomach a seething nest of nerves. The hall stood still and silent, sunlight spilling in through open bedroom doors and lying across the floor in wide shafts; dust motes danced in the beams like pegan revelers, and when he passed they stirred and whorled. At Lola's door, shut firmly and cold, uninviting, Lincoln took a deep breath and steeled himself for whatever may come, a part of him, a very weak part, hoping she would lash out and send him away rather than show him her pain.
Grimacing, he drew back his hand and knocked, the sound flat and hollow in the suddenly vacuum quiet, like the impossible and bonechilling rapt on a coffin lid...from the inside.
Lola didn't answer.
He knocked again.
"Go away." Her voice was listless and muffled, and pierced Lincoln's heart like a spear.
"I-It's me," he said.
Silence.
"Go away." There was a hesitant hitch that told him she didn't really want him to go, that, even if she wasn't fully aware of it, she wanted him to comfort her just as badly as he wanted him to.
But he didn't know for sure, and for a moment he wasn't sure if he should press forward or leave her alone: She might not be ready, and he really didn't want to force the matter if she wasn't.
Finally, he tried the knob.
It was unlocked.
He pushed the door open and poked his head in: The curtains were drawn heavily against the sun, casting the room in shadow, a single thin shaft falling through the gap. Lola was nestled under her pink comforter and facing the wall, her back to the world. One of the hinges squeaked, but she made no reaction, uttered no commandment to leave, which encouraged him slip in, clicking the door softly shut behind him. The blankets rustled as she shifted, perhaps to get closer to him...or maybe to get farther away.
Lincoln crossed the room and sat, the mattress dipping under him: It was a pillowtop, comfy to sleep on, not so comfy to sit on. He twisted around and looked at Lola, his brow knitted in soft concern: Her back gently rose and fell with the tide of her breathing, but otherwise she was stock still, the back of her blonde head somehow sad despite its lack of features. He reached out a tentative hand, waffled, then laid it on her shoulder, his thumb grazing the silken flesh of her throat and his heart skipping a beat he couldn't explain. For a moment he searched for the right words, but at a time like this, he figured there were no right words. She was hurt, ashamed, and no doubt hating herself as a klutz, a fool, and not good enough.
"I know you're upset," he said, "but..it's not the end of the world." That sounded contrived and even a little dismissive, but it was kind of true. "Falls happen," he continued. "How many girls have you seen trip since you started? I can count...five just in the past year alone."
Two pageants ago, in fact, a little Hispanic girl fell completely off the stage and twisted her ankle, and last year, another did a somersault and crashed onto the judges' table. Lola's accident was embarrassing, and Lincoln understood her pain, but it was not the worst he had ever seen, and he doubted it was the worst anyone in the audience had ever seen.
He said as much, and Lola drew a deep breath but did not reply.
"You can -"
"Just drop it, Lincoln," she croaked. "I'm a failure."
Lincoln's stomach turned. "Lola, you're not a failure. You're...you're human and you made a mistake. It happens. I make mistakes all the time. Luna makes mistakes, Lynn makes mistakes. Y-You can't go through life without flubbing something somewhere. It's impossible. No one is perfect."
"Lindsey Sweetwater is," Lola sulked.
"No, Lindsey Sweetwater is not perfect. Remember when she stumbled?"
Three pageants ago (or was it four?). Lindsey staggered a little as she came onstage. She caught herself without missing a beat, and the majority of the audience missed it, but as a coach who paid attention to poise and form whether he meant to or not, he didn't. Lola noticed too, and commented on it afterwards. Did you see her? She nearly made a fool out of herself.
The way she did last night.
Sigh.
Lola didn't reply. "When that happens...when you stumble in life...you have to get back up and keep going."
For a long time Lola was silent, considering his words, he hoped. A lot of people might look at her and think she was just a pretty face, but she was smart, and she had to realize the truth in what he said. Everyone under the sun makes the occasional misstep, even if you don't see it, and even if you don't think it happens, it does. That doesn't make it any less embarrassing or hurtful when it happens, but knowing that you're not alone, that shit just happens, softens the blow...at least it did for him.
"I guess," she said. "But I-I can't show my face. Not so soon. I'm…I'm withdrawing from the Little Miss High and Mighty pageant."
Lincoln's jaw dropped. Lola had been working toward and talking about that pageant since last year. It was...it was the highlight of the season, of her life. Her backing out was like The Undertaker backing out of the main event at Wrestlemania. She'd put so much time and effort into it that...her dropping it was unthinkable. "Lola," he cautioned, "that's the biggest pageant of the season, you've been training for months…"
"I know," she moaned, "but I can't do it. Not this time."
Lincoln opened his mouth to reply, to urge her to reconsider, but snapped it closed again. She sounded serious, and if her mind was made up, he wouldn't push her. "Are you absolutely sure?" he asked.
"Yes," she said.
He nodded. "Alright. If that's what you want." He squeezed her shoulder and felt the sudden urge to run his fingers through her hair and to place a delicate kiss on her cheek; he frowned to himself and fought it back. "Are you okay? Everyone's really worried about you."
"I'm fine," she sighed. "I just need to be alone."
Why did her asking to be alone feel like being stabbed in the guts? "Okay," he said and started to get up, but stopped when Lola's hand felt on the back of his. He looked at her, and she offered him a weak smile that was brilliant and beatific nonetheless; the air left his lungs in a rush and his heart blasted against his chest like a drum.
"Thank you," she said.
"You're welcome," he said, his throat tight. Before he knew what he was doing, he threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed her hand. Her breathing quickened and a pink blush spread across her cheeks, making her even more beautiful than she already was.
"You're a good brother," she said haltingly, "and a good coach."
He smiled at her praise like a satisfied cat, and her mouth puckered in a grin that she tried to suppress but couldn't. Acting on instinct he pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it, his heartbeat doubling when they touched her warm, fragrant skin. Lola's eyes widened and her blush deepened. Something about this didn't feel right...felt different than it did any other time he'd kissed her...but he didn't want to stop; he wanted to trail kisses up her bare arm like Pepe Le Pew until he reached her soft throat and -
With a jerk, he let go and shot to his feet. Lola shook her head like a woman coming out of a daze and swallowed thickly. "I-I gotta go," Lincoln said, and hurried out before she could reply.
In his room, he shut the door and sat on the edge of his bed, his mind racing and his heart throbbing so painfully he winced. He raked a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. What the hell was that? He'd kissed Lola a thousand times in his life, but never like he just had...never letting his lips linger or feeling like...like…
Like he did the time he kissed Ronnie Anne.
He licked his lips, and imagined he could still taste her skin; reflexively he spat onto the carpet. What's wrong with you? You don't kiss your sister like that...and you don't like it so much you want to do it more. What, are you some kind of pervert?
No! God, he could never...it was just...an emotional moment, that's all. He was worried about her and she was so upset that he got away from himself. He didn't mean anything by it; you kiss someone you love, especially when they're hurting. He didn't do anything out of the way, did he? He kissed the back of her hand, so what? He was making this needlessly weird.
Only...he didn't think he was, and he didn't think this was the first time he'd ever looked at Lola and noticed her heart-stopping beauty, or felt her vulnerability and wanted to kiss it away, even if he had to brush his lips against every square inch of her smooth, creamy skin.
AHHHHHHHH!
He leapt to his feet and pressed his hands to the side of his head like a madman in the middle of a padded room. Okay, that was perverted. Jesus, you're sick!
When someone knocked on the door, he jumped and uttered a sharp cry. The knob turned, and for a moment he was certain that it would be Chris Hansen from Dateline: NBC ("Why don't you have a seat, Linc?"), but it was only his sisters, clustered together and wearing expressions ranging from worry to hopefulness. "How is she?" Lori asked from the head of the pack.
Huh?
Oh.
Right.
He sank onto the edge of the bed. "She's upset," he said simply.
Everyone came over and sat, some next to him and some of the floor. Luna, her back against the bed, drew her knees up and rested her arms on them. "Yeah, man, but is she gonna come out of her room?"
"She wants to be alone," Lincoln said, "she -" here his voice hitched at the memory of her words "-she thinks she's a failure. And she doesn't want to compete in the Little Miss High and Mighty anymore."
The air went out of the room. "What?" Lynn asked from beside him. "She's been amped for that pagent all year."
"She's really not going to do it?" Luan asked, an edge of shock in her voice.
Lincoln shook his head. "No, she's not."
"She can't just give up like that," Lynn said. "She has to dust herself off -"
"That's what I said," Lincoln put in, "but her mind's made up." There was a hopeless quality to his voice that went well with the hopeless feeling in his stomach. He thought of her lying in bed, depressed...then she smiled at him, her hair pooled around her head like a halo. His heart crushed and he looked away from his sisters with a hot blush of shame.
"Is there anything we can do?" Lori asked.
Lincoln thought for a moment and slowly shook his head. "Not right this moment but…" he trailed off as he turned his idea over in his mind.
"What?" Lori asked quickly. "Spit it out, twerp."
Lincoln sighed. "Maybe we can make her want to compete." He stopped and considered. He didn't want to force her into anything, but every fiber of his being told him that getting her fired up, rekindling her passion until it eclipsed her self-doubt, was best. Certainly better than leaving her alone and letting her dwell. She needed time, she said, to get over it...she couldn't show her face so soon. Lincoln could understand that, but what would she do? Stew, that's what. She was in a defeatist mindset, and once someone's in one of those, it's all too easy to sink all the way to the bottom. Her break might turn into her retiring, too afraid of failing to get back in the game, and from there, her doubts would only multiply until she was scared to do anything.
He didn't want that.
"How do we do that?" Lori asked.
"I'm not sure," Lincoln said. "She feels…" he paused, unsure if he should tell his sisters how Lola felt. It seemed like a betrayal. They needed to know, though. "She feels like everyone else is talented and she's just a pretty face, like she's not as good as anyone else and it really depresses her. That's why she got into pageants in the first place, to prove to herself that she could actually accomplish something."
No one spoke for a moment as they digested that new bit of information. "So she's really down on herself," Lincoln added to drive the point home. His sisters looked at each other with dark, downcast expressions.
"She really feels like that?" Leni asked.
Lincoln nodded. "We can't make her jealous of us because it won't work, it'll just make her feel worse."
"Then what do we do?" Luna asked.
"I'm not sure. I need time to think."
Everyone looked at each other, and by unspoken consent they got up and filed out, giving him the space he needed. When they were gone, he bowed his head: A vision of Lola lying back on her bed in a spill of sunlight, her hair like fire and her eyes sparkling; something stirred in his stomach, something he should not be feeling, and he sighed.
He just wanted her to be happy. That's all. And being locked away in her room and going over what happened again and again would only make her sadder, skipping the Little Miss High and Mighty Pageant would only make it worse. He had to do something, but what? His thing was planning and problem solving - attributes he took great pride in, skills that he put to great use in helping his sisters when they needed it most - if he couldn't apply everything he had to help Lola - to the sister he loved most - then…
His laptop chimed from its spot on his dresser, startling him. Someone was calling.
Good.
He needed the distraction.
Getting up, he crossed the room, grabbed it, and carried it back to his bed where he sat. He opened it, and Ronnie Anne's freckled face filled the screen, surprising him: Since moving away, she didn't have very much time for video calls. Once upon a time, it bothered him, because he really liked her, but he lost himself in training Lola and those feelings kind of...went away.
He transferred his focus to Lola instead.
His time and energy, he meant. Not his feelings.
"Hey, lame-o," Ronnie Anne said. She was sitting on her bed, a white wall behind her, the bottom half of a poster just visible above her head.
"Hey," he said and leaned back against his pillow. "It's been a while."
Almost a month, to be exact.
"Yeah, I know," she said and flicked her eyes guiltily away, "I've just had a lot of stuff going on."
He figured. Two months ago, Lori started acting really weird around him. When she'd get off the phone with Bobby and he'd ask how Ronnie Anne was, she'd give him a big, sheepish smile and start rambling about how she was 'great' and 'fine, just literally fine.' He was born at night, but not last night, as they say, so he knew she was hiding something. When he eventually confronted her, she broke down and told him that Ronnie Anne literally has a boyfriend out there. She was afraid to tell him because she thought it would hurt him, but, strangely, it didn't.
"How's Lola?" she asked.
"Well, she's - wait a minute, what do you mean?"
Ronnie Anne shrugged. "Well, after what happened…"
For a moment Lincoln was so confused he couldn't speak. "How do you know what happened?"
Ronnie Anne held up her phone. On the screen was a still image of Lola lying on face down on the stage. There was a white sideways PLAY arrow in a red square which told him it was a video. "She's on the front page of Faildotcom."
The caption beneath read AND THE AWARD FOR BEST TRIP AND FALL GOES TO….
Below that was: Submitted by Lindsey S.
Horror flooded Lincoln's chest.
Oh, God, I hope Lola -
A high, blood curdling scream shattered the silence.
- doesn't find out.
Lola lie on her bed, her jaw slack and her chest rising and falling in a quick but shallow rhythm: Her heart gently pounded, and the back of her hand, where Lincoln kissed her, tingled pleasantly. Her face was on fire, and her skin was warm all over; sharp pangs raced through her stomach and her head spun, the room twisting back and forth so violently that she clutched the cover lest she fly off and break her neck. She licked her dry lips and glanced at the door - when did he leave? Two minutes ago? Two hours? She didn't know, thinking was hard: Visions of her brother looking down upon her with tender eyes and bringing her hand to his mouth danced before her eyes, and the feeling of his kiss - like sparks shooting through her blood - lingered, the ghostly memory igniting every nerve ending in her little body like a raging inferno. She had never felt anything like this before - at least this strongly - and her frame trembled slightly.
She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. A weight seemed to press down on her chest, and the strange fluttering in her depths - the nauseous, achy, throbbing tickle - increased with every thought, every abstract fantasy that he didn't stop at her hand, that he went higher, and higher, and higher still until their noses touched, their eyes gazed deeply into one another, and they shared the same ragged breath. She shook her head as if in denial of how beautiful it was, and every soft, encouraging word Lincoln had ever spoken to her, every fleeting touch, every hug and peck of the cheek, came back to her in a crashing tidal wave. She swallowed thickly and looked around as if for salvation, but found none: She was alone with her feelings, feelings she couldn't name, but thought she recognized anyway.
Feeling that she should not be having.
She sat up and scooted back until she was pressed against the headboard, then drew her knees to her chest. Revelation crept along the corners of her mind like questing fingers, and she batted them away. Think of the pageant instead...the grief, the humiliation, the way Lindsey Sweetwater laughed and laughed. That's safe, that's normal.
Unlike…
Her phone chirruped, and she shot out her arm so suddenly that she almost knocked it off the nightstand; it trembled in her hand and she nearly dropped it. She swiped her thumb across the screen and saw that she had a Google Alert - it was set so that every time her name was mentioned online, she was notified. Sudden dread filled her stomach like cold sludge, and her heart began to race - she knew even before she opened it that it was going to be something bad, and a voice in her head told her to drop it and walk away, but her morbid curiosity got the better of her...she had to know.
What she saw was more terrible than she ever could have imagined: Herself tripping and whacking her face on the floor; the crowd gasping in pained sympathy; Lindsey Sweetwater laughing maniacally offscreen. For a moment she was back there like a war vet in the middle of a flashback, and the deepest, darkest despair she felt as she was ushered into the wings blotted out her world entire, casting her in cold darkness. A steel band constricted around her lungs and her stomach rolled. Her eyes flicked down and she saw two things. First:
Submitted by Lindsey S.
The second:
2 Million Views.
A scream of horror tore from her throat and the phone dropped from her hand, bouncing on the bed and landing face down. In a flash, someone was knocking on the door. "Lola?" Lincoln asked worriedly.
The video was still playing, and the cruel sound of Lindsey Sweetwater's laughter rang through her head like a harbinger of doom. Two million views...two million people seeing her fail, laughing at her, knowing that she was not good enough. Her heart shriveled and tears welled in her eyes. She covered her face with her hands and gave into them, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. She didn't know Lincoln was there until he took her into his arms and pulled her close to his chest; she was powerless to fight, not that she wanted to. He hugged her tightly, and his warm, comforting scent filled her nose, immediately soothing her like a child's blanket. She laid her head against him and wept bitterly, her hand clutching the front of his shirt in a needy, desperate gesture. He stroked his fingers through her hair and quietly shushed her, his lips ghosts across her forehead like the faint touch of the softest satin.
In his warm embrace, her tears tapered off and the shaking stilled, but the dark emotions swirling in her chest only grew. Lindsey Sweetwater's laughter filtered through the phone speaker, high, braying, full of dark delight and sadistic glee.
Something happened then: Her angusih sucked into a tight ball in the middle of her breast and turned hot, red hot, as hot as the fiery surface of the midday sun. Her lips peeled back from her teeth and her brow angled down in an angry V; her body began to shake again, not with sadness now but with rage.
And still Lindsey Sweetwater laughed. "Have a nice trip, see you next fall!"
Like a shot, Lola threw herself off of Lincoln's lap and snatched the phone; before she knew what she was doing, she was flinging it across the room: It hit the wall and exploded in a shower of plastic and glass, falling to the carpet in pieces. Blood crashed against her temples and her body was hotter than it had ever been before, even when Lincoln stared into her eyes and kissed her hand. Fury bubbled up inside of her like hot tar, shooting up in a jet and leaving her mouth in a shriek. "That bitch!"
Lincoln winced, and jumped to his feet when Lola leapt off the bed and shoved her trophy case: It wobbled, then toppled over, landing on the floor with a heart-stopping crash; plaques, awards, and framed photos spilled from the shelves and fell like boulders from the sky. "Lola!"
The little girl whipped around and Lincoln shrank back: Her face was the color of blood and her eyes blazed with hatred; her shoulders lifted and fell with every deep, animal pant, and her balled fists shook at her sides. He'd never seen her this mad, and to be honest, it scared him.
"I'm gonna kill her!" she roared. "I'll claw her eyes out and wrap that stupid bow around her throat! I'll-I'll-I'll -" she threw back her head and let out an inarticulate cry of savagery. Lincoln caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye, and looked up to find his sisters crowded around the door, their expressions ranging from worry to shock.
Lola lashed out and kicked one of the trophies...then stopped, a wicked smile spreading across her face. Lincoln gulped. "No I'm not," she said, her voice cold and even...deliberate and deadly. She looked up at him, and her grin crazily reminded him of a shark moments from striking. "I'm going to hit her where it hurts." She giggled demonically, and Lincoln's blood froze.
"I'm going to win the Little Miss High and Mighty Pageant."
