Lincoln Loud laid his hand on his crying sister's shoulder and squeezed; his eyes were downcast and his lips were arranged in a sad frown. His face was pale, strained, and his cheeks were streaked with tears of his own; he seemed to be in pain, but he felt much, much, much worse than he looked. It was like jagged fingers were digging in his guts, and with each one of Lola's sobs a pang of agony went through his like broken glass. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again because if he tried to talk, he would break down.
She worked so hard to win this pageant, was so excited...and then this. The blood gushing from her swollen nose was bad, but the look in her eyes, the shame and bitter disappointment, was worse, so, so much worse. He drew a deep breath and let it out in a rush; Lola trembled under his touch, her tiny frame shaking with the force of her weeping, her face hidden by her hands and her nostrils stuffed with tissues. The pageant doctor and Lisa both examined her nose and pronounced it unbroken, thank God, but it was puffy, pink, and tender, and Lincoln already knew what she would say when she finally saw it in the mirror. I'm hideous.
That made him feel ten times worse, because she was anything but.
Presently, they were in the back seat of the van, the harsh orange light of streetlamps rushing over them as they passed. Everyone else was absolutely silent, their heads bowed in grief much like Lincoln's. When they first got in, each sister gave Lola an encouraging word accompanied by a pat, squeeze, or other display of affection, but the little girl was blind and deaf to it all. Lincoln glanced up, and met Lana's gaze; she sat on Lola's other side, her brow pinched in concern and tears standing in her big brown eyes. Is she going to be okay? The little tomboy seemed to ask.
Lincoln looked away. I don't know.
Since becoming Lola's pageant coach last year, he'd learned a lot about her, things that he never suspected, such as her sensitivity. On the outside, she was fire and nails, but deep down she was soft and pink, and things that seemed to roll off her back affected her greatly. She appeared serene and self-assured on the surface, but look deeper, and you would find a girl who, despite her beauty, didn not think she was good enough. Why, he couldn't say. He was not a psychiatrist, but he assumed that feelings such as those have a root cause - abuse, neglect, torment at the hands of bullies. Wtth Lola, though, he thought it was simply inborn. She was showered in as much love as two parents and ten siblings could possibly give her, other children had always been kind to her (as kind as children can be anyway), and neither Mom nor Dad had ever even raised their voice at her.
The only thing he could think of was this: Lola required more attention than the average girl. Hey, some people need extra this or extra that, and when they don't get it, they wilt like a flower denied the nourishing light of the sun. When he realized this, he gave her his full focus and affection without a second thought; she needed him, and, in a way, he needed her too. When he started coaching her, Ronnie Anne had just moved away, and though he never let on, he was heartbroken. He liked her very much, and not having her around, to talk to and to look at, sent him spiraling into depression. Coaching Lola, putting all of his thought and energy into that, saved him, and when Lola was the one in need of saving, he was there happily and without complaint.
During the past year, he'd learned a thing or two about himself as well. One was that he found lifting another's spirits, holding their hand and leading them into the light, immensely satisfying. Taking care of Lola, giving her what she so desperately needed, fixing her wounds and mending the lacerations upon her soul, felt good. He didn't know why, but it did, and he threw himself into coaching Lola with total abandon, working with her night and day, living it, breathing it, sleeping it. Somehow, he was naturally good at it, and over time he came to spending time with his little sister, to love guiding her to victory just so that she would hug him afterwards and say, "Thank you, Lincy."
He also loved finding out new things about her, even if they were things that hurt him, like her insecurity and her fears, her biggest one being...well, what happened tonight.
Cold white light fell across Lincoln's lap and he looked up as Dad pulled the van into the parking lot of Burpin' Burger. You know someone had a bad day when Mom and Dad made a cheer-me-up stop at a fast food place. He looked at Lola; the tears had tapered off and her hands rested in her lap, her eyes pointed down and her face pallid. Red spotted tissue blossomed from her nose like funeral flowers.
Dad navigated the van into the drive-thru lane and came to a stop behind a black Toyota Camry. "What do you want, kids?" he asked lowly, as though speaking was painful. Everyone muttered half-hearted replies. Burger, fries, the standard, no variation...because no one cared enough. A pall hung over them all; Lola was hurt, inside and out, and food was the last thing on their minds...but it was on their minds.
"Do you want anything?" Lincoln asked.
Lola didn't reply.
He brushed his thumb across her shoulder. "Lola?"
"Leave me alone," she said.
"You have to - "
She turned her head. "Just stop." She held her hand up to the side of her face as if to shield herself from his sight. Lincoln sighed, turned away, and blinked back a sudden rush of tears. He knew Lola - she needed space when she was upset - but every instinct in his body told him to put his arms around her and hold her close, and if she thrashed and tried to break free...hold her tighter...hold her until she was all better and smiling again.
The Camry pulled away from the speaker and the van took its place. Dad ordered twelve meals and sighed wearily when the man on the other end recited the price. Lincoln stole a glance at Lola: Lana whispered something to her, and she held up her other hand to shield her out too. Lana winced and looked up at Lincoln with sad eyes. Give her space, he mouthed. Lana nodded heavily and stared at her lap.
Dad drove to the first window, reluctantly handed over six ten dollar bills, then proceeded to the second. Lynn, sitting in the next to last row, looked over her shoulder at Lola, and next to her, Luna did the same; they wore matching expressions of worry, and as one, looked at Lincoln - her coach, her handler. She'll be fine, he mouthed, and his lips twisted at the bitter taste of untruth.
When Dad got the food, he handed it back to Lori, who distributed it, each row handing some back like school kids passing their tests forward. Luna turned and held out a bag, her eyes not meeting Lincoln's; he took it, rummaged around, and brought out a burger and an order of fries, then gave them to Lana. "Are you sure you don't want anything?" he asked Lola.
"Yes!" she snapped.
Lincoln recoiled as if slapped, and for some reason he couldn't name, her sharp tone almost sent him crying. Instead, he sat the bag in his lap and tried to ignore the pain in his chest and the warm, greasy smell of overprocessed meat and lard covered potatoes.
No one ate on the way home, and as soon as they parked in the driveway, Lola was up like a shot, squeezing roughly past Lana and throwing the door open. She jumped down, disappeared around the front of the van, and stormed across the yard. Everyone tracked her with their eyes except for Lincoln; he watched the backs of his hands tremble and shake.
"Oh, she's really upset," Mom said dolefully.
"I know," Dad sighed.
"I never seen her so broken up," Luna said.
"Yeah," Lori agreed worriedly. "She's literally devastated."
Lincoln sighed.
Dad grabbed the keys from the ignition and got out, everyone following with all the glum enthusiasm of a funeral procession. Lincoln was last, and by the time he reached the front door, Lola was gone, presumably up to her room. "Should we go talk to her?" Mom asked.
"No," Lincoln said instantly, "give her space."
Mom and Dad both looked at him, then away; with as much time as he'd spent with her over the past year, he was the expert, and everyone recognized it.
Still holding the bag containing his and Lola's food, he went upstairs and into his room, where he snapped on the light. He dropped the bag onto the nightstand and sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his hands clasping his knees. He stared down at his feet and fought against the restless energy already beginning to fill him.
He wanted to go to her...to comfort her and dry her tears...but he knew it best, she needed space. Tomorrow she might be ready to accept his love and consolation, but not tonight.
Unfortunately.
He drew a deep breath and looked up: Bun-Bun stared back at him from the dresser, his head tilted quizzically to one side. What happened out there, Linc?
Shit.
Shit happened.
In her room, Lola lay prostrate on her bed, her face buried in her pillow and her chin tucked against her neck so that her weight rested on her forehead and not her aching nose. Her hands, bare now, covered the back of her head and her chest rose and fell as she fought to keep herself from breaking down again: Crying made her nose hurt even worse, but when you're sad, sometimes you can't help it, and right now she was very sad.
She thought back to the disaster and squeezed her eyes shut against welling tears; Lindsey Sweetwater's evil laughter rang still in her ears, and the blurry vision of her rival, seen through a sheen of tears, bent forward, hands on her hips and cackling like the witch she was, danced mockingly through her mind. Worse than that were the shocked gasps and sympathetic hisses from the audience. Oooh, that had to hurt. They didn't laugh, but their pity - and the knowledge that she looked stupid and clumsy in front of them all - turned her stomach: Now and forevermore, she would be known as the klutz who tripped and smashed her nose against the floor, and if she showed her face again, they would all remember her as she was that horrible night - on her knees sobbing, blood mixing with tears and mascara - small, pathetic, a failure.
The thought of going on that stage again, of daring to present herself as though nothing had happened even though everyone knew sent a shiver racing down her spine, and a sob escaped her throat. She flopped in the most spectacular way imaginable, and there was no coming back.
Her career was over.
The tears came then, hot and stinging; she pressed her quivering lips closed and tried to hold them back, but the damn burst and she wept, her nose throbbing with every rapid pump of her heart.
And the absolutely worst part of the whole thing?
She let Lincoln down. He worked so hard to help her, to shape and guide her, and she threw it all away by being a clumsy doofus who fell down just walking. Just walking. The whole ride home she couldn't even bring herself to look at him, because if she saw the disappointment that she knew must be in his eyes, and the pity, it would kill her. Looking stupid in front of everyone - in front of Lindsey Sweetwater - was bad, catastrophic, but looking stupid in front of Lincoln was world-ending. She cried even harder and hugged herself tight. It happens, he told her in the car, don't beat yourself up.
The floor did that for you.
God, how could she botch something so simple as walking onto the stage, something she had done a million times before? How could she let this happen? Why?
Because she wasn't good enough, that's why. Her entire short life, she had been just a pretty face - everyone fawned over how cute she was, how beautiful. Neighbors, teachers, family friends, her own parents. When she was smaller, she accepted this praise readily and with delight. Then, one day, she realized something: Beauty is not an accomplishment, it's luck, beyond one's control just like being ugly. All of her older siblings had talents - Leni with her designs, Luna with her music, Luan and comedy, Lynn and sports. These were things that weren't given to them by genetics, they were things that they went out and achieved on their own through determination and perseverance. They earned their praise, she did not earn hers.
When her mother suggested beauty pageants, she jumped at the idea with a squeal of excitement, not because she wanted everyone to look at her and see that she was pretty, but because she wanted them to look and see that she was more. She wanted to excel at every aspect - dancing, speaking - so that everyone could see that there was more to her than met the eye, that she was just as good as her sisters, that she, too, could actually accomplish something and not skate by on her looks.
Apparently she was wrong. Lindsey Sweetwater was a better dancer, Susie Parker was a better speaker, and Marissa Sines always did something interesting and unique for the talent portion while she, inept and vapid Lola Loud, did tired and obvious routines that required all the skill of a lamp standing in a corner.
She was an idiot to think she had even a modicum of aptitude - she was stupid to reach above her station and not play to her strengths. She should have contented herself with being attractive and accepted her eventual fate as a rich old man's trophy wife, but no, she had to want more, she had to force a square peg into a round hole and demand talent from herself when she had none to give.
She took a deep, watery breath and turned her head: Across the room, Lana sat on her bed looking sad. Their eyes met, and the tomboy perked up a little. "You okay?" she asked.
"No," Lola said and faced the wall, hiding her shame and her hideous, untalented face. "And I never will be," she added in a whisper.