Some girls do

Chapter 7: Chaewon

"Shit, shit, shit." I slam my car door and squeal into reverse. I'm so late. Mom is probably already waiting backstage at the pageant, having rushed there straight from her night shift to make sure I don't screw anything up. And I already have.

I need to get there. I need to—I glance at the clock. It's eight forty-five a.m., because I overslept because my phone died because it couldn't charge last night because my mom didn't pay the electric bill—again—and since we're out of the coldest months, the electric company can legally cut us off now. Which is just fabulous.

I knew I shouldn't have picked up that new dance leotard she'd put on layaway. I knew the electric was due—but how do you say that to your mom?

How do you even begin to suggest that maybe you know better than she does where to allocate the few bucks you have to your name? How do you tell her that this Miss America pipe dream she has is delusional at best, considering you haven't made it farther than third runner-up in a pageant since you were ten?

Simple: you don't.

You swallow it down. Even if you choke on every word. You lend her your body to chase her dreams. And you act grateful for it, because if you don't she'll remind you of what she gave up for you every chance she gets.

I plug my phone into the USB charger I installed in my cigarette lighter and hope it boots up fast. There's a good song on the radio and I turn it up, trying not to notice the clock has ticked over to 8:46. I take a sharp left onto Main Street, my tires squealing a little in the cool morning air. Check-in ends at 9:15, and Parkside Hall—home of the Parkside Beauty Pageant—is a half hour away even in the best traffic conditions. If I miss check-in, I'll be disqualified despite the fact that we're already registered and paid.

Okay, breathe. I can make up time on the highway.

I take another hard turn and flick my eyes to the dress rocking precariously on its hanger in the back, praying it doesn't fall. I don't have time to stop the car and pick it up, and god knows the wrinkles from spending thirty minutes crumpled on the floor would be enough to lose me the competition.

I'm slowing to a roll at a stop sign when the hanger finally loses its grip on the tiny hook. The dress slides down, and I'm reaching behind me, a futile attempt at averting disaster, when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.

I slam on my brakes, dramatic even at three miles per hour, and feel a small thump against my bumper. My eyes go wide. I overshot the stop sign. Oh, shit, shit, shit. There's something on the ground in front of my car. Please don't let it be a dog. Please just let it be one of those lawn bags of leaves or a garbage can or something that just . . . happened to be in the middle of the road. For no reason. Shit.

I shove open my car door and run around the front just as a very pissed-off-looking Kazuha Nakamura pushes herself off the ground.

"Oh, thank god!" I yelp. "I thought you were a dog."

"What the hell, Chaewon!" A small trickle of blood drips down the side of her leg. Which is when it hits me, like really hits me, the gravity of what just happened. I just hit a person with my car. Kazuha Nakamura, to be exact.

"Are you okay?" I take a step forward, but she moves back with a wince.

"Get away from me." She limps to the sidewalk and drops to the grass. I swear to god she looks like she's going to cry, and, oh god. Oh, shit. I can't deal with this.

"I didn't see you. I swear."

"I was in the crosswalk! How did you 'not see me'?" she says, her fingers flying up to make air quotes.