Page 100 of Passenger Princess

AVA

When I wake up, my bed is empty, and my phone has more notifications than I have since it was announced that I made it into the Miss Americana pageant. That morning, I was flooded with,oh my fucking god, you crazy person!!texts and calls from people I hadn’t heard from in literal years trying to get the inside scoop.

This time, it’s from a dozen or so of the Miss Americana contestants I’ve become friendly with, a shit ton of reporters who want my commentary on…something, and at least twenty texts from both Harper and Jules, in individual texts as well as our group chat.

I open those first as I squint at the screen.

Jules

Ignore it.

Harper

Don’t. Call us right away.

Jules

Who the fuck even cares if you’re fucking your bodyguard?

Harper

Since when has being a good down-to-earth person been a bad thing?

Harper

Don’t search your name, Ava. Promise me.

Jules

Oh, stop, don’t scare the girl.

Harper

I’m just saying, some of those comments are feral. Maybe don’t read the comments.

Jules

But there are even more good ones. A lot of people agree with us.

I’m lost beyond belief and tap back to my messages, opening the ones from Cara.

Cara

Please tell me you’re actually sleeping with that hottie. I’m begging. I’m also begging for all of the details.

And another from Miss New York.

Lily

Babe, call me! I need to know what is happening! Also, good for you!

What the actual fuck is going on?

So I do what any normal person would do: I search my name. And almost instantly, a post from American Star Magazine pops up, the title as concerning as the texts make it seem.

Miss Americana Ava Bordeaux: Disgracing Her Crown and Title

Well.

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