Page 15 of Passenger Princess

Jules takes the lead this time.

“Honey, have you seen your messages on social media?”

I roll my eyes. “Oh my god, please. It’s just idiots with more time than brain cells to rub together.”

“Ava, you’ve had to file no less than six police reports in the last four months.”

I groan, putting my head in my hands. “It’s not that serious!”

“Ava,” they say in unison, giving me abe-so-reallook before I sigh.

Okay, so there was the guy who tried to get into the Miss Americanadress rehearsal, proclaiming he loved me and that we were meant to be together. It was a little weird, but he didn’t even get past the entrance of the building. I didn’t evenseehim.

And yeah, I’ve had a handful of weird messages on various social media platforms, but doesn’t everyone? Jules and Harper have to deal with those, too, and all of the other Miss Americana contestants get them, too. They’re harmless. Any messages that contain anything particularly alarming gets reported to the proper authorities, but that’s just for a paper trail.

Just in case.

“I hate being under a microscope even more than I already am. I wish I could bring one of you and have you as my bodyguard. Then I'd at least have someone in my corner.”

For the first time since the meeting, I let the reality of everything crash into me: Regina and Anne’s apparent goal to kick me out, Jaime’s irritation with having to follow me around, the idea that this dream is slowly turning less and less enticing. “What if all of this is just a waste of my time? What if I’m miserable the whole time?”

A long beat passes where neither of us speaks, making me nervous.

“You could just quit, you know,” Harper says, finally breaking the silence.

“What?” My head moves with her words, but when I look at my friend, her smile is soft, her hand reaching out to pat my leg. Looking at Jules, there's a similar expression on her face.

“You could quit. It wouldn’t hurt Jules and me—what you’ve done for us, Ava, it’s…it’s been amazing. Life-changing. We’ll never be able to properly thank?—”

“I don’t want a thank you, you know that. It was fun. It was…an adventure. And this trip is going to be an adventure, too.” Harper smiles at Jules like they knew this was the decision I’d make. “I’m not letting these dumb bitches scare me out of this trip of a lifetime.”

I sit up, pulling out of the momentary pity party with a smile. “I won fair and square; I played by the same rules they all did; justbecause whoever they thought would win didn't, doesn’t mean I didn’t earn this.”

“There’s our girl,” Jules says, clapping. “Don’t let those assholes win. You’re going to have an amazing time no matter what." She sits up, smiling at me. “Okay, so let’s talk about all the fun souvenirs you’re going to bring us home."

EIGHT

AVA

My first official event for Miss Americana is at Atlantic City Boardwalk with the mayor and the Governor of New Jersey.

Yes, the governor.

This is my life now, I suppose.

But this is also the start of one of my oldest daydreams. When I was young, I read an article about someone who traveled the entire continental US in an RV throughout the summer. They went to every state, seeing all the sights and documenting them all the way. As someone who had never traveled outside of New Jersey, taking all of my childhood vacations at the Jersey Shore with my family, someone who daydreamed about adventures and travel, it seemed like the most fantastic thing someone could ever do.

And now, somehow, this pageant I joined as a bit of a joke is allowing that dream to come true.

How fucking cool is that?

“Okay, so next, we’re going to walk over to the oldest restaurant on the Ocean View Boardwalk,” the PR manager for the Miss Americana pageant says, looking to the assistant to the governor, who nods in agreement.

“This way!” she says, waving her hand.

Our crowd begins to walk: Regina is up front with the governor, Anne is walking as close to whatever press she can beg to give her three seconds to gab about herself, and Jaime and I trail toward the back of them. He has dark black sunglasses on, his jaw tight as he stares forward, on the lookout like someone is going to pop out from behind one of the dunes and snatch me away.

“Nice day,” I say, looking at the sun before sliding a pair of brown tortoiseshell glasses down onto my nose, the lenses in a cat-eye heart shape.

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