He had set up permanent residence in my life.

I was in hell.

So of course I said, “Nothing. Never mind,” to Seth.

Because that is what I do.

I lie.

And we went out onto the stage.

Nineteen

“Miss Castle.” Ms. Hayes had made an elaborate display of shuffling the judges’ questions — written down on index cards — so it couldn’t be said that any one girl had been helped out by any particular judge by getting thrown an easy one. “Please tell this audience — and our esteemed judges — some characteristics of a Quahog.”

“Certainly,” Morgan said, looking ravishing beside her equally stunning escort. I hadn’t been wrong about Eric and Morgan: Together, they were prettier than a wedding cake topper.

And from the audience I’m sure you could barely tell how much Eric was sweating beneath his tux. Enough so that his pancake makeup was glistening (Eric was the only guy who’d agreed to stage makeup when Ms. Hayes offered, but that’s because he’s used to it, on account of all his work in the theater).

“A quahog,” Morgan began, in a small voice, “is a mollusk—”

“A little louder, dear,” Ms. Hayes said, in a treacly tone completely unlike the one she’d used to yell at us during rehearsal. “The judges can’t hear you. And neither can the audience.”

“Oh,” Morgan said, lifting her mike a little higher. “Sorry.” We were using the clip-on microphones, because the hand-helds had never started working. But because there weren’t enough to go around — and nowhere to clip them, on our evening gowns — we just had to hold the tiny microphones in our hands, and speak into them. “A quahog is a mollusk, and as such, displays characteristics we’ve come to expect from mollusks, such as spitting and burying themselves in the sand.”

There was an uncomfortable silence as Ms. Hayes cleared her throat and glanced nervously at the judges.

“Oh, wait,” Morgan said, catching on. “You mean a Quahog like the football players? Or a quahog like the kind people eat?”

“Er,” Ms. Hayes said. “The former, dear.”

“Oh.” Morgan backpedaled, trying to figure out the right thing to say.

I felt bad for her. I really did. Especially since it wasn’t easy for a non-shy person to get up on that stage in front of all those people, with those bright lights shining down on us, and all this pressure. Not like the Oaken Bucket was counting on Morgan to win to draw in more business, or whatever.

But I’m sure Morgan needed the prize money, for new toe shoes, or whatever it is ballerinas buy with prize money.

Still, it had to be even worse for her, being so shy and all.

Morgan blathered something about how Quahogs are strong and true (whatever), which was clearly designed to please the judges and seemed to work. Score one for Morgan. Actually score two because her dance routine had been way better than anything the rest of us had done for our talent segments.

Then it was Sidney’s turn, and Ms. Hayes said, “Miss van der Hoff. Can you tell me what true love is?”

Naturally, Sidney took the Biblical route with her answer, since judges love that stuff. They eat it up like…well, quahog fritters.

“‘Love is patient—’” Sidney said, in her most sincere voice — the same one she uses when she was too busy partying to do her homework, so she tells the teacher her grandmother was sick and that she (Sidney) was at the hospital all night visiting her. “‘—Love is kind.’”

Yeah. Right. Try telling that to Seth. He looked super depressed over the way I’d spoken to him just before we’d gone on stage. What had I been thinking? Why had I been so mean to him? What’s wrong with me? I mean, it’s true Seth’s never been the shiniest knife in the drawer.

But that had seldom bothered me. Not before now.

Okay, let’s be honest: Not until Tommy Sullivan came back.

“‘—Love is not rude. It is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs—’”

Huh. Unlike Seth Turner. And the thing is, it’s so bogus. Because Tommy never even did anything to him. All Tommy had ever done was tell the truth…a truth that had needed to be told, because Tommy was right: It wasn’t fair that Quahogs got special treatment.

And how stupid was Jake Turner, anyway, to go around bragging about cheating, and in front of an impressionable little eighth grader? Jake Turner had ruined his own future, not Tommy.

“‘—Love always protects, always trusts—’”

The way Seth had always trusted me not to mack with other guys behind his back. Why did I do that, anyway? I mean, what was I looking for? Who was I looking for?

Because it’s not that Seth is a bad kisser. He’s an exceptionally good kisser.

Just not as good as someone else who’d kissed me recently. And I’m not talking about Eric. I mean, Seth’s and Eric’s kisses had never made my heart race the way a certain someone else’s had. And their kisses had never made me long to wrap my legs around them. And their kisses had never made me think about them at odd random moments when I was supposed to be thinking about what drinks to pour at the soda station, or where I’d left my eyelash curler.

“‘—Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth—’”

The truth. God, the truth. I didn’t even know what the truth was anymore. Except that every time I laid eyes on Tommy Sullivan, all I wanted to do was jump his bones.

It was true! Now that Tommy Sullivan had come to town, he was the only person I wanted to mack with!

“‘—Love always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.’”

Wait a minute. Wait just a minute. Isthat what love is? Is love not wanting to mack with anybody but just one person?

And wasTommy Sullivan that person? Wasthat why I couldn’t stand the thought of kissing Seth anymore? Wasthat why I’d told Eric I just wanted to be friends?

Because I love Tommy Sullivan?

No. No, that simply isn’t possible. I mean, Tommy Sullivan had only walked back into my life three days ago. How could I be in love with him when I hadn’t even seen him in four years? How could I be in love with a guy who accused me of not understanding myself?

But what if Tommy’s right? I mean, obviously he’s right. Because LOOK AT ME. I am standing here on stage with my hand through the arm of one guy, and all I can think about is another guy.

Is that a sign of a girl who understands herself?

Oh my God. It’s true.True love is when you can’t think about any guy except just one.

Which means…

I’m in love withTommy Sullivan.

“MISS ELLISON!”

I jerked my heard toward Ms. Hayes. What was she yelling atme for?

“Miss Ellison, I asked you a question,” Ms. Hayes said, giving me the evil eye from over the index card she held.You are in so much trouble when this pageant is over, young lady, her look clearly said.

“Sorry,” I said, aware that my heart was thrumming so hard inside my chest, I could barely breathe.In love. With Tom-my Sullivan. My heart seemed to be saying, over and over again. “Could you repeat it, please? The question?”

Ms. Hayes cleared her throat. Then she read, “Why do you, Miss Ellison, love quahogs?”

“I love quahogs for their tender succulence,” I replied automatically, while Ms. Hayes, happy to see I’d recovered myself, beamed with encouragement. “And they’re especially tender…and…succulent…at the Gull ’n Gulp….”

My voice trailed off.

Because suddenly, it hit me. Right there on the pageant stage.

What I had to do. What I had to do to get Old Man Trouble away from my door. What I had to do in order to quit lying all the time, and put out the fire in my pants for good.

And so I just did it.

Because that’s the other thing love is. Sidney had said it herself:

Love is truth.

“You know what?” I said, dropping Seth’s arm. “I’m lying.”

A ripple of surprise went across the audience. I saw Ms. Hayes look down at the judges with an expression of befuddlement. The judges looked back at her in shock.

I knew, deep down inside, that I had just lost the Quahog Princess pageant. But I also knew, deep down inside, that I didn’t care.

Because you know what? I was tired of lying. I was tired of getting caught up in my lies. I was tired of keeping flow charts and secrets. I was tired of sneaking around.

I was just tired.

“The truth is,” I said into the clip-on microphone, “I hate quahogs.”

There was a gasp from the audience. But I didn’t care.

“I do,” I went on. “I’vealways hated them, since I was a little kid. They taste like rubber. You can do whatever you want to them. Fry them. Put them in chowder. Even make ice cream out of them. And they’ll always taste the same to me. Bad.”

I was laughing. I was theonly person present who was laughing.

But I didn’t care. Because I was telling the truth.

And it felt really, really good.

“Um,” Ms. Hayes said. “Thank you, Miss Ellison. If you would just step back now—”

“But that’s not the only thing I’ve been lying about,” I said into the microphone. “Because I hate the other kind of Quahogs, too. Not the mollusk. The football team.”

What went through the audience then wasn’t a ripple. It was a wave. A wave of shock and resentment. All aimed at me.

But I didn’t care. I really didn’t.

Because I was finally telling the truth.

And it feltgood.

“I hate football,” I said. It was cool to hear my voice — telling the truth, for once — reverberating through Eastport Park. And even if people didn’t particularly like what it was saying, it still sounded like something I wasn’t used to hearing — me, telling the truth. “And I hate the way this town is about football. I hate the way we worship the Quahogs, and for what? They don’t save lives. They don’t teach us anything. They just chase after a stupid ball. And for that, we treat them like gods.”