Polished Off Read Free Page B

of the shade cast by a pecan tree.
    Too old? Ouch. Before I could reply, Daphne suggested, “Maybe she’s a judge.”
    They regarded me for fifteen seconds before the young man said, “Nah, she’s not famous.”
    “You can’t really call the channel nine weatherman famous,” Daphne objected. “It’s not like he’s Ashton Kutcher.”
    The man shrugged and pulled a Coke from the cooler at his side, rolling it over his forehead. A sign saying “Pageants Kill!!!” was propped against his aluminum chair.
    “Kill?” I asked skeptically. “That seems a bit over the top.”
    “A girl died competing in this pageant four years ago,” Daphne said, her expression somber.
    “She had a heart attack,” the young man said. “Huge bummer. She was only twenty.”
    Daphne whirled to face him, her placard coming dangerously close to my face. “Seth, you know that’s—”
    “What did I tell you about blocking access to the building?” The new voice came from a man getting out of a Prius at the curb. He was African American, short, and fiftyish, with light brown skin stamped with cinnamon-colored freckles over his nose, cheeks, and pate. Short, tightly curled hair circled his bald spot. Narrow, rectangular framed glasses rested atop his plump cheeks. A loose shirt with white-on-white embroidery at the collarless neckline skimmed a small pot belly. An air of self-conscious intellectualism hung about him like a musky cologne. “We can demonstrate, but we have to allow free access to the public right-of-way.”
    “I’m not blocking the sidewalk, Dr. Yarrow,” the girl blocking the sidewalk said. “I’m having a conversation with this woman”—she looked at me enquiringly and I supplied my name—“with Grace about the evils of beauty pageants.”
    Evils? That sounded harsh. Were beauty pageants the height of cultural achievement? Probably not. But did they portend the end of civilization? I didn’t think so. I was tempted to ask what the evils were, but I sensed that listening to the answer would make me late.
    “I’m going to be late,” I said, edging around Daphne. “But I’d like to hear more another time.”
    “We are always happy to engage in dialog with the uninformed,” the newcomer said. He extended a hand with thin, spatulate fingers. “I’m Dr. Yarrow. I’m a professor at Georgia Coastal College.” He gestured at the other demonstrators. “This is a field exercise for the students—exposing them to the kind of activism and vigilance that make a difference in the way our society views oppressed peoples: Native Americans, African Americans, women, gays.”
    I shook his hand. His palm was damp. “Great,” I said, not knowing what else to say. Did students get an A for having the best poster? Did they get extra credit for sunstroke in the name of the cause? I pushed a lock of sweaty hair off my forehead. “I’ve got to go. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
    “You can count on it,” Dr. Yarrow said as I hurried up the walk, eager to reach the air-conditioned comfort of the theater. It shamed me a bit to realize I couldn’t think of a cause I felt strongly enough about to spend the day demonstrating for in the nearly one-hundred-degree heat.
    All thoughts of the demonstrators left me when I stepped into the narrow foyer. I shivered deliciously as the chilly air draped over me. Standing still for a moment, arms held away from my sides, I hoped some of the sweat would evaporate. Cool marble tiles in a black-and-white pattern extended about ten feet to two sets of double doors. A glass-encased ticket window anchored the lobby’s left end. I wanted the old lobby to smell of greasepaint and glamour, but instead the scents of pine cleaner and a hint of mildew made me sneeze. Hearing faint voices, I crossed the lobby to the doors and pulled one open.
    An auditorium large enough to seat maybe a thousand people sloped before me, with its rows of chairs covered in faded mustard velvet. Two carpeted