“Yeah, The Corporation will probably only get a slap on the wrist and get to set up shop somewhere else. Everything’s being blamed on Ladybird. Typical.”
“She may be a D-E-W-S-H, but it’s not all her fault,” Tiara agreed.
“You’re uncharacteristically quiet over there, New Hampshire,” Petra said.
Adina wasn’t watching the continuing coverage on the yacht’s TV. Instead, she stared out at the sea. “Just thinking about Taylor.”
Nicole put a hand on Adina’s shoulder. “Hey, you tried to find her. We all did.”
It was true. They’d gone looking. They’d searched everywhere, with no luck. What Adina hadn’t told anyone was this: As she’d passed the secret cave in the jungle where Taylor had hidden for so long, she’d found the beauty queen’s sash and dress hung neatly from a tree, abandoned. And just beyond that, she’d thought she’d seen a flash of blond hair in the trees. But then it was gone.
The newscaster’s voice whined from the TV. “Do you think these girls, these Teen Dreamers, all those things they did — and Tom, we’re hearing about wild things now — do you think it has to do with sex ed in the schools? Or are girls just getting more brazen? And what does this mean for society in general? Should we be scared of our daughters?”
“They don’t get it,” Shanti said with a sigh.
“Do you think they ever will?” Nicole asked.
“Fuck ‘em,” Sosie said. She flipped off the TV and chucked the Miss Teen Dream manual into the trash can.
From her perch in the tree, Taylor watched them go. The orphaned snake slithered down from the trees and she let it rest upon her shoulders like a beautiful, iridescent boa.
“My stars, this sure is a big mess, isn’t it?” she said, walking over the ruined land near the volcano. It wasn’t terrible, really. Just needed some elbow grease and then it would shine and sparkle like a crown. The snake nuzzled her cheek and flicked its tongue. Taylor stroked its head gently and it settled.
She had a busy day ahead. There was an island to tame. Creatures to name. A world to build.
Whatever would she wear?
EPILOGUE
“Here we go, ladies! Dance us out, Teen Dream-style — hey-up!” Shanti growls into the mic. Decked out in oversize sunglasses, a (yellow) sari over a Run-D.M.C. tee, and glitter sneakers, she stands in the makeshift DJ booth working the turntables. The yacht’s excellent sound system blasts the killer Hip-Hopera groove of La-La Boheme’s overture punctuated by the danceable mix of tabla and sitar from Beena’s “Mumbai Love Song.”
“Y’all ready to do this?” Shanti asks.
“Yeah!” the girls respond.
“I said, are y’all, like, totally ready to do this?”
“YEAH!” The girls are loud.
“Here we go, here we go, here we go.”
Expertly, Shanti mixes in Beena’s vocal. The pop star’s high voice soars over the steady beat. “Give it up for our wild girl and pirate queen, Miss Nebraska, Mary Lou Novak!”
Brandishing a cutlass and wearing her Miss Nebraska sash around her head, pirate-style, Mary Lou takes the runway in long, loping strides. Her arms move completely out of sync with her feet. She will make a formidable captain, but god bless her, she still cannot dance. Let us cast our eye to her future now:
Mary Lou Novak — Adventurer. Pirate Queen of the Josephine. Wild girl. When not at sea, Mary Lou and her companion, Tane, live on a wind farm in Nebraska with their three little wild girls.
“Ch-ch-check your faboosh against hers! Straight outta Rhode Island, it’s Petra West!”
Like some alien goddess, Petra shimmies down the runway in a mod, sequined mini festooned with palm-frond fringe. Her makeup — smoky eyes and nude lips — is fierce. At the end of the runway, she punctuates her Fosse-esque pose with the sharp snap of an open fan.
Petra West — Transwoman host of the popular nighttime chat show Go West. Married to Sinjin St. Sinjin, music producer and bon vivant.
They both look great in heels.
The fan snaps closed again. With a toss of her head, Petra swivels on her heel and exits the runway.
Shanti punches in an old-school drum machine sample. The groove is thick. Juicy. “Let’s make some Illin’-noise for Sosie Simmons!” she calls.
Jennifer signals to Sosie that it’s her turn, and Miss Illinois, resplendent in an edgy tutu made from evening gown remnants and airplane seat foam, executes a perfect grand jeté into four revolutions, a blur of grace and grit. And then she stops, arms spread wide toward the silent, powerful clouds.
