By the time the confetti cannon misfired, I was already regretting the glitter shoes.
They’d seemed like a good idea when Zoe shoved them at me in the thrift store. “Festival night,” she’d said, brandishing them like a prophecy. “You need a little sparkle. Your life has the aesthetic of a tax return.”
Now, under the orange glow of string lights and paper lanterns, my toes were numb and the left shoe squeaked with every step.
“Remind me why I let you talk me into this?” I asked, watching a stream of kids chase bubbles across the cracked pavement of the city square.
“Because you love me, and because this festival is the only interesting thing this town does that doesn’t involve a ribbon-cutting or a seasonal sale.” Zoe shoved a paper cup of spiced chai into my hands. “And because you, Emma Carter, are about to win something.”
“I never win anything,” I said automatically, cupping the warmth, inhaling cinnamon and cardamom. The air smelled like fried dough and roasted chestnuts and possibility. “That’s sort of my brand.”
“Your brand is underutilized genius and aggressively modest ponytails.” She flicked said ponytail before pointing toward the makeshift stage in front of City Hall. A banner flapped above it: COMMUNITY FESTIVAL & MENTORSHIP RAFFLE! DREAM BIG, LOCAL EDITION.
A local band tuned mismatched instruments onstage. The mayor squinted at a stack of index cards, his bald head catching the light. A volunteer in a bright yellow T-shirt stepped up to the mic.
“All right, folks, it’s time for our final raffle drawing of the night!”
The crowd thickened instinctively. Elbows bumped my cardigan; someone’s balloon brushed my cheek. I tucked my tote closer to my side, feeling the familiar edge of my sketchbook through the canvas. I almost hadn’t brought it—like superstition, like if I left my designs at home, I couldn’t be disappointed when no one ever saw them.
“The winner,” Zoe said, brushing popcorn salt from her fingers, “gets a whole evening with a career mentor. This could be your moment.”
“More likely it’s Mrs. Henderson from accounting,” I muttered. “And she’ll tell me the secret to surviving thirty years in the same cubicle. Spoiler alert: snacks and low expectations.”
Zoe snorted, then sobered, brown eyes softening. “You deserve more than low expectations, Em.”
Before I could respond, the volunteer boomed, “And the mentorship prize goes to… Emma Carter!”
For a second, the name floated in the air like it belonged to someone else. Then Zoe shrieked beside me, grabbing my arm so hard I sloshed chai onto my wrist.
“That’s you!” she yelled. “Go!”
My feet, traitorous in their glittery constraint, walked me forward.
The crowd parted with the polite interest usually reserved for minor car accidents and public proposals. Heat climbed my neck as I climbed the two steps up to the small stage, the wood flexing slightly under my weight. The volunteer grinned at me.
“Congratulations, Emma.” Up close, he looked about eighteen and sunburned. “You just won an evening with a locally sourced, top-tier career mentor.”
“Locally sourced?” I echoed, because my brain was on delay.
He gestured theatrically to the side of the stage, where a man stood partially in shadow, near a pillar wrapped in fairy lights.
I’d expected a balding consultant type in a boxy blazer. Maybe a guidance counselor with a lanyard.
