Miss Croaklyn Toad positioned herself before the elegant white vanity, tilting her head until the angles looked right. The mirror showed a bumpy green reflection with bulging eyes, but she knew better. These cheap surfaces distorted everything. She leaned closer, studying the warped glass. Obviously defective. A contestant of her caliber deserved proper equipment—the kind that would reveal her true beauty to prepare for the grand pageant. She made a mental note to find something better before the competition. She visited three shops before finding what she needed. The craftsman showed her a full-length mirror with ornate golden scrollwork and a princess poster affixed to the glass. Perfect. The poster's crown aligned exactly with where her head would appear in the reflection. She paid extra for rushed delivery and had it installed that afternoon. When she stood before it, the poster covered most of her actual reflection, leaving only her elegant silhouette visible around the edges. Finally, a mirror that understood presentation. Croaklyn spent the next week practicing her poses in front of the new mirror. She perfected her wave, her smile, her pivot turn. The princess on the poster seemed to approve, crown glittering under the vanity lights. Other contestants probably used regular mirrors and wondered why they kept losing. She understood what judges needed to see—true beauty required proper framing. The poster proved it. She registered for the grand pageant at the brass-railed gazebo downtown, where the competition would take place in two weeks. The coordinator handed her a contestant number and asked if she had questions. Croaklyn smiled, thinking of her specialized mirror at home. This time would be different. This time, everyone would finally see what she'd known all along.

The morning after registration, Croaklyn discovered the flyers. They covered the lamp posts near the gazebo—bright pink paper with bold black letters. SEVENTEEN LOSSES. ZERO WINS. Some even included a list of every pageant she'd entered. Priscilla Peacock's signature curled across the bottom. Croaklyn marched to the announcement pillar in the town square, where more flyers hung from the vine-wrapped stone. A wooden scoreboard stood beside it, painted numbers stacked high—seventeen brightly colored digits for seventeen failures. Beyond that sat a canvas tent sheltering a printing press, stacks of fresh flyers waiting beside it. Priscilla's campaign headquarters. Croaklyn ripped down three flyers and stuffed them in her pocket. Evidence. She would take these to the pageant officials and expose this sabotage. The officials' office occupied a small building behind the gazebo. Croaklyn pushed through the door and slapped the flyers on the desk. The coordinator looked up from her paperwork. Croaklyn explained the situation—the cruel scoreboard, the lies about her record, the obvious conspiracy. The coordinator studied the flyers. Nothing on here violates competition rules, she said. The loss count is accurate. Contestants can run their own campaigns however they choose. Croaklyn walked back past the printing press tent, past the scoreboard, past the pillar covered in pink paper. Priscilla had turned the truth into a weapon. The seventeen losses weren't lies—they were facts displayed where everyone could see them. For the first time, Croaklyn couldn't blame faulty mirrors or bribed judges. The evidence stood in public, undeniable. She would need more than a special mirror to win this pageant. She would need to prove those seventeen numbers wrong.

Croaklyn arrived at the gazebo the next morning to find a crowd gathering. Priscilla Peacock stood at the center, her feathers gleaming as she held up a sheet of paper. The other contestants leaned in to read it. When Croaklyn pushed through to see, her stomach dropped. SECRET TALENT CATEGORY ANNOUNCED. PERFORMANCES BEGIN TOMORROW AT THE STAGE. The metal gazebo behind Priscilla had been transformed overnight—lanterns hung from its frame, sheer cloth panels rippled in the breeze. This was where they would all perform. Croaklyn's throat tightened. She had no talent prepared. Nothing rehearsed. The other contestants were already chattering about their acts—singing routines, dance numbers, juggling tricks. Priscilla smiled directly at her, and Croaklyn knew this ambush had been planned. She spent the afternoon in the clearing where someone had strung rope between two tree trunks—a practice ring abandoned by another contestant. Croaklyn tried to think of something, anything she could do. She couldn't sing. Couldn't dance. Had never learned an instrument. She paced the leaf-covered ground, panic rising. Then she spotted the sequined unitard hanging from a branch—discarded, probably left behind by someone with actual talent. The fabric caught the light, shimmering blue and pink. Croaklyn grabbed it. She would wear this tomorrow and improvise. Surely the judges would be so dazzled by the sequins they wouldn't notice she had no real act. The next morning, Croaklyn stood backstage in the borrowed unitard, watching the other contestants perform their polished routines. When her name was called, she walked to the center of the metal gazebo and froze. The judges stared at her. The audience waited. She raised her arms and attempted some kind of movement—half pose, half stumble. Someone in the crowd laughed. Croaklyn held the pose longer, as if confidence could replace skill. The judges marked their papers without expression. When she walked off, she knew the sequins hadn't saved her. For the first time, she couldn't blame anyone but herself for being unprepared.