“It’s okay,” I said.
“They’ll probably call it the Olivia Jane Tatum Rule.”
“Maybe they will,” I said. And when she looked shocked, I added, “Now, why don’t you just shut your dang mouth and go? ”
It took her a moment to realize that she’d almost missed her cue. I could tell from the way she began to walk that I’d addled her, that she wasn’t thinking about walking. Which, I knew from Miss Denise, is half the battle, the most important thing.
But when it was my turn, I didn’t need to think, or take a breath, or anything. I felt as though I had no legs or arms, no separate parts that had to be told where to go and what to do. It was different from all the other times, when my smile felt painted on and all that was in my head was winning. Now I floated in my snow-white skirt, inches above the stage and the rickety catwalk, gliding, winged, a tulle-draped angel. I turned like swirling stars in space. I smiled, not even worrying how much gum I showed. And I knew, from the way the judges were smiling back, that it was in my eyes, and that they could see it, that they knew the difference.
Later, standing with the other preteens onstage, waiting while Mrs. Crosby fumbled with her microphone, I looked out into the audience, searching for Mama. She was sitting next to Miss Denise, straining to hear, clutching her hands in her lap. “Smile! ” she mouthed, and then, “You’re so beautiful.”
Amber got second runner-up; Candace Hebert got first, a surprise: she usually got fourth or fifth. Her mama and daddy stood up and clapped as Mrs. Crosby handed Candace her trophy. I clapped, too, happy for her, thinking she had worked so hard and so long, glad she had been recognized. The best thing was, finally, to be seen.
There was a moment of silence, drawn out by Mrs. Crosby, after “And the Prettiest Doll is...” I thought it would be one of those moments when everything changes—where you are one way on one side and another way on the other—but it wasn’t. It was just a moment.
Even so, I realized a lot of things in that second of silence: that I had won, that I didn’t need a crown to tell me what I already knew.
That Mama would be crushed when I told her I was through with pageants for good, that she would yell and cry and sulk and it wouldn’t change my mind.
That somehow she would get used to being proud of me for other things. Maybe public speaking. Maybe something I didn’t even know I was good at yet.
That my daddy was watching it all from somewhere. That he was proud enough to burst. That if he were around, he would be telling me I had a smile that could light up Heaven.
And that I’d tell Dan tonight and he’d ask me how the singing went. And when I said terrible, he would sigh and say, its too bad you couldnt challenge those judges to a game of chess because thatd show them. And then he would say, i cant believe you did that stupid thing. And maybe it would piss me off and maybe it wouldn’t, but I’d tell him either way.
About the Author
GINA WILLNER-PARDO is the author of 15 books, including Jason and the Losers and Figuring Out Frances, which won the Bank Street College of Education Josette Frank Award. She lives with her family in the San Francisco Bay Area.
Prettiest Doll Page 16
