The Beauty Queen

by Susan Beth Pfeffer

  I looked at her and realized how tired she was. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “I said beauty wasn’t all you had,” she continued, ignoring me. “You had a lot of talent too, and the judges realized it. I didn’t know whether you were going to win at first. Of course, I wanted you to, and I hoped you would, but you can never tell how judges are going to react, and some of the other girls were pretty. None as pretty as you, but they were pretty. But then you read that speech, and I knew you had it. There was something in the way your face shone, and your eyes. There was such a feeling of beauty there. After that I knew you’d win. I wasn’t even surprised when they announced it. I just said to myself, of course, how could they not. I would have been surprised if you hadn’t won. I would have been shocked. You looked like a winner.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I tried to look like a fourth runner-up.”

  “I can’t understand your attitude,” she said. “You know, I never realized what a good actress you were until last night.”

  “You saw me in Anne Frank at the theater,” I said. “The whole thing. That was a lot harder than reading a couple of selections.”

  “You didn’t do anything for me then,” Mom said. “I didn’t want to tell you at the time, you seemed so excited, and pleased that I was there, but the whole thing left me cold. Of course it could have been the fact you were calling two strangers Mother and Father. At least that’s what I told myself was the problem. But last night I saw what a good actress you are. I think it’s a good idea for you to continue with your acting, once you finish with the contests.”

  “Contests?” I said. “There’s just the state one left.”

  Mom smiled at me. “Don’t be silly, dear,” she said. “You don’t really think you’re going to lose, do you?”

  “It had occurred to me.”

  “You’re a winner,” Mom said. “I brought you up to be one. Your father’s a loser, and Marly’s a loser, and I’m the biggest of them all, but you were born a winner. They could even tell at the hospital. ‘This one’s different,’ they said. ‘This one is something special.’”

  “They said that because you were a nurse there yourself,” I said.

  “They said it because they knew,” she said. “They could see it as clearly as I could. And ever since then you’ve gone after what you’ve wanted and you’ve always gotten it.”

  “There’s lots of stuff I haven’t gotten,” I said.

  “Name it,” Mom said.

  I thought about it, and she had a point. There were lots of things I didn’t have that other kids did, Barbie dolls and English racers, but I’d fussed over it more because I felt obliged than out of real desire. “There must be something,” I said.

  “I don’t know what it would be,” Mom said. “Any boy you’ve ever wanted. Any part in a play. Even grades in school. It doesn’t just fall in your lap. You go after what you want, and you work for it. But you always get it. Marly can diet forever and she’ll never be pretty.”

  “I wish you’d stop harping on Marly.”

  “I’m harping on you,” Mom said. “If you insist on using that word.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” I said. “Harpists always win.”

  “Only if they’re blondes,” Mom said. “Judges are suckers for blondes with harps. Makes them feel less lecherous.”

  I laughed.

  “Sure,” Mom said. “Don’t take me seriously. I could see how those judges felt about you. I could practically hear them sweating.”

  “And you still want me to be in contests like that?”

  “Why not?” she said. “They keep those contests very clean. There’s never any trouble. And if men are going to admire you anyway, you might as well get some profit out of it.”

  “I don’t think I like what you’re saying.”

  “It’s the truth, and you know it,” she said. “You’ve always had things easy because of your looks. There’s nothing wrong with it. But don’t think all those producers you keep dreaming about are going to hire you because of your talent. Maybe you have some, I don’t know. I do know you have a lovely face and a lovely body, and they’re much more interested in that. Even when they’re casting Shakespeare.”

  “Nobody’s ever gotten anywhere on looks alone.”

  “Actresses never get any place without them,” Mom said. “Actors maybe. Actresses never. Just remember that, and be grateful you have them.”

  “‘Anatomy is destiny,’” I said.

  “I don’t know about that,” Mom said. “All I know is that it never hurt a girl to be pretty, and there’s never been a pretty girl who didn’t milk it for all it was worth. Yourself included.”

  After that, I definitely wasn’t in the mood to leave the house. I went upstairs to my bedroom, glad Marly had decided to spend the afternoon at the library, and I thought about what Mom had said.

  I knew that girls who were really pretty, and very aware of it, used it for whatever they could. They tended to be cheerleaders, because cheerleaders were popular in school. They went out with football captains and class presidents. They did just as well as they wanted to in school; a few did really well, the rest just got along, but they all had the money for college, and they all planned to go. They were very popular with boys, and with each other. I never wanted to be part of that group.

  Still, it was true I was good-looking. I’d always known it. Being really pretty is like being really ugly; you have to make peace with yourself or you’re miserable for the rest of your life. And I’d made my peace by ignoring it. I never worried about clothes. Except for a brief fling when I was twelve, I never wore make-up. My hair got cut when I had the money, and except for making sure I wasn’t bald, I didn’t worry about the style. I ate whatever I felt like eating, and I didn’t exercise daily. If I had a good face and a good figure, that was fine. I wasn’t going to pour acid all over me. But I wasn’t going to worry about it, or pamper it, or act like that was what was really important.

  The thing was, and I realized then it was naïve of me, I’d never connected my looks and my acting. I was grateful I was tall and that was it. Short actresses had problems. Of course so did ugly actresses. And I wasn’t an ugly actress.

  I went over every part I’d ever had, at the Red Barn, in high school, and at the college, and tried to decide if I would have gotten them with just talent. And then I remembered Anne Frank. The director hadn’t wanted to cast me as Anne because I was a redhead. I auditioned three times before he was convinced I could do it, and then I promised to dye my hair brown if he wanted. At first he said Yes, and then he changed his mind. And he would know. He was a professional and he respected my talent.

  Except it didn’t work. It might have if I hadn’t gone out with him while we were working on the show. Nothing serious, because he couldn’t handle how much younger I was than him. It didn’t bother me, but I guess I went out more with older men than he did with younger girls. The point was that he couldn’t have been objective about my acting. If he thought I was pretty enough to date, he couldn’t have judged my acting all by itself. And if that went out the window, everything did. All the directors who’d ever cast me in shows probably cast me because I was pretty.

  Of course it didn’t mean I lacked talent. There was never a moment after I’d first been on stage that I doubted my talent. It was there, it was real. But maybe there wasn’t as much of it as I’d thought. I’d never computed looks before. I’d never made those equations. I decided not to do so then either. Instead I called Greg.

  “Hello,” he said. “What can I do for Miss Harrison County?”

  “You can stop rubbing it in,” I said. “Greg, I’m really upset about things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like winning. Like being stuck here. Like the way my mother’s behaving. Like the way you’re behaving.”

  “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “I want you to tell me what’s going on,” I said. “What’s the matter, Greg?”

>   “Everything,” he said. “You want the truth?”

  “It would be nice for a change.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I don’t want you to go to Colorado.”

  I could picture Greg on the other side of the phone, sitting in his clean, comfortable bedroom, talking on his extension, and I knew how hard it was for him. Greg never interfered with my life, and I never interfered with his. That was how our relationship had lasted so long, even though he was away at school. We really liked each other because everyone we knew interfered with us constantly. “Why not?” I said.

  “Oh come on, Kit.”

  “I mean it, Greg. Why not?”

  “Because I love you. Satisfied?”

  I wasn’t satisfied; I was shocked. I tried not to sound it. “Oh,” I said. “When did this happen?”

  “It’s happened all along,” he said. “I just never thought it was important enough to mention.”

  “Not important! Don’t you think I’d like to hear it?”

  “Frankly, no. I figured you’d run away scared if I ever even mentioned the word.”

  Greg had a point. I wasn’t very comfortable with love. “I don’t know how I feel about you,” I said.

  “I didn’t think you did,” he said.

  “Well what were you hoping for?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t hoping for anything,” he said. “Except maybe a continuation of the status quo.”

  “Status quo?”

  “You’d go to Morsly,” he said. “I’d see you vacations. If I still felt this way next year, maybe I’d start talking seriously. I figured that was my best bet. Play it casual. But it never occurred to me you might pack up and leave. That way I’d lose you, and I don’t want to.”

  “Oh, Greg.”

  “Do you want to be engaged?” he said. “If you do, I’ll propose. I don’t care. I just don’t want to lose you. I don’t want you to go to Colorado, and leave there and go to Alaska, or Minnesota, or Mississippi. I want to know where you are and be able to see you.”

  “But you don’t want to get married?”

  “Not now, no,” he said. “Not if I have a choice in the matter. If that’s the only way I’ll keep you, then I’d think about it.”

  “This is great,” I said. “I called you to be reassured. You were supposed to calm me down. Now I’m a complete nervous wreck.”

  “Don’t go,” he said. “If that’s why you’re calling, to have someone tell you what to do, then I will. Don’t go. It doesn’t even have anything to do with me. You could go out there and find nothing. You could lose all your money, and your scholarship to Morsly, and then you’ll be completely stuck. Stay here. Get your degree. Play it safe for a change.”

  “I don’t play things safe well,” I said. “I’m not a safe person.”

  “Maybe you should be,” he said. “Maybe it’s childish to take risks all the time.”

  “If I don’t take risks, I won’t be an actor,” I said. “That’s what it’s all about. And I can’t not be one. That’s my life, Greg. My whole life. Everything else is just window dressing.”

  “Including me?”

  “No, of course not. But you’re part of the theater too. Greg, why don’t you come with me? We could go out together and see what it’s like.”

  Greg was silent for a moment. “I can’t, Kit,” he said finally. “I like theater, but it’s not everything. I want my degree. And I don’t want to hurt my parents.”

  I couldn’t even blame him. If I’d grown up in a clean, white living room, I might not be so eager to try Colorado. “Okay, Greg,” I said. “That’s it.”

  “Dammit, Kit, why should I feel guilty?”

  “I’m not asking you to,” I said. “It’s not your fault.”

  “This is ridiculous,” he said. “Just because I won’t go to Colorado is no reason why you should. I’m sorry if you’re thinking like that. You do react that way to pressure, you know.”

  “I know,” I said. “Thank you for knowing it about me.”

  I could hear Greg take a deep breath. “All right,” he said. “There are a lot of sensible arguments for staying. Now before you start saying anything, I know there are reasons for going too, but you know them all by yourself. I’m playing devil’s advocate, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “There’s college,” he said. “And your mother’s feelings. And the possibility that it’s a wild-goose chase. And the contest.”

  “The contest,” I said. “It always comes back to that, doesn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a symbol,” I said. “It represents everything I’m not happy about.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “I won that stupid contest because I’m pretty,” I said. “That’s all. Just a face and a body. I want to be something more than that.”

  “You are,” he said. “You’re a great deal more.”

  “Greg, do I get away with things on stage?”

  “You certainly do.”

  “Because I’m pretty?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Because you’re pretty, and young, and very appealing on stage. It’s a winning combination, and it lets you get away with all kinds of mistakes.”

  “It’s not fair,” I said. “I don’t want to be pretty.”

  “That’s crazy,” he said. “Of course you do. It’s an advantage. People like good-looking people. Maybe they shouldn’t, but they do. It’s a lot easier to go through life attractive than ugly.”

  “But if I was ugly I’d get judged on what I am, not what I look like.”

  “No,” he said. “You’d get judged on being ugly. All it would be is a handicap. Really, Kit, be glad you’re pretty. It’s going to make your life one hell of a lot easier. It already has.”

  “Oh, Greg, why aren’t things simple?”

  “Things are,” he said. “It’s people that complicate matters.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” I said. “Except don’t worry about marrying me.”

  “Okay,” he said. “If I thought you’d take me up on it, I probably wouldn’t have brought it up.”

  I laughed. “I’ll let you know when I decide something,” I said.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Please, just try to be reasonable.”

  “I’ll try,” I said. “And thank you for loving me.”

  “No thanks are needed,” he said. “Just take care.”

  So I hung up. I went to the full-length mirror and gave myself a thorough examination. I was a very pretty girl with red hair and long legs. If I were on TV, I’d admire myself. Especially if I were in color so that my hair would look the right shade. In black and white, it would just look brown. I resolved only to appear on color-TV shows.

  I tried to laugh, but I started crying instead. I felt like a fool, standing in front of the mirror, hoping my mother had gone and Marly hadn’t come back, crying because I was beautiful. Other girls were happy when they looked good. I had to be the weird one.

  The tears made my eyes look greener. I turned away from the mirror. I couldn’t stand it, staring at myself, looking like a beauty queen.

  Chapter 9

  And then the phone started ringing.

  The first call was from the Clarion. Not even from Sheila, who could have reassured me. Just the Clarion.

  “This is Bob McCay,” the Clarion said. “From the Clarion.”

  “Hello,” I said, hoping he was trying to get us to subscribe.

  “Is Kit Carson there?”

  “Kit Carson killed Indians,” I said. “He was a terrible man and he died years ago.”

  “I mean Katherine Carson,” he said. “Is she there?”

  “I’ll see,” I said, and putting my hand over the phone, hollered “Katherine!” very loudly. There was no answer.

  “She doesn’t seem to be,” I said. “Can I take a message?”

  “If you would,” he said. “The Clarion would like to have a picture spread on her and her
family for this Sunday’s paper. Miss Carson is the first Miss Great Oaks ever in the state contest, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t,” I said. “Katherine must have forgotten to tell me.”

  “Nothing formal,” he said. “Just pictures of her at home, relaxing. Maybe a bathing-suit shot. Have her call me at 342-2017, okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. “As soon as she gets in.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and we hung up.

  I wondered how I could keep Mom from knowing the Clarion wanted pictures of her for their Sunday edition, when the phone rang again. I debated answering it, and bad judgment won out.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “This is the mayor’s office. Is Miss Kit Carson there?”

  “Speaking,” I said. I never lie to mayors’ offices.

  “I’ll get Mayor McGowan,” his office said. I heard a click, and then there was Mayor McGowan.

  “Hello, Kit,” he said. “This is Mayor McGowan.”

  “Hello,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  “First of all,” he said, “I want to congratulate you on your victory last night. All of Great Oaks was proud that you won and wishes you the best of luck in the state competition.”

  “Thank you,” I said, wondering if he’d taken a poll.

  “I’m also calling with a request,” he said. “You are eighteen, I believe.”

  “That’s right,” I said, and suppressed a giggle. The usual request that followed that question was not the sort of thing I’d expect the mayor to call me about.

  “I assume you are planning to register to vote in November’s election.”

  “Eventually,” I said. “I’m not wildly political.”

  “It is the obligation of every citizen, no matter how young, to vote,” Mayor McGowan said. “How else will the people be able to express their opinions to those in command?”

  “I didn’t know those in command listened,” I said.

  The mayor laughed. “It may be hard for you to believe, but, yes, they do listen, and they listen hard, every November.”