As a boy, the sight of his old man’s upper plate soaking in a bedside glass of water had given Roger nightmares, and he vowed to never get dentures. Considerable time was spent each morning tending to his healthy yet slightly crooked teeth, primarily his molars. “That’s where the cavity monsters hide,” he told a terrified five-year-old Miranda, who spent the next three years of her childhood believing tiny, malevolent ogres lived inside her mouth.
Roger had gotten his routine down to a science: Starting in the back and working left to right, he would brush in thirty deliberate circles before moving forward to his bicuspids and repeating the process. He did this top and bottom, front and back, three times a day. Normally, it was more than sufficient, but that morning he felt a tiny sausage remnant stuck behind a back tooth. With precious seconds ticking away, Roger poked at the food, but slipped on some toothpaste he’d just spit out and shoved his toothbrush halfway down his throat. Panicked and gagging, he threw his head back and slammed it against the tile wall, knocking himself unconscious. The removable showerhead swung like a pendulum on a grandfather clock ticking down Roger’s final seconds. An arcing stream of water filled his open mouth and drowned him as he sat upright in the tub. Joan discovered the body fifteen minutes later.
Thank God for Jesus. If it weren’t for His little pep talks, Joan probably wouldn’t have gotten through it.
Don’t you worry about a thing, He told her the next morning. Roger’s with me now. And just so you know, he’s already the number-one insurance salesman in Heaven. Joan never asked why angels needed insurance. She didn’t have to.
Joan ran her fingers through her grandsons’ mops of hair and picked out small sticky pieces of cherries they had flung at each other. “Do you want to start your lessons now, or do you want Nana to give you haircuts?”
“Can we just watch TV today?” Junior asked. “I’m not in the mood to learn anything.”
“Yeah,” seconded J.J. “No learnin’!”
Gazing into their big angelic eyes, Joan’s heart melted like butter over hot grits.
“Of course,” she said calmly.
The boys leapt from the table and ran into the living room. Joan called after, “But nothing too violent and none of that Disney Channel garbage! Walt Disney was an anti-Semite, and Israel is our friend! We’re gonna need the Jews when Jesus comes back!”
Joan dropped the day’s lessons on a growing stack of previously untaught schoolwork and pulled a deck of cards from the junk drawer.
Deal me in.
“Okay,” Joan warned, “but I’ve been practicing.”
Jesus laughed. I’m sure you have. I’ll try and stay alert.
As a wrestling program blared from the living room, Joan slowly lowered herself into the chair and dealt two hands of cards.
chapter five
Miranda and Bailey arrived at the Knoxville Crowne Plaza Hotel a little after 6 P.M., only thirty minutes behind schedule. The parking lot was gridlocked with minivans, suvs, and overflowing luggage carts. The first real challenge of any pageant weekend was transferring the contents of your vehicle to your hotel room, and whoever parked closest to the entrance could claim the first psychological victory. Miranda just shook her head. “Amateurs.” Smiling, she hung a placard she’d lifted from Joan’s rearview mirror, and whipped into a handicapped spot.
Bailey was passed out in the backseat. She’d fallen asleep somewhere around Harriman, Tennessee, after inhaling her dinner of McSalad, small fries with no ketchup, and large Diet Coke. On average, Bailey drank six Diet Cokes a day, which was acceptable under the complex meal plan Miranda had put together. Anything with the word “diet” or “fat free” on the label was allowed in unlimited quantities. Everything else had to be approved.
A bellman approached the minivan but was abruptly waved off.
“No! No, thank you! We got it!”
Miranda groaned. She was constantly disappointed by how the host hotels insisted on nickel-and-diming their guests. Everyone expected a tip for doing a job they were presumably already paid to do. It was frustrating and embarrassing, especially when the hotels refused to give a significant discount to pageant attendees.
“Ten percent is not a discount,” she’d written to the president of Marriott. “It’s a slap in the face. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. With all the publicity these pageants bring your hotels, contestants and families should be asked to stay for free.”
Slowly lowering herself off the inflatable hemorrhoid donut, Miranda brushed french fry crumbs from her shirt and rubbed her belly just in time to feel Brixton laugh. It was the full, rich laugh of a happy, well-adjusted baby. During the trip, Miranda had told Brixton some of her favorite knock-knock jokes, and the kid could not get enough.
“You’re such a smart little girl, Brixton,” she cooed. “And funny, too.”
Miranda tapped the back window of the minivan with her wedding ring and startled Bailey awake. “We’re here, sweetie! Get up and help me with these bags.”
Bailey nodded. She knew the drill. She slipped on her shoes and grabbed a luggage cart from one of the bellmen by the front door while Miranda inventoried their bags. Every week there was more stuff: garment bags, makeup kits, hairpieces, photos, ré
sumé
s, crowns, camcorders, air-brushing system, self-tanner, eyelashes, shoes, back-up shoes, etc. Thank God Bailey was naturally (for the most part) beautiful, or they’d have to buy a full-size SUV.
Maneuvering the luggage cart through the hardening artery of the loading zone, Bailey thought about Frogger. The game had become one of her favorites since winning a Nintendo DS at some pageant. She couldn’t remember which one. Currently, Bailey held twenty-four titles in six states, and she couldn’t name half of them. They had all become one big pink blur. She hated to think that her greatest accomplishments had come before she was even a teenager, but it was also difficult to imagine that she would ever do anything else in her life that would earn her a room full of trophies.
When she reached the revolving door, Bailey found her mother, ashen faced, mouth agape, staring at a piece of paper taped to the window. Miranda snatched it from the glass and read it out loud to make sure she was as angry as she should be.
“SHOOTING NOTICE”
“Welcome! This weekend the Learning Channel (TLC) will be following several contestants from the Little Most Beautiful Princess Pageant for a reality show to air later this year (title TBD). By entering these premises, you are legally agreeing to be videotaped. Your image may be used for the program and/or for any promotion pertaining to the program. Cameras will be in the audience during the pageant as well as many of the backstage areas. Production assistants will be on hand to get signatures for release forms; however, because of the large crowd expected to attend, obtaining signatures from everyone will be impossible. Therefore, your attendance at the Little Most Beautiful Princess Pageant, and its surrounding activities, is an implicit agreement to be recorded. Thank you for your cooperation and good luck!!”
“A reality show?” Miranda screamed to no one in particular. “Those filthy sons of bitches! They stole my idea!”
For five years Miranda had been trying to convince a network, any network, that a reality show featuring her and Bailey would be the biggest thing on television. Beauty pageants were made for reality TV: pretty girls, cutthroat competition, and inspirational role models. Entertainment distilled to its purest form.
“Aren’t there already a ton of pageant reality shows?” Ray asked one night as Miranda sat up in bed addressing envelopes.
“Not like this one. This is a mother/daughter show. It’s called The Princess and the Queen.” She paused to let him tell her how great it was.
“Cute,” he said, sluggish from an old Valium he’d found in a winter coat pocket.
“I just think pageants are so much more interesting than the regular reality show garbage: Oriental people having a bunch of kids, or midgets going to work. I mean, good for them, I
guess, but who cares, you know?”
The idea, which came to her fully formed in a dream, was so perfect she had a treatment written before breakfast.
THE PRINCESS AND THE QUEEN®
A reality show by Miranda Miller
“My name is Miranda Miller and I’m Miss Daviess County Fair, 1991!”
Aside from my wedding vows, no words have made me prouder to say than those. I know firsthand what it takes to be a beauty queen, and that’s why my daughter, Bailey, has become one of the most successful pageant girls in America! But have you ever wondered what it takes to get there? Well, I’ll tell you, it takes two—a princess and a queen!
And that’s why you’ll love our new reality show, The Princess and the Queen!
Nothing is more American than family, pretty girls, and hard work! And in The Princess and the Queen, you’ll see all that, plus we’ll take you “behind the scenes” to see how pageants really work! Sure, it’s easy being pretty, but it’s a lot like work to get there! (That would be a great slogan for the show! Another good one might be: “One is glamorous, the other is glamourstressed.”)
The show itself is genius in its simplicity. Basically, camera crews would follow me (a former beauty queen) and my multiple-award-winning daughter (a Southern Pageant Hall of Fame nominee) as we compete in the competitive world of children’s beauty pageants throughout the Southern United States. Cameras don’t lie! What you will see is the unvarnished truth of what makes beauty pageants the most popular entertainment events in the history of America!
And if that’s not enough, as someone who watches only reality shows, I give you my personal 100% guarantee that this show will be the most entertaining and highest-rated show in your network’s history!
Miranda then proceeded to cold-call every talent agency in Hollywood. When none of them called back, she made a solemn vow to never work with anyone who didn’t return a phone call. Undeterred, Miranda began contacting the networks directly, starting alphabetically with ABC and giving up when some smug intern at VH1 hung up halfway through her pitch.
And then she remembered Maggie Lester. In third grade, Maggie was Miranda’s best friend for about a month. Now living in Los Angeles, Maggie was married to a man who wrote for a popular animated show called The Stupids. Miranda friended her with a painstakingly casual, Oh-my-God-I-was-just-poking-around-on-Facebook-and-found-your-name-blah-blah-blah message. A few pleasant exchanges about careers, family, and the past twenty-four years passed before Miranda got to the point.
So … I feel bad for not saying something sooner, but please tell your husband how much I like his show. Really funny!! Seriously. My kids love it! You know … I’ve been doing some writing, too. I know. Crazy, right? But I have to say … I do think it’s pretty good. It’s a reality show. I don’t want to say too much, you know, for legal reasons. Not that I think you would steal it, but someone else might read this. But if you want, I could send you a secure copy (or a fax), and if you like it I wouldn’t mind if you gave it to your husband to pass along to his agent or the head of the network his show is on. And don’t worry … if they want to buy it, I won’t forget who helped me out!;)
Maggie never responded, and while disappointed, Miranda tried to remain stoic.
“I never would have thought little Maggie Lester would turn into some stuck-up Hollywood phony,” she told Ray while sitting in bed updating Bailey’s Flickr page. “I guess you never really do know people.”
Standing outside the hotel, her hands shaking with rage, Miranda read the Shooting Notice again and tried to figure out whom this fucking show could possibly be about. But in her heart, she knew. She knew it like she knew her own fears. If it wasn’t Bailey, there was only one other logical choice: Starr Kennedy and her grosshog bitch bag of a mother, Theresa.
Starr was arguably the greatest child pageant contestant ever. By the age of five, she had broken the record for most consecutive wins (thirty-six), and by seven had entered Guinness World Records for “Most Concurrent Beauty Pageant Titles” (fifty-two). Rumors were circulating that Donald Trump himself had been keeping tabs on her for the Miss Teen USA Pageant, rumors undoubtedly started by the publicist Theresa got Starr for her eighth birthday. One of Miranda’s greatest failures as a mother was that Bailey had never beaten Starr in competition. She did, however, take Starr’s crown for Little Miss Golden Roses when the girl was forced to step down over allegations that Theresa provided sexual favors to one of the judges.
Calling the charges “offensive and calculated,” Theresa demanded a hearing of the Golden Roses Council of Elders, two of whom recused themselves citing a conflict of interest. But after hearing the evidence, the council’s verdict stood. Bailey was officially named Little Miss Golden Roses while Starr was given the insulting title of Honorary First Runner-up. It was a slap in the face Theresa refused to accept, and she vowed to pull her marquee daughter from all future pageants sponsored by the Golden Roses Organization. However, Theresa’s refusal to appeal the elders’ decision lent credence to the rumors, which had grown to orgiastic proportions throughout the circuit.
Miranda hated Theresa’s liposuctioned guts. Everything about the woman made her want to vomit: her sun-damaged skin, bleached blond hair, the way she stuffed herself into her tight Target jeans and clomped around like a Clydesdale in her Jessica Simpson stilettos. She looked exactly like the aging Florida stripper she was rumored to be. All that being said, Miranda found it hard not to admire Theresa’s Machiavellian approach to competition. Nothing short of physically assaulting another contestant was off-limits. Bailey had fallen victim to her psychological warfare many times, most recently at the Sweet Ray of Sunshine Invitational (Pigeon Forge, Tennessee) six months prior.
“Good gracious, Bailey!” Theresa said, seeing Bailey backstage, “look at your feet!”
Bailey had grown immune to Miranda’s criticism, but Theresa was a master at finding someone’s softest spot and plunging an acrylic nail into it.
“What’s wrong with them?” the girl asked softly.
“They’re so big. Are you wearing clown shoes?”
Theresa laughed at her “joke,” then put her arm around Bailey’s shoulder to physically sense the peak of the girls’ vulnerability and went in for the kill.
“Now, don’t you worry about a thing, sweetie. Not everyone thinks big feet are nasty. My granny had big feet, and she could climb a tree like a monkey! Just be careful and don’t trip, ’cause that would be really embarrassing. Not to mention, you’d definitely lose to Starr again. Anywho, looks like you still need to put your face on, so I’ma go. Good luck.”
She then used her bony thumb to wipe an inky black tear from Bailey’s cheek, and winked at Miranda, who stood by speechless, in awe of that bitch’s game.
Theresa’s warning became a self-fulfilling prophecy, and Bailey stumbled during her gymnastics routine, giving Starr the title, her third that week. Across the room, Miranda shot daggers at Theresa, who returned them with a frosty, shit-eating shrug.
Four months later, Miranda sent a gift basket of barbeque from Theresa’s brother-in-law’s restaurant to the judges of the upcoming Cinderella Model Search and Pageant (Bowling Green, Kentucky). The enclosed card read, “Be sure to suck the bones! Love, T.” Miranda then filed an anonymous complaint accusing Theresa of bribing the judges with gifts of food, an offense expressly forbidden in the Cinderella bylaws. Citing lingering questions surrounding Theresa’s history of judge tampering and wanting to avoid even a hint of impropriety, the Cinderella Organization banned Starr from competition without so much as a hearing. It turned out to be a wasted effort. While attempting a complicated series of back handsprings in a new gymnastics routine, Bailey snagged her toe on the hem of her skirt and fell, landing her as First Runner-up.
“That effing skank,” Miranda muttered. The reality show had to be about Starr, who else? Besides Bailey, there weren’t many contestants who warranted that level of exposure. Karolynne Simpson was a possibilit
y, but she hadn’t been truly competitive since her father ran off to Miami with that Vietnamese lady-boy he met on Craigslist. Cashburn Tinsley? Surely that wonky eye prevented her from being on TV since it consistently prevented her from winning a title. Maybe it was just Starr.
Miranda wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Dammit,” she whispered. “Why can’t something good ever happen to me?” She turned to Bailey, who’d been staring into space, thinking about food. “Take the bags inside, baby. I’ll be right there.”
As Bailey pushed the luggage cart through the busy hotel lobby, Miranda stood outside ripping the Shooting Notice into hundreds of tiny pieces, imagining it was Theresa’s stupid face.
chapter six
In a dark living room that reeked of old man’s pajamas and impending death, Ray slumped in a tattered easy chair and fought to keep his eyes open. His hospice patient, Marvin Daye, lay unconscious in the rented hospital bed next to him, wheezing through what was left of his lung. Marvin had smoked two packs of unfiltered Camels a day for sixty-four years, and for the past sixty-four nights, Ray’s job was to sit and watch him die. It was a pretty sweet gig. Every few hours Ray would change the old man’s catheter and roll him to prevent bedsores. On the rare occasion Marvin was awake, Ray would read to him or try to persuade the old man to drink some broth, but mostly he just changed his IV and watched ESPN. Marvin’s prolonged death also allowed Ray to play grab bag with three shoe boxes overflowing with medications. Ray had been catatonic in the chair for two hours. He was pretty sure it was Dilaudid. Dilaudid was the shit.
Faint music emanated from somewhere. Ray looked around for its source. The air felt like pudding. It was a good fifteen seconds before he recognized it as his ringtone: Here I am, on the road again. There I am, on the stage. Here I go, playing star again. There I go, turn the page …
Pretty Ugly: A Novel Page 5
