Pretty Ugly: A Novel

by Kirker Butler

  From the corner of his just-gambled organs, Wes noticed Miranda staring at him and felt his brow burst with perspiration.

  “Well, I really should get going,” he said to camera. “It’s almost time for the glamour!”

  Passing Miranda, Uncle Wes gave her a genuine hug and whispered, “You look beautiful, dear. You’re glowing. Good luck today.”

  As he absorbed her into his massive chest, Miranda thought about the copy of Wes’s book she’d bought the year before, and for the first time in her life was proud that she didn’t read books.

  * * *

  Backstage took on a renewed sense of urgency as the first contestants (0–6 months) were carried across the stage. Bailey had already been stuffed into her new evening gown: a sleek red, cross-shoulder, strappy number inspired by a gown Miranda had seen some TV actress wear to the Golden Globe Awards. It was a new look for Bailey, and she pretended to share her mother’s enthusiasm for the change. Most girls were still wearing knee-length party dresses with stiff, cumbersome crinolines, like they were going to prom in 1987, but ever since Starr won the Little Miss Tennessee Perfect Gala (Franklin, Tennessee) in a breezy but elegant maxidress, everything changed. Regardless of anyone’s personal feelings about Starr Kennedy, it was impossible to deny that she was the child pageant world’s prevailing trendsetter.

  Miranda took a step back and assessed her daughter. For a few months she had been trying an “elegant grad student” vibe on Bailey, even going so far as to have her pose with horn-rimmed glasses and an e-cigarette in one of her new pictures. Unfortunately, the picture was unsuitable for competition because of poor lighting and a hint of nipple. Even with her extra weight, Bailey’s appearance was flawless. Her hair sparkled as if it had been rinsed with a mirror, and her skin had the tawny glow of a second-generation Asian American. The girl could have walked into any bar in America and been served a beer, no questions asked. But Miranda still felt something was missing, the one special thing that would grab not only the judges’ attention but the reality show producers’ as well. She had been holding on to something for years, a trick she knew, waiting for the perfect time to use it. She’d hoped to wait awhile longer, at least until Bailey was twelve, but this was an emergency.

  “What are you doing?” Bailey asked as her mother picked up the airbrush gun.

  “Just stand still,” Miranda whispered as she quickly airbrushed two arcing shadows on the girl’s chest, hoping from a distance it looked like cleavage.

  “Perfect,” Miranda gushed. “Now … show me what you’ve got.”

  Bailey took a deep breath, perfected her posture, and tilted her head ever so slightly to convey an otherworldly confidence. “Being possessed by the chic demon” is what Bailey called it. Her lips curled into the perfect smile, a welcoming, mischievous grin that demanded you to just look. She seemed to be constantly winking at you, but she wasn’t, she just made you feel that way. Bailey grabbed a handful of fabric and sashayed across the floor, deftly controlling the train of her gown with imperceptible kicks from the red sequined Converse All-Stars worn ironically to show that being glamorous doesn’t mean you can’t also be playful.

  “There’s no law that says you can’t be a trendsetter, too,” Miranda answered when asked why it was suddenly okay to wear sneakers onstage.

  Watching her daughter glide across the room, everything else in Miranda’s world fell away. This was what she loved. It was the reason she was put on this earth. Brixton kicked her approval, and Miranda rubbed her tummy, totally unaware that she had allowed herself to smile.

  “Oh, my goodness, Bailey!” a voice called out. “What a beautiful dress!”

  Miranda’s Kegel muscles tightened. The air grew cold as the smell of cigarettes and too much perfume filled her nostrils. Theresa Kennedy slithered up, put her arm around Miranda’s shoulder, and squeezed.

  “Hello, Theresa,” Miranda said, afraid to look away for fear the bitch might cut her daughter’s face with the Diet Rite can clutched in her bony talons. “Bailey, what do you say to Mrs. Kennedy?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy.”

  “You’re so welcome, dear.” She then lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and leaned in close, “and congratulations on getting your first visit from your monthly friend.”

  Bailey was not aware that her mother had told everyone she had gotten her first period. She just assumed Theresa was trying to mess with her head, so she nodded.

  “Thank you.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Miranda said, implying she should move on.

  “You must be very frightened,” Theresa said, taking a step toward Bailey, “but it happens to us all. Just remember to always be prepared for it, and never discuss it with a boy.”

  “Okay. I won’t,” Bailey said, and then surprised herself by flashing a perfect pageant smile right in Theresa’s face. “Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy. You’re a good friend.”

  It was a damn good smile, and it wounded Theresa more than if she’d slapped her.

  “Well,” Theresa said, honeyed venom dripping from her words, “it does sometimes make you bitchy. You might want to get on top of that, dear. After a while, it’s no excuse. Then you’re just a bitch.”

  Bailey stopped smiling. “I left something upstairs. I’ll be right back.” She grabbed her purse and darted from the room.

  Theresa turned to a seething Miranda and arched her tattooed eyebrows as if to say, Yes? Is there something you would like to say? But Miranda refused to be drawn into her wicked devilry and the two women glared at each other, each daring the other to blink first. An eternity passed before Brixton kicked, forcing Miranda to concede defeat with a small, involuntary “oof.” Theresa smiled. Another victory.

  “So…” Miranda asked without caring, “how’s Starr?”

  Theresa chuckled as if it was the stupidest question ever asked.

  “You must be kidding. I know you know this whole reality show is about her. I mean, they’re following Bethenea around, too, but psssh, come on. You can’t even compare the two. It’s totally Starr’s show.”

  Theresa gestured to the lights and camera crew. “All this just for my little princess,” she said, then paused to savor the tightness of Miranda’s expression. “God’s just been so good to us this year. Starr shot her first television commercial, and her agent—who we had to get to help us sort through all the offers—has been talking about roles on some Disney Channel shows, or maybe even her own show on Nickelodeon. Something like iCarly, but more Christian, more Starr. It’s all such a blessing.”

  It was an obvious exaggeration, but enough of it was true to annoy the hell out of Miranda, and Theresa knew it.

  “So … how are you, dear? Still pregnant, I see.”

  Proud of her little Brixton, Miranda’s spine straightened, “Yes, I am. I’m having another girl, and I couldn’t be happier.”

  “Well, when are you due?” Theresa chuckled. “Because you are as big as a house!”

  Miranda hoped Theresa didn’t see her wince at the comment, but Theresa Kennedy saw everything.

  “Six more weeks,” Miranda said.

  Theresa’s eyes widened in mock concern as she dramatically sucked air in through her teeth. “Wow. Well … you look … fine. Just fine. I’ll be praying for you. And tell Bailey I said good luck.” She locked eyes with Miranda. “You know, with her period.”

  “I wi—” Miranda cleared her throat. Fuck! “I will.”

  Theresa smiled, her work complete, and moved nimbly on to her next victim, “Oh, my goodness, Bethenea! That scab on your knee looks so painful! Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure the judges won’t find it disgusting.”

  Watching Theresa go, Miranda mumbled a word she had only used twice before in her life, the first time in reference to Hillary Clinton and the other while drunkenly repeating a limerick about a man who liked to hunt.

  * * *

  The Summit Ballroom seated three hundred and fifty people, but with only sixty-five in atten
dance, it was difficult to blend in. Miranda slipped in and looked for a seat as far away from the cameras as possible. Sitting alone in the back of the room was Dorothy Tunes, an overcaffeinated chain-smoker who still clung to the ridiculous notion that her girls—bug-eyed twins named Melody and Harmony, who competed as a pair—would someday win something.

  “You gotta have a gimmick!” Dorothy once told Miranda, laughing stale breath through her dry, yellow lips. “Besides, they’re prettier together. Melody’s got a nose like a Jew and Harmony’s ain’t much bigger than a button, so from a distance they even each other out.”

  Miranda saw Dorothy first, and like everyone fortunate enough to be in that position, she quietly took a seat somewhere else. Onstage, Uncle Wes was finishing his maudlin rendition of “My Heart Will Go On,” missing the high note but covering nicely by going on a Christina Aguilera–like run and staying mostly on key. Thunderous applause filled the ballroom. Wes took a deep, gracious bow and crossed to the podium.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, moms and dads, friends and family, welcome to the Princess category!”

  A blast of nervous energy shot through Miranda. She sat up straight, then stood, sat back down, then stood up again pacing the aisle until she noticed Dorothy Tunes waving at her.

  “Dammit,” she said through a fake smile and politely returned the wave, pointed to her belly, and made an arggh-I’m-so-pregnant-and-tired-I’m-just-going-to-stay-here face before sitting back down and forcing herself to stay there.

  Uncle Wes cleared his throat. “Please welcome to the stage contestant number one, Misa Lee.”

  Miranda exhaled. Asians were cute and had great skin, but they were too exotic to actually win anything. It seemed almost perverse to have an Asian girl win a pageant. Clapping politely, Miranda dismissed the girl from serious competition.

  “Misa is a ten-year-old fourth grader from Hendersonville, Tennessee. She was adopted from China. Her hobbies include playing the violin, cross-country skiing, origami, and helping her mother around the house.”

  Miranda scanned the crowd again, looking for … something. Her gut told her she needed to stay alert.

  “Contestant number two, Jinks Cashion.”

  Miranda shot up out of her seat as if her hemorrhoids had suddenly become rockets. “Who?”

  She’d never heard of this girl, and a surprise like this could put her whole plan in jeopardy. However, when she saw the tubby little charity girl waddle across the stage, she couldn’t help but laugh at her overreaction.

  “Jinks is an eleven-year-old Christian from Montgomery, Alabama. She enjoys painting and lifting weights with her uncle Steve.”

  Miranda shook her head. What some parents do to their kids. “Two down,” she whispered.

  “Please welcome contestant number three, Bailey Miller.”

  Perfect. Miranda thought. Right after the fat girl.

  When Bailey walked out onstage, Miranda audibly gasped. For the first time in months, her daughter’s beauty was on a par with its potential. Airbrushing her chest was a genius move, if Miranda did say so herself. Not only did Bailey look petite compared to the older girls, she was, in a word, sexy.

  “Bailey is…” Wes hesitated for a second. “Bailey is ten years old from Owensboro, Kentucky. Her hobbies include volunteering at the veterans’ hospital, singing, helping with her brothers, and writing haiku about the Bible.”

  Miranda scanned the ballroom to study the stillness of the dads. The better the girls looked, the less the dads moved. When she spied four men, as still as cadavers, staring at her daughter, Miranda jumped up and screamed. “Yes! Go, Bailey, go! Whoooo!”

  Bailey fought the urge to scream back. A year of binge eating had taken its toll both physically and mentally, and now here she was as if she’d done nothing at all. She needed a new plan. Maybe if she tried to mouth-kiss one of the other contestants … but that would probably just cause more problems than it would solve. She’d think of something. Until then, Bailey Miller would hold her perfect smile like a pro and take her place at the edge of the stage next to the Asian and the fat girl.

  Meanwhile, a storm was brewing on the other side of the room.

  As Uncle Wes introduced the fourth contestant(s), the Tunes Twins—“Melody enjoys playing the piano, and Harmony enjoys listening to her…”—an unmistakable voice filled the room.

  “Hey! Miranda! What do you think you’re doing?”

  The ballroom came to a paralyzing halt. Miranda’s body started to tingle like it did in college when she took diet pills. Closing her eyes, she pretended nothing was happening and prayed that when she opened them, everyone would be gone. Or maybe she would be.

  “I know you can hear me!”

  Clutching her churning belly, Miranda looked across the room and saw Theresa standing on a chair, glaring at her with animalistic rage. Her mouth had hardened into a bitter, puckered sneer, and her brow muscles had managed to overtake her recent Botox treatment and furrow into a pinched mass. Starr wasn’t the only member of the Kennedy family who knew how to put on a show. Theresa jumped down from the chair and strode to the judges’ table, followed closely by the camera crews. From her seat, Miranda prayed to go into labor, or for a fire drill, or a heart attack. Anything.

  The judges motioned for Miranda to join them and Theresa at their table. Feigning surprise and innocence, she pointed to herself with a raised eyebrow as if to say, “Me?”

  “Yes, Miranda,” one of the judges called across the room. “Could you come up here for a moment please?”

  “Um, of course.” Calmly, Miranda ambled to the judges’ table, exaggerating her pregnant gait as if every tender step was causing the baby to crown. Uncle Wes stood at parade rest, while Bailey tried to hold her smile, preparing for the inevitable humiliation to come.

  Every video camera in the room (sixty-two including phones) followed Miranda as she made her way to the judges’ table. When she saw her cameraman friend Freddy shooting her, she wished she’d insisted he keep the sixty-seven dollars. Reaching the table, she smiled and asked innocently, “Is there a problem?”

  Spitting out words as if they were hairs in her curly fries, Theresa yelled, “Yes, there’s a problem. A pretty damn big problem!”

  The lead judge, an obese Methodist named Margaret Flagg, raised her hand to Theresa. “If there’s a problem, we will deal with it, but let’s do without the coarse language, okay? There are children present.” She sighed. “Miranda, there are some … concerns about Bailey competing in the Princess category.”

  Miranda nodded for fourteen seconds. When she was sure she wasn’t going to cry she said, “I see. What kind of concerns?”

  “Well … this is partially our fault.” Margaret blushed. “We should have caught it before the pageant began, but because of Bailey’s history and reputation, it was somewhat … unexpected.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “First of all … Bailey’s photographs…”

  Miranda’s spine stiffened.

  Margaret took a beat and sighed through her nose. “They’re … what’s the word…?”

  “Pornographic,” blurted Benny Callaghan, a veteran pageant judge who always dressed like the most fashion-forward member of a barbershop quartet.

  “Excuse me?” Miranda said, a bit louder than even she expected.

  “You heard me. This,” Benny said, holding up one of Bailey’s gorgeous new photos, “is obscene.”

  Miranda did not know what to say. Part of her was relieved they just wanted to discuss the pictures, but another part was disappointed that they couldn’t tell the difference between art and smut.

  “It’s art, Benny.” She lowered her voice to protect the children. “I thought gay people understood art.”

  Watching from the relative safety of his podium, Uncle Wes ordered himself at ease and walked the edge of the stage to hear better.

  Margaret stepped in. “Okay, let’s calm down. ‘Pornographic’ is an … inappropriate word, Benny—”

 
“Well, they’re inappropriate photos. Bare backs, pinup poses, in one of them the poor girl’s wearing nothing but black stockings!”

  “That picture was inspired by a very famous photo of Ann-Margret, considered by many to be a work of art!” Miranda was practically shouting.

  “I don’t care what inspired it. If the FBI found these on the Internet, someone would go to prison for a very long time.”

  “That’s crazy!” Miranda said, but she nonetheless made a mental note to update Bailey’s Facebook, Twitter, and Tumblr pages as soon as she got back to the room.

  “Who cares about some stupid dirty pictures?!” Theresa screeched like a Disney witch. “She cheated!”

  Margaret sighed heavily. “Okay. Miranda, Theresa claims that Bailey doesn’t meet the age requirement for the Princess category, which is ten years old.”

  Miranda’s anger quickly turned to self-possession. “She’s ten. I’m her mother. I know how old she is. She’s ten.”

  “Then when’s her birthday?” Theresa barked.

  Dammit! With all her plotting, Miranda had forgotten to memorize the fake birthdate she’d put on Bailey’s application. A bead of sweat slid down her rib cage. “Excuse me?”

  “When is Bailey’s birthday!?”

  The two women glared at each other until Miranda feared she would be turned to stone. “You know, Theresa … I don’t have to answer to you,” she said, enunciating in a way that implied more hostility and vulgarity than actual profanity ever could.

  Theresa let out a sarcastic snort. “Oh, come on! Our girls have been competing against each other for seven years. Do you think I’m stupid or something?”

  Miranda shrugged. “That’s not the first word I would use to describe you.”