Pretty Ugly: A Novel

by Kirker Butler

  chapter twenty-five

  “Oh, my God, no!” Miranda cried when she entered the parking lot of the Chattanooga Marriott and Convention Center. Parked prominently by the front entrance was a large production truck adorned with the TLC logo. All the hope and optimism she’d been filled with over the past few weeks was instantly forced from her body like air from an end-of-summer beach ball.

  Ray let out a sigh that sounded enough like the word “fuck” to make Jr. and J.J. giggle. It was the only word the boys said for the next thirteen and a half minutes.

  When Miranda reached the hotel’s huge sliding doors and saw the familiar shooting notice taped to the window, her throat tightened into an acidic knot.

  “What more do these people want from me?” she asked no one in particular. They weren’t content with stealing her show and using it to make her look like a crazy person in front of the entire world. Now they were going to ruin what should be one of the most important events of Brixton’s life.

  “Haven’t I been punished enough?” Miranda asked Ray, who nodded and kicked himself for not keeping that bag of pills closer. Miranda had cried an ocean over this goddamned reality show. So much, in fact, Ray had worked up a speech similar to the one he gave his dead patients’ families.

  “You know, Miranda, no matter how much we prepare ourselves for disappointment, we’re never really ready for it—”

  Miranda waved him off. She didn’t want to hear it. She closed her eyes and held her breath, hoping to stem the onset—or at least the severity—of her tears. And when she exhaled, there was … nothing. Not a single tear. There wasn’t any feeling of sadness, only the memory of it. It’s just a silly TV show, she thought. And as if she had uttered some mystical incantation, all the anger and jealousy and hurt went away, leaving her with a feeling she hadn’t known her entire pageant career: perspective. Her shoulders started to burn with relaxation like they did when she drank wine too fast. Miranda didn’t want a TV show anymore. She’d been given something greater than fame and fortune. She’d been given an opportunity to reprioritize her life. Miranda Ford Miller was a different person now. She was the mother of a special needs child pageant contestant, and that, in turn, made her special. She didn’t need some stupid reality show to tell her that.

  Clutching Ray’s hand, Miranda opened her mouth to tell her husband about what had just happened to her—the epiphany that would forever change the dynamic of their family—when a short-haired woman clutching an iPad marched up and smiled.

  “Miranda Miller!”

  There was something familiar about her. Miranda checked her outfit: designer jeans, heels, fleece vest. Obviously, she wasn’t a pageant representative, and she wasn’t wearing enough makeup to be one of the mothers. She appeared to be some kind of professional woman, triggering Miranda’s instinct to be extra cautious.

  “Yes?”

  “Oh, thank God.” the woman said with the exaggerated sense of exhaustion Miranda often noticed in such women. “You are a hard woman to find. I’m Caroline Hayek. I’m a producer from TLC.”

  “Oh.” Miranda took a step back. “Right. That’s where I know you from. You were in Knoxville. Have a nice day.” Miranda turned and led her family into the lobby of the hotel.

  Caroline followed them inside, yelling, “Miranda, wait!”

  “What do you want?” Miranda said, snapping back on her heels.

  “Well, first of all,” Caroline said in a slight Southern accent Miranda hadn’t noticed before, “I just want to say that if our promo brought you or your family any unwanted attention, then I sincerely apologize. We had literally two thousand hours of footage to slog through and that thirty seconds was by far the best. When you see the show you’ll know what I mean. So I apologize if it embarrassed you, but … I have to say, the response to it has been unlike anything we’ve ever seen.”

  “Well,” Miranda said, managing to sound both polite and sarcastic, “congratulations on your success, Ms. Hayek. I’m sure you’ve earned it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my daughter needs to eat.” Miranda gestured to Brixton, who was just beginning to stir in Courtney’s arms.

  “Oh, my goodness, is this Brixton?”

  Miranda instinctively stepped in front of this person and snatched her daughter from Courtney. “It is, and how did you know her name?”

  “You’re kidding, right? Brixton is all anyone’s talking about!”

  “Who’s talking about her?” Miranda asked louder than she meant to.

  “Everybody! And that’s why I want to talk to you. Can we sit down?”

  “No. What do you want?”

  Caroline took a deep breath. “Miranda, I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but you’ve become a role model for mothers all over the world. In thirty seconds you demonstrated how completely unafraid you are to stand up for your kids, even use violence if necessary.”

  Miranda shifted uncomfortably.

  “And now with Brixton you’re saying, ‘I don’t care if she is different, my daughter is just as beautiful as your “normal” child!’ It’s so brave, I can’t even tell you. I’m inspired, and I don’t even have kids!” Caroline laughed, as if not having kids wasn’t something she thought about a thousand times a day. “And I think if we take that in-your-face, ‘mother bear’ attitude of yours and combine it with the bravery you’ve demonstrated with Brixton—and I assume will continue to demonstrate—then I think we’ve got ourselves a show.”

  Miranda raised her eyebrows and leaned in closer, assuming she’s misheard. “Excuse me?”

  Caroline laughed again. A real human reaction from a real human being. Priceless. This was why she produced reality shows!

  “Certainly at some point you’ve thought about what a great show your family would make. A former pageant queen has a daughter who becomes a pageant champion, then gives birth to a special needs baby and enters her in pageants, I mean … it’s the reason reality TV was invented!” Caroline took a breath and gave Miranda her best saleswoman smile. “So, what do you say? Are you interested?”

  The words had barely left Caroline’s lips before Miranda blurted, “Absolutely! Yes! I’m interested. We’re all interested. Aren’t we, Ray?”

  What? No. He was not interested. The last thing he wanted was for his family’s problems to be someone else’s disposable entertainment. He was perfectly aware of how fucked-up his life was, and he didn’t need someone else distilling it into bite-sized episodes and spoon-feeding it to bored housewives so they could feel better about their own shitty lives. Ray had never seen a reality show that treated its subjects with a shred of dignity, and even though his family was undoubtedly flawed, they still deserved better than to be on television. Hell, if a thirty-second promo could make Miranda cry for six days, what would ten half hours to do her? Ray wanted to tell Caroline Hayek to take her show and shove it up her Pilates’d ass. But when he looked at Miranda, all he could see was the overwhelming joy of someone whose dream had finally come true. It would’ve been cruel to take that away from her. He’d taken so much from her already. How could he say no?

  “Is this what you want?” he asked. “I mean, what you really want?”

  Miranda considered her recent epiphany, then promptly dismissed it as postpartum hormones.

  “I think so. Yes. Yes, I do. It would be so good for Brixton, too. She could be a role model for other girls like her. Don’t you want that?”

  He sighed. Not really, he thought. I just want her to be normal and happy. But if that’s not possible, then at least you should be happy. He shrugged. “Sure.”

  Miranda squealed with joy, kissed Ray on the cheek, and whispered in his ear, “Thank you so much. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Caroline felt like she’d finally won the progressive slot jackpot at Mandalay Bay. This kind of stuff made her horny, and in that moment she was one light breeze away from orgasm. After six years writing needless celebrity news for E! (“You can’t spell ‘tast
eless’ without E!”), Caroline left to work as an associate producer on several unsuccessful reality shows, including Famous Stamos and Thai the Knot. This, however, was the kind of show she had wanted to do all along: quality, uplifting family programming.

  “So, Miranda, if you have some time this evening I’ve got a contract I’d like you to look over, and if you think everything’s okay, we can start shooting tonight. I’m in room five fourteen, come by around eight?”

  Miranda was vibrating. “I’ll be there.”

  “Then I’ll see you later. Nice to meet you, Ray.”

  Ray nodded and extended his hand, but Caroline was already darting across the lobby, her face in her iPad.

  Barely visible under a crush of hanging bags, pillows, and children, Courtney stood by silently as the Millers were handed a brand-new life. Just like that, Miranda got everything she’d ever wanted. How is that fair? she thought. Why don’t good things ever happen to me? She took a deep breath and allowed Miranda her moment. Soon enough, Miranda would know how it felt to have something important taken away from her.

  “Courtney! Courtney! Is this yours?”

  Courtney looked outside and saw a small bare butt pressed up against the window. “J.J., pull your pants up and get in here right now!”

  J.J. ran inside, zipping up his pants and laughing. Courtney sighed and pushed the overloaded baggage cart through the hotel lobby completely unaware that Joan was watching her every move, determining the best time to kill her.

  chapter twenty-six

  For the first time in its storied history, the Chattanooga Christmas Pageant and Winter Spectacular was being held in November. This was to accommodate Uncle Wes, who had finally made good on his promise to Paulo to spend the entire month of December in Rio. Thanksgiving was still a week away, but the lobby of the Chattanooga Marriott already looked like Santa’s Village. A dozen fake Christmas trees (one decorated with tiny menorahs and Stars of David) circled the perimeter of the lobby, imposing good cheer on all who entered. Thousands of twinkle lights blinked and flashed in festive synchronization with the generic holiday standards bellowing from hidden speakers. A giant column decorated in red-and-white candy cane stripes rose from behind the reservation desk like Santa Claus’s erect penis.

  “Happy Holidays from the Chattanooga Marriott and Convention Center,” said a bland, oily-skinned woman from behind the desk. “Are you checking in?”

  “You bet we are! Miranda Miller and family,” Miranda squealed.

  The woman ran the Millers’ credit card, and Miranda was reminded why the whole family never came to pageants together. “Five hundred and fifty dollars for three rooms?” Her voice rose at the end like a community theater actor instructed to play ‘incredulous.’ “The arrogance of these hotels charging so much.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the clerk replied. “Do you still want the rooms?”

  Miranda sighed. “I suppose,” she said, confident that “the network” would pick up the bill. “I guess if it weren’t for you guys we’d have no place to stay, would we?”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t reckon so.”

  Miranda chuckled as if she’d made a joke, then happily signed the registration, feeling for the first time in her life the satisfying rush that comes only from spending other people’s money.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Miller,” the clerk responded in a barren monotone.

  The twinkle lights reflected off her shiny skin, making her humorless face look almost festive. For longer than he should have, Ray imagined having sex with this woman. In his experience, unattractive women were pretty good in bed. Fat girls came quicker, but they tended to just lie there. Ugly girls, however, were memorable. They tried harder, like they had something to prove. Or maybe it was just gratitude.

  “Where is my fucking Carmex?” Courtney barked, rummaging through her purse and snapping Ray out of his fantasy.

  “Would you like some help with your bags, Mrs. Miller?” The clerk mumbled.

  Miranda considered this for a moment and smiled. “You know … I think I would like that very much.”

  As the bell captain led them to the elevators, Miranda could tell that everyone was talking about her, but in a good way. With a famous daughter, a loving husband, a can’t-miss TV show, and a young, white nanny in tow, Miranda finally felt like she had everything she’d ever wanted. And without even taking a breath, she immediately started thinking about what she wanted next.

  * * *

  The three adjoining hotel rooms were barely big enough to keep everyone comfortable. Ray, Miranda, and Brixton took the biggest room on the end. It would serve as the command center: Brixton’s dressing room, prep space, and, if needed, press area. Joan and the boys would stay in the room next door, and Courtney would stay in the third room with Bailey, who over the past few months had grown to believe that the pregnant teenager staying at her house was the coolest person alive.

  Courtney was like fireworks: a lot of fun to play with but with the very real potential to scar you for life. It was irresistible stuff for a soon-to-be-ten-year-old girl looking to start a new phase of her life. Fascination grew to hero worship when Bailey asked Courtney point-blank what a “BJ” was, something she claimed to have overheard two sixth-grade girls talking about in the restroom.

  “Okay,” Courtney said, as serious as she’d ever been in her whole, entire life. “I’ll tell you, but you can’t tell your mom and dad I told you, and you cannot do it for, like, a long, long time, like six or seven years at least, okay?”

  Bailey agreed, and Courtney launched into a twenty-minute visually demonstrative, exceedingly graphic answer that went way beyond what Bailey needed, or wanted, to know. She was completely skeeved out, but at the same time had never felt so respected by another living person. A full-grown adult was casually telling her things she wasn’t supposed to hear—gross, exciting sex things—as if they were equals.

  Soon after, Bailey went out and got her hair cut and colored just like Courtney’s. From behind they looked nearly identical, which triggered a sadness inside Ray that felt bottomless and eternal.

  However, despite their matching hairstyles and frank discussions of oral sex, Bailey did not envy Courtney’s life. Not at all. The idea of getting knocked up at seventeen, losing your house, and moving in with a strange family sounded only slightly worse than putting a boy’s thing her mouth.

  * * *

  For Joan, the defining moment of her life had arrived. Bailey had gone to visit the few friends she’d actually liked from her pageanting days, and the boys had fallen asleep in front of the TV. Through the door of the adjoining room, she could hear Courtney showering—probably because the girl felt as dirty on the outside as Joan knew she was on the inside.

  Be nice.

  “Sorry,” Joan whispered.

  Everything is happening exactly as it should.

  Joan nodded and gathered her provisions for the night: a sleeve of saltine crackers, a can of Diet Coke, and her murder weapon—a pillow. She slipped quietly into Courtney’s closet, which was surprisingly large for a hotel, and thought how nice it would be to have something like it in her own house.

  You pull this off, Joan, and I’ll build you your dream closet. I used to be a carpenter, you know. A good one.

  Joan blushed and smiled. “I think I read that somewhere.”

  Wait until she told that holier-than-thou Wanda Gilchrist that Jesus Himself was going to build her a walk-in closet. That’d show her.

  Leaning against the wall, Joan slowly lowered herself onto the floor and made her body as small as possible. Her knees popped and burned, but she refused to complain. “Soldiers don’t whine,” she whispered, and pulled a blanket over her head as camouflage. Jesus would let her know when it was time. Until then, she would stay alert and ready to act at a moment’s notice. Settling in, Joan put the pillow behind her head for support and closed her eyes. Three minutes later, she was sound asleep.

  Dripping from the shower, Courtney chec
ked the time on her cell phone: 7:18. The auction had ended hours ago, and she was pissed that she hadn’t heard from her stupid lawyer. After taking stock of what remained in the house, Courtney decided to just go ahead and auction off everything. This included her grandmother’s full-length mirror, wedding dress, and good silverware that her mother claimed had once been used by President Zachary Taylor. Courtney didn’t need any of it. She was ready to create new memories.

  On the nightstand was her grand confession, an epic tale of love, death, budding maturity, and unmarried teen pregnancy. It was quite possibly her favorite piece of writing ever, or at least her favorite that didn’t have vampires in it. Lifting passages from her diary and peppered with her own peerless insights on the nature of relationships, the Confession read like a lost text from Nora Roberts, if Roberts couldn’t spell well and thought “chester drawers” was a piece of furniture. Nothing was left out, including an apology which, while sincere, felt superfluous since it likely would not be accepted. Courtney considered taking it out, but accepted or not, it seemed rude not to include it. There was also the question of whether she should give the letter to Miranda, read it off the page, or memorize and recite it. Because of their friendship, Courtney thought she owed it to Miranda to look her in the eye and recite it from memory, even though she wasn’t great at memorizing. She still couldn’t remember her social security number, but that was just some stupid numbers on her driver’s license. The Confession was actually important.

  Courtney’s phone chirped. It was Mr. Waxflower. She rolled her eyes and answered it. “It’s been, like, over an hour. What’s going on with my house?”

  “Miss Daye?”

  She let out an exasperated sigh. “Duh. You called me. Is the auction over? How’d I do?”

  Mr. Waxflower cleared his throat. “Yes, Miss Daye, I am calling to inform you that the auction of your grandfather’s property is complete. There are still some details to be worked out—papers to sign and items such as that—but it appears that with everything sold, and after the city collects its share of taxes, and all other fees have been paid—”