Beautiful Beast

by Dayle A Dermatis

  She snorted. “Carbs and sugar don’t enter these hallowed halls. There might be some plain oatmeal around? But your choices are eggs, fresh fruit, and veggies.”

  I reached for the refrigerator door.

  “Not there,” she said. She pointed with a bare foot to a cabinet door in the island. “There.”

  Last night I’d discovered the whole cabinet slid out like a drawer, and had pulled it only an inch open before closing it again, assuming it was for trash or recycling. Instead, it turned out to be a mini fridge, and Taryn was right: berries, fresh mixed greens, more asparagus, broccoli, and fat-free milk. I pulled out the milk and poured some into my coffee.

  “Eggs would be great, thanks,” I said.

  “No problem.”

  “So what’s the deal with the fridge and pantry?” I asked, pulling down two plates from the open shelves and setting them near the stove. “I came down last night for a snack….”

  Taryn sighed. “You’re a pageant girl now, Annabelle,” she said. “Your looks are your ticket, your future. You can’t gain an ounce of weight without it having an effect on your success or failure. This way, you won’t be tempted.”

  She sounded so much like her mother that I blinked.

  She slid the eggs onto the plates. I opened a bunch of drawers until I found silverware, and grabbed a carton of mixed berries out of the little fridge. We carried our food to the breakfast table.

  “Are you serious about the pageant thing?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “She’s been doing it all my life. Watch what you eat around her now that you’re in training. She’ll be putting you on a strict diet.”

  “Well, I suppose I do want to look my best,” I said. “Damn, these eggs are really good.”

  “Thanks,” she said, not looking at me.

  I wasn’t being nice. They really were fantastic.

  “Can I ask a dumb question?” she said.

  “I’m sure it won’t be dumb,” I said.

  “Jesus. Are you always such a Pollyanna?”

  “I…” I didn’t think I was. I mean, I used to have a positive outlook on life, sure, even when things weren’t perfect. I was mostly miserable now. But I didn’t see any point in bringing people down with me. I liked to make people happy. I liked finding something to compliment them on and making them feel good about themselves. Sincerely, too, because people can tell when you fake saying something nice. Was there really something wrong with wanting to be nice to people?

  “I didn’t think being nice was a crime,” I said finally.

  “Whatever. Are pageants so important to you that you’ll do anything to win?”

  “Well, no,” I said, putting down my fork. “I wouldn’t lie or cheat or sabotage another contestant. I want to win on my own merits, fair and square.”

  “I don’t mean that,” she said. “I mean, is it so important that you’d do anything?”

  “If it’s legal and doesn’t hurt anyone, then yeah, I guess I would.”

  She dumped some berries on her plate, stabbed a fat raspberry on the end of her fork.

  When she didn’t say anything, I said, “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” she said. “Just curious.”

  We finished our meal and the dishes in mostly silence. I tried to engage her in conversation, but got one-word answers or shrugs. Taryn Wentworth was a mystery to me.

  A mystery I wanted to crack, even though I wasn’t entirely sure why. I suppose it was because I wanted a friend—if not a close friend, at least someone I could hang out with—and maybe also because I didn’t understand why she seemed so grumpy all the time.

  I mean, she lived in this beautiful house, had a generous mother (the food thing notwithstanding, but maybe there was history there I hadn’t learned—and cutting out carbs and sugar wasn’t a bad thing, right?), had everything she could possibly want. I knew that didn’t make anyone’s life perfect; she could be chemically depressed or something like that, although she didn’t seem suicidal or anything.

  But I couldn’t worry too much about it now. I had three weeks to do everything to get ready for the county Miss pageant. I had to focus, and focus hard.

  I grabbed my laptop and decided to sit in the solarium, an octagonal room that pushed out from the back of the house. Glassed in, it was sunny and bright, and I felt like I needed space. My suite was spacious, but it also felt a little closed in.

  I found Taryn in the solarium with her sketchbook. When I walked in, she closed it.

  “I’ll get out of your way,” she said.

  “No, stay,” I said. “I won’t bother you.”

  She hesitated, but settled back into her chair. The furniture was dark green wicker with deep, comfortable cushions you sank down into. The French doors were open onto a flagstone patio that led to the rose gardens. I could smell the heady scent from here. I chose a lounge chair, flipped open my laptop, and went to my Pinterest page.

  It was pretty much all pageant research, although I had a Squee board of cute puppies and kittens, and another of women who inspired me. Not just actresses and models, but also women in STEM, and most importantly, female philanthropists. Melinda Gates was my hero, along with Oprah and Dolly Parton, and other celebrities who quietly built schools and donated money after disasters.

  I was scrolling through pictures of evening gowns when Mrs. Wentworth came in, her sandals clicking on the tiles. She wore a sleeveless A-line dress that hit her just above the knee, in a coral shade that worked perfectly with her skin tone. Fashion goals.

  “Good, you’re both here,” she said. She sat in a chair, crossing her legs at the ankles and angling them to one side in a graceful, automatic gesture, and opened a binder on her lap.

  Tarn closed her sketchbook, looked as if she wanted to leave, but then decided to stay. I wondered why.

  “We have so much to do,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “You’ll need an evening gown and a swimsuit. We need those early enough that there’s time for tailoring. Shoes. Hair, nails, spray tan, the full treatment. A haircut now and a touch-up right before. We’ll need to work on your walk, and practice your interview questions, of course. What’s your talent?”

  “I was going to do a monologue.” I was a terrible singer, and didn’t play an instrument. I’d taken a few dance classes, but I couldn’t hold a candle to girls who had been taking them all their lives. But I was pretty good at acting when it came to short scenes, and memorization came easy to me. “I once did Dory’s speech from Finding Nemo, but it’s pretty short. I was thinking maybe something from Pride and Prejudice?”

  “Hm,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “Hm. Well, we’ll think about that. You’ll need another outfit for that portion, and it’ll depend on what speech we decide on. Shoes, too. And you’ll have to practice.”

  “Of course,” I said. Thankfully I’m really good at memorizing things. I’m better with math formulas, but I’d be okay here. “But Mrs. Wentworth, I don’t expect you to pay for everything. I’ve saved up some money—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Annabelle,” she said. “I’ll handle it. Consider me your sponsor as well as your coach.”

  Mrs. Wentworth had a way of saying things so firmly that I had no idea how to argue with her. It just seemed easier to agree. Plus disagreeing would make me sound ungrateful, wouldn’t it?

  “Okay, if you say so—I mean, thank you. That’s super-generous of you.”

  I hadn’t even thought about coaches—they were so expensive, they’d never been in my plans. I figured once I had some success at the local level, maybe I could raise the money to get some coaching. Having Mrs. Wentworth would be spectacular, and not just because it saved money.

  “You’re worth it, Annabelle. Now, could you stand up, dear, and turn around?”

  Feeling self-conscious, I did. I sucked in a little because of the too-tight pants. I should’ve taken them off when I got my laptop. She appraised me with a critical eye.

  “You need to drop ten—no, fifteen p
ounds.”

  “Really?” I glanced down at myself. I’d thought I was in pretty good shape. I hadn’t joined track this year, but I’d been running on my own; my counselor recommended it.

  “I know a wonderful trainer; we’ll get you started on a schedule tomorrow.”

  Well, if she said it was necessary, then I’d do it. She was the expert, after all, and like I’d told Taryn, I’d do what it takes. Three pounds a week shouldn’t be too hard, especially if carbs and sugar were already off the table, so to speak.

  “What about charity work? It’s not necessary at this level, but it helps, and you’ll need it going forward.”

  I hadn’t even thought about that. Damn. “I’ve done some fundraising for school, sold Girl Scout cookies when I was a kid, but that’s about it.”

  “Taryn volunteers at the local animal shelter; perhaps you could join her doing that. If you go consistently in the next few weeks, we can include that in your information. After that, though…start thinking about a major charity you might want to support.”

  I nodded and made a mental note.

  Mrs. Wentworth made a final notation in her binder and stood. “I’ll make your appointments. After lunch, we’ll start working on your walk, deportment, that sort of thing.” She beamed. “I just know you’re going to be a star.”

  And so it began.

  It didn’t escape my notice, though, that the entire time she was there, she never once looked at or spoke to her own daughter.

  Seven

  I never knew standing in one place could be so hard.

  For hours that afternoon, Mrs. Wentworth schooled me in how to walk and how to stand still. Hours.

  The fitness room downstairs—a couple of treadmills, an elliptical machine, free weights, a wide-screen TV, and a killer sound system—had enough space on the floor for a stage to be drawn out. As in, spongy black mat material covered most of the floor, but there were strips of the same material in off-white that delineated a stage, where to stand, where to walk off and on.

  I did all of that. A lot. Over and over and over.

  Mrs. Wentworth had suggested I wear leggings and a sports bra, because I’d tossed my falling-apart bikini last fall and hadn’t bought one for this summer yet. I felt a little silly strutting around in black leggings with pink and orange stripes and a matching bra top and high heels. The shoes were really nice, but a bit higher than I was used to, and rubbed the backs of my heels.

  The pain didn’t matter. The pain was a good reminder that I had to smile through anything and everything.

  I had three weeks to prepare for this pageant, and I had a Miss America runner-up as a coach, and I was going to do whatever she said. In it to win it.

  Even when my lips were so tired from constant smiling, they twitched.

  Even when my legs ached from walking, pivoting, turning, posing with one foot forward, hand on my hip, over and over and over, while each time Mrs. Wentworth pointed out something else I was doing wrong.

  My right foot wasn’t positioned just so. I’d missed a step. I’d missed a step in a different place. My turn was sluggish. I was slouching. My shoulders were too high. My head was too far forward…too far backward. Chin up. Stomach in. No, not too far in, because that meant I wasn’t breathing properly. Chest up, but not out. My elbow wasn’t pointing the right way. My smile had faltered. My smile was too wide, too fake.

  When I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, we worked for another quarter hour before she handed me a bottle of water and said, “Good. Really good. We can get this together in three weeks with enough practice. You might want to hit a couple of miles on the treadmill before dinner.”

  I didn’t let myself crumple to the floor until after she left. I guzzled water, then let myself fall flat on my back and stare up at the pot lights in the white ceiling.

  I was sweaty and a bit stinky—sweaty! just from walking and standing. I’d rather have been lifting weights or running a marathon…would’ve been easier.

  The idea of running right now, though, made me laugh hollowly. Why risk falling off the treadmill thanks to my wobbly thighs and risk bashing my face? I needed my face. My face was important.

  But the pool…I could maybe swim laps. I wouldn’t have to kick as hard because I could use my arms, too. I went upstairs and changed into my Speedo, grabbed a towel, came back down.

  Oh yeah…bliss. I didn’t really manage any laps. I just lay back and floated and breathed in chlorine scent and looked at the mural on the ceiling, blue sky and clouds, letting my mind wander.

  Visualization is a good technique, according to my therapist. I visualized my gown, my smile (I tried to smile now and discovered my cheeks hurt, too), how it would look and feel to be named the winner, to have the tiara put on my head and the sash around me and the bouquet of roses in my arms, and to look out into the audience and…

  Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit.

  I rolled over, plunged my face in the water.

  My parents wouldn’t be there.

  I stroked to the edge of the pool and hung there, my arms crossed on the lip. Aunt Pat would be there, and Mrs. Wentworth. In the future, more friends, maybe someone special.

  Speaking of Aunt Pat, I needed to pop her a text and let her know I was settling in. I knew she was worried about me, and felt bad about leaving me here. It made the most sense—except for missing her, it was the best place for me—but she’d still fretted about giving up her responsibility and going for the easy way out. Which was silly, given how much she’d sacrificed for me already. I didn’t want her to feel bad.

  Our family was small; she was pretty much my last living relative, other than some far-flung second cousins or whatnot whom I’d met once when I was little. I’d grown even closer to Aunt Pat during the months she’d lived at my house—my old house—and it felt strange not having her around.

  Not as bad as not having my parents around, but I still felt a pang in the pit of my stomach.

  I ducked my head backwards under the water, trying to break my brain out of the negative path it was heading down. I pulled myself out of the pool, water dripping off me. Focus on the positive.

  The pageant! I hadn’t even told Aunt Pat about the pageant!

  I grabbed my towel, my phone, and my headphones, and headed for the sauna. I swear, this house was like a luxury hotel. (Okay, except for the lack of room service.) I pulled the wooden-handled door open and was met with a cloud of steam. When it cleared, I saw someone had beat me there.

  Taryn, swathed in a huge, fluffy white towel. Her dark hair was pulled back with a stretchy red headband, and she looked entirely different without her bangs covering half her face. She stood, ducking her head and clutching her phone to her chest, obviously leaving.

  “I’m sorry,” I said automatically. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. You don’t have to go.”

  “I was done, anyway,” she said, and stepped by me to leave.

  I sighed as I sat down. If we were going to dance around each other for the next year, life would suck. For both of us.

  I texted Aunt Pat, and saw that Madison had pinged me while I was in the pool, asking if I wanted to come over tonight and hang out with her and Emilia and Brittany. After a moment’s thought, I declined. Busy with pageant stuff, I explained. After July 4?

  After July 4 I’d be getting ready for the next one, but it wouldn’t be such a time crunch.

  Then I put on my headphones and blasted music and tried not to think at all.

  It didn’t work. Everything was jumbled up: pageant prep, Taryn, my life, my future. I bounced between the here and now and the next school year and even college.

  My future was too far. My life was too big. I thought about tomorrow—I’d meet with a fitness trainer, and we’d start working on my monologue and questions, Mrs. Wentworth had said.

  And then I thought about the fact that despite the enormous fluffy towel wrapped around her, Taryn was less schlumpy than I’d realized. She was hiding behind her
baggy clothes.

  I wondered why. I was pretty sure she disliked me because I was taking her mother’s attention—there was clearly a lot of tension between them—and I wanted to nip that problem in the bud as soon as possible. But the rest of her…I just didn’t know her.

  Despite how she was treating me, I wanted to.

  Dinner was sashimi—which I’d never had before, but liked a lot—and heaps of salad with kale and peppers and a few things I couldn’t even identify, and more talk about the pageant and pageant prep. I wanted to bring Taryn into the conversation, but it was hard, because she clearly didn’t care, didn’t want to talk about what she’d done as a child, and didn’t pick up on my attempts to change the topic of discussion. When Mrs. Wentworth said we’d go look at some dresses after church tomorrow, Taryn just sighed, clearly resigned.

  I hadn’t realized we’d be going to church. My parents hadn’t been the type, but I didn’t have a real reason to bow out. Mrs. Wentworth obviously expected me to go, and so I’d go.

  There weren’t many dishes, and I said I’d load the dishwasher. I put on my headphones again while I tidied up, then went to my room and changed into yoga pants because I was wearing those too-tight khakis again. I scrolled through blogs and sites I liked to keep up on. I couldn’t get Before You Need It to load for some reason, but glitches happened.

  Then I got up, restless. Paced the room. This house…the silence was strange. The bigness was strange.

  I saw my posters, still rolled up and sitting on the bureau. Asking Taryn about tape was a great opening gambit.

  I went across the hall and knocked on her door.

  She opened the door a crack, enough for her face, but mostly hiding her body behind it as if blocking me from entering. “What?”

  “I was wondering where I can find some tape or tacky stuff to hang my posters on the wall. If that’s okay with your mom, of course.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got some. Hold on.”