If anything, I wished I could do more. Maybe once the first pageant was over, I could figure out a way to raise money for the shelter, or increase awareness about adopting animals. I knew it wasn’t enough of a charity to make an impact at the higher pageant levels, but it was still important. If I’d known before how much they were struggling, I’d’ve started sooner.
After that, I had my hair cut and highlighted. My blond hair has always been one of my strengths: it’s healthy and thick. It’s a bit coarse and wants to frizz sometimes, but nothing a good straightening iron and product and a little patience can’t fix. Still, Mrs. Wentworth suggested some discreet extensions, not for length, but for added fullness.
When the hairdresser turned the chair around and I saw myself, I gasped.
She hadn’t taken much off, but she’d added just enough layering that it had a shape and bounce to it that I’d never seen before. The extensions did make my hair look naturally thicker. And the highlights…they were appropriately subtle, but my hair looked like sunshine now. It was so soft, too, and I couldn’t stop touching it.
I was pretty good at doing my own hair, even for pageants. I knew my products, could handle blow dryers and curling irons, and could manage updos with minimal assistance.
I thought I was good at doing my own stage makeup, but the first time I showed Mrs. Wentworth, she nearly went through the roof.
“That’s hideous,” she said. “Your brows, for goodness sake. And you call that contouring?”
I blinked back tears of surprise and confusion. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I had no idea. I’ll practice. There are videos online I can follow.”
She nodded. “That’s an excellent idea. I’ll find the best ones and give you the links.”
I wanted to protest that I could find them myself, but decided I didn’t want to annoy her further. She knew what she wanted me to do, so I’d accept her suggestions.
Halfway through the second week, I felt busier than I had been during the school year. I was getting two runs in, one before breakfast and one in the evenings. I’d rather run outside, but Mrs. Wentworth didn’t want me on the road, which didn’t have much of a shoulder, and the driveway might have been long, but running back and forth along it would get boring pretty quickly. At least in the fitness room, there was a TV. Mornings were spent at the animal shelter; afternoons were pageant prep and workouts; and somewhere in there I was also still trying to figure out my makeup, decide on hairstyles, and keep up on current events (the fitness room’s TV helped with that). I talked or texted with Aunt Pat every day.
Time only slowed down at night when Taryn and I would kick back and watch some TV or a movie. I saw her during the day at meals, and of course at the shelter, and sometimes she was conscripted to help with pageant stuff.
But as focused as I was on preparation, I kept those few hours in the evenings sacred.
We weren’t really friends, not exactly. We were more comfortable with each other, but I couldn’t say I was really getting to know her, except for the things I figured out from the superficial topics we talked about.
She didn’t want to talk about her art or show any of it to me. She didn’t ask about my parents and I didn’t ask about why her relationship with her mother was so hostile. Pageants simply weren’t a topic for discussion.
But then, to my surprise, she took pity on me and started doing my makeup.
To my further surprise, she was really good, and I told her that.
Taryn gave one of her signature shrugs. “It’s just a different kind of paint on a different kind of canvas. It’s still color and shadow and blending, and knowing what to add and what to leave out.”
Easy for her to say. Still, I appreciated her help, and thanked her profusely while trying to not mention “pageant” or anything even remotely related.
Once, though, after I’d been practicing my monologue, I commented that I wished I had a talent that wasn’t so lame.
“It’s a talent that you can do on stage, at least,” Taryn said. “What would I do? Paint the judges’ portraits?”
“Actually, there’s this one contestant who does speed painting,” I said, pulling out my phone to show her, happy that we had found a common point of interest.
She snorted. “Are you kidding me? That’s not art; that’s being a hack. And I have no desire to perform on command like a monkey on parade.”
I slowly tucked my phone back in my pocket, deflated. I didn’t know how to explain to her that it wasn’t like that. That contestants were proud of their talents, worked hard for them.
I wanted to ask her what happened that made her stop doing childhood pageants, why she became so anti-pageant. Sure, her mom was a hard taskmaster, but that was only because she wanted me to succeed. I was choosing to do the work, because I wanted the same thing: to win.
I wanted to understand, but I didn’t want to damage the fragile connection Taryn and I were making.
The connection was important to me, but we couldn’t talk about the one thing that was the most important thing in the world to me.
Eleven
Sunday at church, I remembered to pay attention to something Reverend Davison said before I zoned out and mentally practiced my monologue.
Mrs. Wentworth had rejected all of my ideas and come up with a scene from a play I’d never heard of. It was about being true to your dreams and following your heart, and although it was a little sappy, she insisted that it was perfect because (a) it wasn’t one that everybody and their sister chose, (b) it was exactly the type of positive ideal the judges look for, and (c) it fit my platform perfectly.
“I have a platform?” The moment the words were out of my mouth, I realized how poorly I’d phrased the question. I felt like an idiot.
“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Wentworth had said patiently, but I heard the undercurrent of annoyance in her voice. “Every girl needs to have one—every successful girl does. You don’t talk about it; you live it. Yours is overcoming adversity. It’s perfect.”
I didn’t want that to be my platform. My parents’ death was my personal experience, not a stepping stone to becoming Miss America.
However, this pageant was important. Like Mrs. Wentworth had said, it was the most important pageant for me right now. In fact, it truly felt that way; I was so focused on the prize. So I accepted that my platform would be overcoming adversity, I’d rock the hell out of it, and I’d worry about changing it later.
Beside me on the pew, Taryn shivered. I dug into my bag and pulled out the extra cardigan I’d brought for her, because she always seemed to forget hers. It was cream colored, and went well with the dark green tank dress she was wearing. I wondered where she found the shapeless dresses. Had there been a sale?
Her brown eyes widened, and she hesitated before she took it from me. When we stood to sing a hymn, she slipped it on and flashed me a quick smile.
After we got home and had a quick lunch—I was on protein shakes for two meals a day now—Mrs. Wentworth and Taryn (who looked like she wanted to be anywhere else) sat behind the desk in the den, one with some kind of cocktail and the other with a diet Coke, and peppered me with sample questions. I’d read most of the ones that were listed online, practiced the answers, and thought I had a decent handle on the type of response that worked, even if they hit me with a question I hadn’t encountered before.
What makes you different from all the other girls who are competing in this pageant?
What is the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to you?
What would you do to make the school more environmentally friendly?
Taryn slid the tablet over in front of her and tapped it. Apparently there was a website with a ton of questions, and it would keep randomly picking one.
I stood, shoulders back, head up, projecting confidence, and smiling. Oh, the smiling.
Taryn’s eyes moved as she read the question. Then she frowned.
I didn’t move—fidgeting was certain failure—but
I made sure my stance was loose, that I wasn’t tensing up anywhere. If I tensed up, my gait would be tight and maybe even a little jerky when I walked again. Or I might cramp up and fall writhing to the floor. No, even if I cramped up, I knew better than to break position or stop smiling.
I tried to simultaneously clear my mind but also remember how to properly answer a question. You repeated the question, often starting with “I believe” or “My feeling is.” As in, “I believe that we can mitigate global warming by…” Or, “The celebrity I most want to meet is…”
Keep it universal rather than specific whenever possible. Keep it focused on the positive, on the greater good. Show that you’re intelligent, driven, compassionate, kind, and a million other things. Go.
Mrs. Wentworth scowled and reached for the tablet because Taryn was obviously taking too long, but Taryn grabbed it back. She looked at the tablet again, then looked up at me and asked, “Do you believe marriage should be between a man and a woman only?”
Thus far, the questions they’d thrown at me hadn’t gotten too political—the teen pageants didn’t dig too deep there. Most of the questions had been more personal: looks and appearance, dreams and goals, how I felt about my state, my school, my preparation for this pageant.
With the political and moral questions, you walked a fine between standing firm in your beliefs (often rooted in religious upbringing) but not sounding like a sanctimonious, closed-minded snake. Your poise and intelligent, thoughtful response was what the judges said they were looking for—but if your beliefs didn’t jive with one of the judges’ personal credo, you were tempting fate. Since you were unlikely to know the judges’ personal credos…well, there was your fine line.
In this case, I had a strong belief—because of who I was, because of who Aunt Pat was, etc.—and I had to make sure I tempered it so I didn’t offend anyone.
“When it comes to the question of whether marriage should be between a man and a woman only, I believe that everyone has a right to be happy. I believe that if someone is against gay marriage, they shouldn’t marry someone of the same sex, but they shouldn’t have the right to impose those beliefs on someone else. Everyone is entitled to their beliefs and no one should be punished for what they feel or believe. The most important thing is to love one another unconditionally, no matter whether you agree with each other or not.”
I knew it wasn’t a great answer. I’d waffled, I’d repeated myself. Taryn’s neutral expression hadn’t wavered during my response, but Mrs. Wentworth’s lips had thinned and her nostrils had flared while I was talking, and now she folded her hands in front of her on the desk.
“That was sloppy, Annabelle,” she said. “And you skirted around the question rather than answering it. You said that everyone should be happy and no one should impose their beliefs on others, but you never said what your beliefs are. This touches directly on your faith, Annabelle. You don’t attend church for show.”
I wanted to argue that not all churches opposed gay marriage, but arguing with Mrs. Wentworth wasn’t going to help me win the prize.
“I’m sure you were correctly trying to avoid saying you didn’t agree with such a lifestyle, but you went too far in trying to sound ‘politically correct’.” She even made the air quotes with her fingers.
For a moment, I feared she was going to put me on the spot and ask me directly what I thought. I was relieved that she didn’t. Because while it was none of her business, I would have told her what I thought. And what I was. And what I thought about her bigotry.
And that would no doubt go badly.
“Also,” she went on, “you showed you weren’t comfortable with the question by tensing up. Your shoulders went up and your pitch rose. Walk away, turn around and come back as if you’re starting over, and we’ll keep going.”
We did, for another hour or two, and then I did my monologue possibly fifty million times, finishing just in time to drink some water and eat a handful of berries and half a protein bar before Carlos showed up.
The pageant was in less than a week.
Tuesday, I skipped volunteering at the shelter because I had an appointment to get my teeth whitened. I was conflicted—I really enjoyed spending time with the animals and doing something measurably helpful, even in a small way. And I liked spending that time with Taryn. It was when she was at her most unguarded, which was saying something, because I had a feeling she was guarded when she slept. At the shelter, with the animals, was the only time I’d seen Taryn truly smile.
I knew, too, that if she saw me watching, she’d stop.
I’d worn braces for a few years, so I was used to some discomfort in my mouth. I was completely unprepared for the horrific pain.
The dentist peeled my lips back with a plastic contraption, gooped my teeth, gave me a pair of giant unattractive sunglasses, and turned on the UV light. I lay for fifteen minutes, mentally rehearsing my monologue and answers to as many questions I could remember.
Like I said, the pain came as a surprise.
I had tried home bleaching kits before, and sometimes I couldn’t eat ice cream or drink ice water for a little while afterwards. No biggie.
This, however, felt like someone was stabbing at my teeth with tiny knives. It wasn’t constant, but when it hit, hoo boy, it was excruciating.
Eye on the prize, I reminded myself, my eyes watering, my fists clenched. In it to win it.
Afterwards, the dentist dropped a new bombshell: no coffee, tea, or soda for forty-eight hours—although Mrs. Wentworth said I could drink through a straw. Which was good, because coffee was a lifeline. I’d be cutting out soda in another day or two anyway because of the potential bloating.
I texted Aunt Pat instead of calling. I didn’t want to move my mouth too much. It didn’t make a difference. Later, Taryn paused the episode of Veronica Mars we were watching. “Are you okay?”
I’d had a fresh wave of pain, and possibly I’d made a noise.
It passed, and I sucked up some soda. “The tooth whitening thing. They say it’ll go away within twenty-four hours. The Advil’s helping.”
She sucked in a breath. “Oh crap. That…I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
“You’ve had your teeth bleached?” I didn’t mean to sound incredulous, but near as I could tell, she trimmed her own hair with hedge clippers and no mirror. Blinding white teeth didn’t seem like something she’d stress about.
She didn’t look at me; she looked past me, into a memory. “When I was a kid. For the competitions. My mother took me once.” She paused. “It was…awful. I remember screaming, and she yelled at me. Now I have to go to a dentist who knocks me out before he does any work, because otherwise I’m too stressed.”
“Oh my God,” I breathed. “I’m so sorry.” I was choosing to do this. It was awful, but I could survive it once a year because it was one of the things I needed to do to win. I couldn’t imagine being a kid and forced to do this.
She shrugged, turned back to the TV. “Forget it,” she said, and the moment was over.
But in that moment, I’d gotten a glimpse into Taryn deeper than any I’d seen before.
Wednesday, I got a spray tan, just enough to give my skin a healthy glow. Thursday, I actually got to ease back on my workouts, focusing now instead on yoga to loosen my muscles and keep them from getting puffy. I’d lost twelve and a half pounds, and I thought that was kind of fantastic.
Then Mrs. Wentworth dropped her latest bombshell: it was time for a laxative.
“Seriously?” I said.
No, I didn’t say that. I thought it, but I didn’t voice that thought. I’d read about contestants doing that for a final push to clean themselves out and prevent bloating. I pressed a hand to my stomach. It was pretty darn flat, and I wanted to keep it that way. I’d be on water with protein powder for the next couple of days.
We also did a final fitting for my dresses, and Kiara marked the last-minute tweaks to make them custom-fit to my body.
For the pre-ju
dging day on Friday, I’d be wearing a knee length, cobalt-blue, fitted dress with a sweetheart neckline. For my monologue, a dark pink gown with a fitted bodice and deep vee and a voluminous skirt. I wasn’t a fan of pink, but the color really popped on me, so I went for it. And for the evening gown portion of the competition, a stunning nude, slinky gown with a hint of a mermaid train, heavily embellished with aquamarine beads in a chevron pattern on the top and a sort of an interlaced viney pattern on the skirt. I don’t know where Kiara had found it, but every time I put it on, my stomach did advanced acrobatics and my heart fluttered.
Somehow, that was the dress that made this all even more real.
Our final stop on Thursday afternoon was the salon and spa. I got a mani-pedi, just a blush of the palest pink with American tips, and had my eyebrows threaded. And then it was time for waxing: legs, pits, and down there. Everywhere down there. Everywhere. You couldn’t risk a hint of anything when you wore that swimsuit.
If I’d thought being manhandled with boob tape was bad, well…
I just kept my eye on the prize.
“What is wrong with you now?” Taryn asked when I waddled into our TV room and gently eased myself down on the sofa.
In as few words as possible, and as delicately as possible, I explained why I was tender, and where.
“One of the few plusses of child competitions,” she said. “No hair to remove. Then again, why an adult would want to look like a prepubescent girl is beyond me.”
I tried to explain about the swimsuit thing, but she was having none of it.
“We have hair for a reason,” she said. “It provides protection. It’s natural, it’s part of who we are. Why should we be ashamed of it? Why should anyone make us feel ashamed?”
“I’m not ashamed. I’m just doing what I have to, to win. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with taking pride in my appearance. It makes me feel good about myself.”
Beautiful Beast Page 7
