It was the closest we’d ever come to discussing any of this, and I didn’t want to make her think anything was a commentary on her choices.
“You’re smart, Annabelle. Doesn’t that make you feel good about yourself?”
“It does,” I said. “It’s part of why I’m doing this: to get scholarships so I can afford to go to a good school, maybe even an Ivy League school. And then I want to use my platform as well as my education to make the world a better place. That’s what will really make me feel good about myself. I’m sure the art you do makes you feel good about yourself. But there is nothing wrong with me feeling good about myself physically, too. There’s nothing wrong with taking pride in my appearance.”
She cocked her head. “Is all this worth it?” she asked. She didn’t wait for me to answer. “The pain you’re going through? You don’t see how insane it all is?”
“Just because it’s not what you want, doesn’t mean it’s insane,” I said tightly. “I meant what I said the other day: everyone has a right to be happy, whether or not you agree with it.”
“Okay, then I’m glad you’re happy,” she snapped. She tossed the remote control on the sofa and stood up. “I’m going to bed.”
“Taryn,” I said. “Taryn, wait.” I followed her, but I was slow getting off the sofa, and by the time I got to her door, it was closed, and she didn’t respond to my knocking.
Twelve
The pageant was being held at the county fair. Many teen pageants were, as far as I could tell. The fair was a good hour and a half from the Wentworth estate (it was still hard to think of it as “home”), but Mrs. Wentworth didn’t think it would be advantageous for us to stay at a nearby hotel.
“Too much distraction,” she said. “Too much temptation.”
If by “temptation” she meant a vending machine full of chocolatey goodness on every floor, she would be right.
Friday was an all-day affair chock full of pre-pageant activities, including a question-and-answer session with the judges, and the entrants learning the opening number, which thankfully was going to be choreographed walking around the stage and singing, rather than a full-on dance routine. By this time, I was confident in my ability to walk in my heels (all four pairs of them). Dancing, maybe not as much.
Mrs. Wentworth suggested I sit up front for the drive, but I declined. My dresses were in a garment bag hung on a hook over the door behind the passenger seat, and the end of the bag draped over me in a way I found comforting, like a lucky blanket. I closed my eyes and lay my head back, breathing slowly to calm myself. I half-dozed, feeling the bump of the car on the road, the air-conditioning cooling my skin, watching the interplay of light as we drove by shady trees and back into full sun.
When I opened my eyes and looked at Taryn, she was on her phone. She had done my makeup in near silence, only speaking when she needed me to turn my head or whatever.
I wanted to confess to her how nervous I was. I certainly couldn’t to Mrs. Wentworth. She’d just remind me not to show it, to be confident. Easier said than done—and right now I didn’t want advice. I wanted a shoulder to lean on.
I wanted to try to explain to Taryn why this was important to me, but I wasn’t sure how—and I knew it wouldn’t go over well in front of her mother. I felt as if whatever tentative connection we’d made was gone.
When this was over, I promised myself. When this pageant was over, we’d talk. Somehow. Just enough to get back to where we could hang out and watch goofy stuff and talk about inconsequential things. I couldn’t make her be my friend, but whatever we’d had was worth getting back. It was far better than this nothing.
In the interview portion, I talked about my interest in math and science, naming Melinda Gates and Elon Musk as my inspirations, and how I wanted to make the world a better place through technology. I was pretty sure I aced the question-and-answer portion, responding to topics about bullying in schools, my definition of success, and global warming.
Afterwards, I didn’t hang out with Taryn that night. We got in late, she closed her door, and by the time I got my makeup off and made sure everything was prepped for tomorrow, I’d have to fall asleep immediately in order to get a full eight hours.
I thought I’d be so wired up that I’d never fall asleep. But Mrs. Wentworth had given me half of something—Ambien, maybe (she’d given me half a week ago, so we knew it didn’t affect me the next day)—so I barely had time to sweep all the ridiculous decorative pillows off the bed before I passed out.
Now, I sat at the vanity in my beautiful bathroom, facing away from the mirror, letting Taryn work her artistic makeup magic on me again.
I was tense. So tense. My shoulders felt like they were up around my ears. I kept catching myself gritting my teeth, relaxing, and then noticing I was doing it again.
Focus. That was what I had to do. Not worry about what could go wrong. I knew my monologue left and right and up and down. I knew how to walk, smile, pose. I had an answer for almost every possible question they could give me. (Many of them circled around to the same thing, in the end: making the world a better place, or making it clear how awesome I was without sounding smug about it.)
I slowed my breathing, concentrating on the feeling of the makeup brushes sweeping across my skin. It was familiar, almost comforting. It was almost intimate, in a way, how near to me Taryn had to stand sometimes, to get in close and do some small, finessing stroke. I could sense her nearness even though my eyes were closed, from the tiny rustles of her clothes or the waft of her breath against my cheek.
My first impressions of her had been so wrong. She might not care about her looks, she might hide her face, her body, but that didn’t mean she didn’t take care of herself. As usual when she was this close to me, could I smell the mint on her breath, the melon scent of her body wash.
I supposed I understood that, at least a little. Her passion was art. Mine was pageants. Her passion didn’t call for perfect skin or salon hair or fancy dresses.
I still didn’t get why she wouldn’t want to look her best, just because, but if she didn’t want to, I supposed it was none of my damn business.
It brought up another question, though, one I’d been chewing over for days.
I was nervous enough about the pageant that it seemed like nothing else could bother me. I finally threw caution to the wind and asked.
“Why are you doing this for me?”
She’d been sweeping eye shadow across my lid. Now her hand stilled, just for a moment.
“Because…” she said, so softly I almost wondered if I hadn’t heard her. Her shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. “Because I thought about what you said, about making the world a better place. I get why this is important to you.”
“Oh.” I let the sound out on my breath. “Thank you.”
I expected to hear her shrug. Expected to hear her mutter, “Whatever.”
Instead, she said, “You’re welcome.”
We were allowed to go in the back way, through the service entrance of the fairgrounds. Even though we were far away from the livestock barns, I could smell them. Cows and pigs and cotton candy: the scents of the fair. It would make a terrible marketing slogan. The narrow concrete road was bordered by semis and RVs, and rows of blue porta-potties that I thankfully couldn’t smell.
Mrs. Wentworth pulled the car up behind the plain off-white building we’d been to the day before. A set of grey metal doors stood open. I rolled my shoulders. Time to do this.
It took all three of us two trips to carry everything in. The dressing room was large and echoey, with a concrete floor. Prep stations lined the walls, each with an unframed mirror on the wall surrounded by bright round lightbulbs, a makeup station, and a padded stool. Towards the center of the room were rolling clothing racks. One girl, coming in behind us, had taken a rack out to her vehicle and loaded it with garment bags. She must’ve had back-ups for her back-up dresses. Or she changed her mind a lot.
The place smelled of perfume
and talc and hairspray, and despite the air-conditioning, was a little on the warm side. Not just from the bodies and the makeup lights, but from the nerves. Everyone sizzled with jittery energy, even the girls who outwardly displayed calm.
The backstage organizer—an Asian woman with a cute black bob, a rhinestone-encrusted headset, and an organizer that said GLAM in sparkly gold letters—came over to exchange air kisses with Mrs. Wentworth.
I hung my garment bag, unzipped it, pulled out the dresses. The satin skirt on the dark pink gown was wrinkled, but I had a handheld steamer with me. My case of shoes went on the bottom shelf of the rack.
Mrs. Wentworth put her hands on my shoulders. “You are stunning, Annabelle, just stunning.” Just as I started to feel a warm glow from the compliment, she added, “Remember not to get tense during the questions. Keep your head up, but not too high. Watch that wobble when you pivot on your left leg. And smile.”
She paused expectantly. Oh, she expected me to smile. Right now. I didn’t really have to think about it anymore; my facial muscles just slid into place. Lips wide, but not too wide. Eyes smiling, not squinty. The whole shebang.
Mrs. Wentworth nodded, squeezed my shoulder, and walked away.
I sat down at the counter. It hadn’t been much of a pep talk, but it probably didn’t hurt to be reminded of the areas I tended to be shaky in so I could focus on those.
Taryn set my makeup kit on the vanity. Thanks to her, I looked fantastic, but I had all the bits with me just in case I had an emergency and needed to fix something.
When I looked in the mirror, it was like looking at a different person. Me, only not me. Taryn’s wizardry with makeup made my cheekbones pop, made my lower lip shimmer, erased any trace of dark circles under my eyes as if they’d never existed. My lashes were impossibly long and full, making my blue eyes stand out. Like a cartoon cow’s. I swallowed a nervous giggle, because if I let one out, it would tumble into hysterical laughter, and I’d have a hard time stopping. I just knew. I bit my lip before I remembered I didn’t want to screw up my lipstick. (“Lipstick” made it sound so simple. My lips had been exfoliated, moisturized, set with powder, expertly lined, filled in, blotted, repowdered, filled in again, and glossed.)
Taryn tucked a case containing emergency supplies (antiseptic, Band-Aids, tweezers, a sewing kit, extra spangles, a jewelry repair kit, yadda yadda) and a small cooler with water and protein drinks under the vanity. Plus straws so I didn’t screw up my lipstick.
She straightened, and our gazes met. She looked in the mirror, not at me, but this was the first time we’d really looked at each other, the first time our eyes honestly looked into each other’s.
Her hands on the back of my stool, she leaned over and said, close to my ear, “Be yourself, Annabelle. Be the best yourself, but be natural. Kindness and caring are a major part of who you are. The judges will eat that up, if you let them see it.”
Then she turned and hurried after her mother.
In the mirror, I watched her go.
It had still been advice, rather than a rousing, you-can-do-it speech, but it hit me hard. She’d told me something good about myself. Something intrinsic and interior.
Something I hadn’t thought she would’ve even noticed.
Suddenly, in a room full of chattering teenaged girls, I felt very alone. Then the contestant whose station was to the left of mine—Shania Mendes, who had the most amazingly arched eyebrows and rocked a red lipstick so dark it was almost purple—slid onto her stool and said, “We meet again, ha ha. How’s it going? Girl, I am a mess today. I couldn’t find my curling iron this morning. Turned out I’d already packed it!”
Overall, I’d found the other girls to be friendly. A few had faked it, pasting on a smile and introducing themselves while they pretended not to be sizing you up, but they hadn’t been outright unpleasant. I didn’t expect any flat-out backstabbing, but I figured I’d keep an eye out, and stand up for myself if I had to.
When someone cried, “Dammit, I broke a nail!” three different girls rushed over with glue. Girls zipped each other into their dresses, helped look for dropped earrings, and when one girl started to panic, two others swept in and took her for a quick walk outside.
I touched up my makeup with a shaking hand, unpinned my hair and fluffed it out and held my breath through a cloud of hairspray. I rubbed Vaseline on my gums to keep my lips from catching. I laid out butt glue (to avoid an unsightly wedgie) for the swimsuit portion, lined up my sets of jewelry for each outfit, and double- and triple-checked everything.
I was exfoliated, waxed, and painted. I was tanned and toned. I was practiced and polished.
I could do this.
I would do this.
And then it was time. We all turned in a swish of fabric and a cloud of perfume, squared our shoulders, and one by one walked out into the lights.
Thirteen
I didn’t experience the pageant as a whole, but in tiny, fragmented pieces. The entire event moved in strange pockets of time. The opening number was over before I’d really even remembered the steps. (It had been easy to memorize; the path we traced around the stage was essentially geometric.) One of the contestant’s answers seemed to go on and on, even though we had a twenty-second limit, while another girl’s answer was cut off when it seemed she’d just opened her mouth. Sounds became loud and crystal clear, or dropped away, muted, distant.
My monologue went fine. I remembered all of it, had the inflections in the right places, and ended with my voice a little louder—not shouting by any stretch, but crescendoing along with the positive words. Through the applause, I saw one judge scribble something very quickly (which could be good or bad, but I suspected it was good) and another nodding before he caught himself.
I dashed back to the dressing room to change. The adrenaline from the talent portion was still zinging through me, and I fumbled with my zipper. Another girl—I couldn’t remember her name, but she had short, bouncy blond curls and the sweetest smile—dashed over to help me, scurrying away before I could get out more than a quick thanks.
The full, puffy satin skirt of my raspberry gown shushed as it settled over me. I’d forgotten to change my shoes, drat it all. I managed to do so without sitting down, which would have crushed the skirt, instead balancing with my hand on the vanity. If changing four-inch heels while standing up in a form-fitting princess-like gown that cost more than most people’s first beater car isn’t a laudable talent, I don’t know what is.
I fluffed my hair over one shoulder, considered more hairspray, decided against it. I blotted my nose and forehead, dabbed on a bit of powder.
The question portion was next. I felt pretty confident that I’d rocked it yesterday—well, if I hadn’t rocked it, I’d done fine, with no obvious flubs—and today would be easier because there was only one question.
If I ignored the audience, that was.
Honestly, I couldn’t see anyone in the audience; the stage lights were too bright. I could see the judges, but beyond them, nada. I know Mrs. Wentworth was out there; I knew Taryn was out there. My team of two. Aunt Pat was teaching summer courses to make up for the time she’d spent with me, and hadn’t been able to get away. Madison and Emilia and Brittany had all texted me good luck yesterday, and asked how things were going today, but they hadn’t said they were coming. And that was okay. They might have made me more nervous.
The last girl returned from the talent portion. I felt bad for her because she had the least amount of time to prep for the question portion—we all had to be onstage for that. She had everything laid out just so, though, and was out of one dress and into the other with only a pause to check her boob tape. There wasn’t much you could do to adjust boob tape. It was stuck to you until you showered and poured baby oil on yourself.
Now there’s something I could never talk about online. Mrs. Wentworth would blow a gasket.
A few moments later, the backstage organizer, her headset glittering like the tiara I hoped would be o
n my head in a few hours, lined us up and herded us back out onto the stage. We took our places, held our well-practiced poses, and smiled smiled smiled.
One by one, each girl was called up to face the judges. Were we all silently grading each answer along with the judges? Probably. I felt bad for every girl who fumbled, and even though every girl who did well stood the chance of doing better than me, I still mentally cheered for them. And some I barely heard, as my mind raced, reviewing every question I’d answered in front of Mrs. Wentworth and Taryn, every one I’d read online and mentally composed answers to, every one I’d interviewed myself with in the shower.
The announcer put the microphone to his lips and boomed, “And next we have Miss Annabelle Moss!”
I sipped in breaths as I walked, knowing not to gulp air, which made your chest heave unattractively. I could do this. I would do this. I would nail this to the wall. I took the microphone from the announcer with a smile and a nod of thanks, and faced the panel.
There were three judges: the county supervisor, Deanna Fallstaff; former county pageant winner Mary Elizabeth Yeager; and Erick Shantha, a former Hollywood child actor who’d moved back to town to marry his childhood sweetheart, Jim Bogosian, and become an attorney.
Mrs. Wentworth must have had a fit about that.
Mary Elizabeth smiled at me, a brilliant pageant smile. “Hello, Annabelle. Drunk driving is a serious offense, but many believe we let first offenders off too easily. Do you believe in harsher sentencing for drunk driving offenses, and if so, what should they be?”
No. Oh, no.
When she said “drunk driving,” a dull roar had started in my ears, and I’d had to concentrate to hear the rest of the question. I’m not sure how I did. Those first two words flashed a memory into my mind: of the policeman at our front door, his eyes dark and serious, his face unsmiling, tasked with the unenviable job of breaking the news to a teenage girl that she’d never see her parents again.
Beautiful Beast Page 8
