Beauty Queens

“Well, you know how they are,” Nicole had overheard a pageant mom say to a hairdresser backstage once, and the hairstylist had nodded knowingly, as if they were discussing rambunctious toddlers or shelter dogs, things hard to train.



Nicole hated that she could never quite feel like she was just herself, just Nicole, but that she was somehow representing an entire race. That’s how they saw her, as a “they” and not a “she.” She knew how to deflect this question, and she did so now with a boxer’s dodging grace. “The amazing thing about Miss Teen Dream is that it’s all about girls coming together — different races, creeds, ethnicities,” she said, looking from girl to girl with a reassuring smile. “There is no race in Miss Teen Dream. You are only judged on the strength of your character.”



“Absolutely,” Shanti chimed in quickly. “Just like I’m Indian, but nobody’s judging me on that.”



“You’re Indian?” Miss Arkansas brightened. “Oh my gosh, I bought the cutest Indian beaded bag at a gift shop in the Best Western outside Sedona.”



“I’m not that kind of Indian,” Shanti said, her practiced smile never leaving her face, though it faltered just a bit, and in that slight wobble was something hard and angry, something that looked like centuries of colonial oppression boiling up into an I’m-going-to-kick-your-ass-in-this-pageant-and-then-take-over-all-your-beauty-out-sourcing-needs hatred.



“So you don’t think racism plays a role at all, Miss Colorado?” Adina prompted.



“No,” Nicole continued. “Miss Teen Dream represents the melting pot of American girls. I mean, just four years ago, a Latino girl took first runner-up. Before that, Miss California was first runner-up, and she was half Japanese. And that Filipino girl made first runner-up, too.”



“You know what they say — the first runner-up is important in case anything should happen to Miss Teen Dream,” Shanti called.



Nicole cut a glance at the Indian girl trying to horn in on her show. “Exactly. First runner-up is important.”



“Very important,” Shanti echoed.



“I said that,” Nicole muttered. She chewed at her finger.



“Thank you, Miss Colorado. Who’s next?”



“Me!” Shanti strode forward with a dazzling smile. She locked her position like a gymnast after a dismount, never wavering. “Hello. I am Shanti Singh, Miss California, and as an Indian-American, I represent the rich immigrant tradition of this great country. Though I am as American as apple pie, I can also make popadam as my mother and grandmother taught me. Bollywood meets Hollywood,” she said, attempting a joke.



Jennifer raised an eyebrow. “She’s using her multicultural grandma? Man, she’s good.”



Shanti adopted her earnest face, the one she’d practiced in the bathroom mirror every day for weeks. “My parents immigrated to this country for a better way of life. I am so grateful to this country that allows me to be whatever I want to be, whether it’s a television anchorwoman, a contestant on America Sings!, or the future Miss Teen Dream. Thank you.”



The girls sat in the sand, sapped of all energy. Two contestants had salvaged pieces of metal from the downed plane and were using them as tanning reflectors.



Taylor jogged in place on the beach, punching the air in a series of dancey boxing moves. “Let’s go, go, go, ladies! Miss Michigan, you’re up! Miss New Hampshire, you’re doin’ great. I almost believe you’re Fabio himself.”



“I almost believe you’re not a colossal jerk,” Adina muttered under her breath. She was hot and tired and thirsty. Her words were like gunshots. “Miss Michigan! Yo! Front and center!”



“I don’t think Fabio would say, ‘Yo!’” one girl complained, and Adina had to resist the urge to strangle the girl with her own hair extensions.



Miss Michigan, Jennifer Huberman, sauntered over. Unlike the others, she looked like she enjoyed the occasional cheeseburger. She had real curves and a pantherlike walk. “Yeah. Hi. Jennifer Huberman, Miss Michigan. Go, Blue! I’m from Flint, the smaller Motor City. Well, before they went bankrupt. Now, I’m from Repossessed City. Sorry. Little gallows humor there.”



“Great. Swell. Why don’t you tell us about your platform?”



Jennifer gave Adina a shove. “Yeah? Why don’t you tell me about your platform, Homeroom?”



“Whoa. Chill.”



“Why don’t you chill?”



“What pageant did you enter, Miss Orange Jumpsuit? What’s with the hostility?”