5
“What did you just say?” Ginny’s eyes fly open, and she sits straight up in bed as if she’d been lying there just waiting for me to cave.
Oh my God, is that what she’s been doing? Acting like she’s too sickly and pitiful to care about the pageant anymore so I’d feel sorry for her and give in?
What have I done?
Ugh, I played right into her hand. “Don’t make me say it again, or I might change my mind.”
“Too late.” She drags herself out of bed. She’s definitely still not herself, but the thought of the pageant at least gets her into a vertical position. “I heard you. We’re doing this.”
“We?” I lift a brow as she stifles a yawn. “I realize you’re running on adrenaline right now at the prospect of transforming me into . . . well . . . you, but you’re under the influence of massive amounts of Benadryl. Maybe I should try doing this on my own.”
“Please.” She gives me an exaggerated eye roll and weaves a little from side to side. “Like you could orchestrate your own makeover.”
I shrug. “How hard can it be? It’s makeup, not rocket science.”
Ginny shuffles past me, toward the coffeemaker. “That’s what Anne Hathaway thought in The Devil Wears Prada until Meryl Streep ate her alive.”
Again with Anne Hathaway. Am I the only one who sees what she actually looks like? From now on, I’m watching every movie she ever makes in the theater instead of waiting for Netflix.
That’s a promise, Anne!
“Earth to Charlotte. You totally spaced out just now.” Ginny shoves a coffee filter into the machine, then turns to face me again. “You can’t zone out like that in your interview. You know that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.” It’s not like I’ve never sat through a job interview before. I am, after all, employed.
At an actual job, mind you. I don’t sit around getting paid for posting photos on social media.
Now that I think about, I’m relieved that the prelims kick off with personal-interview day. Sitting across from a judge one-on-one sounds far easier than flouncing across a stage in platform stilettos and a sparkly dress.
Or, God forbid, a swimsuit.
“Oh no.” I think I might be sick to my stomach. How could I have forgotten about the bathing suit competition? “I’m going to have to wear a bikini, aren’t I?”
“Not today.” Ginny shrugs.
Only someone like my sister, whose every pore is documented on Instagram, could be this casual about donning a bikini in public.
I try to just breathe and push the swimsuit portion of the pageant to the farthest corner of my mind. After all, Ginny could be better by then.
I take a good long look at her swollen face.
Please, God. Let her be better by then.
“The interview is worth fifty percent of the total score in the preliminaries. So today is crucial.” Ginny pours two cups of coffee. The dark liquid fills the Huntington Spa mugs all the way to the rim of each.
She hands me one and I frown into it. “I need cream and sugar.”
“Not anymore you don’t. From now on, liquid calories are a big no-no.”
“I can’t lose weight in one day. That’s impossible.”
She makes her way back to the bed and flops down next to her suitcase. “Care to bet on that?”
What does that even mean?
I’m not sure I want to know, so I take a giant gulp of black coffee. Predictably, it’s gross. “Fifty percent seems like a lot.”
“Because it is. I keep telling you that pageants are about more than just looks.” And yet, she’s pulling chunks of fake hair out of her baggage and holding them up for inspection.
“Was that suitcase a carry-on, or did you pay good money to check it?” I pull a face.
“They’re clip-on hair extensions, an absolute necessity.” She gestures at her own head of thick, strawberry-blond waves. “You didn’t think all of this was real, did you?”
I’m not that naive, so no. But I’m getting the feeling that the ratio of Ginny’s actual God-given hair to her clip-ons is drastically different than I thought it was.
“I’ve got enough here to get you by.” She narrows her gaze to my aforementioned ponytail. Her words are still slurred, but she’s got a determined glint in her eyes that’s starting to scare me. “Barely. But it’s going to take a while to clip them all in. And then we’ve got lashes to do. And makeup. And tanning. How could I forget that?”
Great. I’m going to look like a flaming-hot Cheeto in four, three, two . . .
“The interview is in eleven hours. Oh my God, we’re already running out of time.”
Seriously?
Eleven hours seems more than sufficient. I was actually hoping to catch a short nap somewhere in there. “But . . .”
Ginny stands, spins me around, and points me in the direction of the bathroom. “Get in the shower. Now.”
Before I can take a step, she yanks the ponytail holder from my head. Ouch! Then she gives me a weak push and I stumble toward the tub.
This makeover is clearly going to be much more intense than I anticipated.
At least I’ll have a few minutes of peace in the shower. After all, I know how to wash myself. I’ve been doing it all my life.
Or so I thought . . .
My now-caffeinated sister interrupts every five seconds. She peels back the shower curtain, barking instructions and blasting me with a shock of frigid air as she hands me various bottles and tubes of products. There’s special shampoo, conditioner, post conditioner, and some kind of hair oil, which I suppose could be considered post-post conditioner.
This seems like overkill, especially since my actual hair is going to be buried beneath a pile of mermaid-length extensions. But I know better than to argue.
Ginny is like a machine. Even while I’m standing beneath the spray of the showerhead, I can hear her whirling through the hotel room, talking to herself and throwing things around. It sounds like someone is getting pummeled in there.
I’m pretty sure it’s my dignity.
I’m just about to turn off the faucet and step out of the tub when the shower curtain flies open again.
I jump. “Would you stop? You’re going to give me a heart attack.”
“Here.” She thrusts an elaborate pink handheld device at me.
I turn it over in my hand. “What is this?”
She takes a deep breath, and I can tell she’s trying not to strangle me.
“It’s a razor—the best electric shaver money can buy. You need to use it.” Her gaze flits from my head to my toes. “Everywhere.”
I gulp. “Is that really . . .”
“Either do it yourself, or I’m coming in there to take over. Your choice.”
God, she’s terrifying. Like Norman Bates–level scary at the moment.
“Fine.” I slam the shower curtain closed.
Fifteen minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom in one of the hotel’s comfy white robes, as smooth and hairless as the day I was born. I half expect Ginny to insist upon a full-body inspection, but miraculously, she takes my word for it.
She sprays something on my hair (post-post-post conditioner?), runs a comb through it, and then applies a generous amount of mousse. I sit and have a moment of reprieve while she wields a blow-dryer—not the one anchored to the hotel wall, but a special, heavy silver contraption the likes of which I’ve never seen in the budget salon where I get my hair cut.
It’s a meticulous process, much more time-consuming than even an upscale blowout bar. She divides my hair into sections, which she winds around a huge, round brush beneath the force of the dryer, over and over again, until it’s Christina Hendricks glossy. Like a shiny copper penny.
I stifle a smile. My hair has never looked so amazing, and Ginny’s just getting started. After nearly an hour of blow-drying, she drags the desk chair into position right behind me, sits down, and begins clipping the extensions into place.
I’m astounded at the difference they make. Within minutes I’m transformed into Disney’s Ariel. The mass of silky, ginger waves extends past my elbows, but somehow still manages to look real. Ginny arranges them in an ombré pattern, so the ends twist into pale, blond curls, with just a hint of strawberry.
The effect is undeniably stunning. I find it hard to breathe all of a sudden.
Then Ginny spins me around, and another three hours pass before I get a glimpse of my reflection.
During this time, Ginny attached tips to my fingernails and applied a variety of serums, mists, and creams to my face and neck. They all come in bottles with lettering I can’t read.
“Korean skin care is ahh-mazing,” Ginny gushes. “Never use anything else. Promise me.”
I nod mutely, unable to speak because I’ve got something called a collagen lip-plumping patch sealing my mouth closed. It’s also Korean and must stay put for the next twenty minutes.
I make a mental note to ask my sister where she’s buying all these coveted Asian products. I’ve never seen anything like them where I buy my Dove face soap, which is the extent of my skin-care regimen. Then again, the odds that I will ever do any of this again are slim to none. I spend my days with books and small children. No one cares how plump my lips are.
Noon comes and goes. Ginny makes a third pot of coffee, and I remind her to take her prescription. Her face looks no different than it did when she was released from the urgent-care center. No better, but no worse either, which I guess is a good thing.
I somehow survive the hour in which I’m forced to stand naked in the bathtub while Ginny applies bronzer to every square inch of my skin. It’s humiliating, it smells terrible, and by the time it’s all over, I’m shivering like a Chihuahua.
“I’m all sticky. Is it supposed to feel this way?” I slip back into my beloved robe. I swear, when we check out of this hotel I’m taking it with me. It’s become my security blanket throughout this ordeal.
“Yes. It means the tan is set. Still, try not to move while it finishes drying.” Ginny sweeps me up and down with her gaze. “So far, so good. Now I need to start on your makeup.”
Finally.
I’d thought makeup was all I needed. How foolish of me. According to Ginny, makeup is only the icing on the cake—myself being the cake in this scenario.
Cake.
Great. Now I want cake. “I’m starving. Why don’t we take a little lunch break first? Maybe order some room service?”
Ginny looks at me as though I’ve sprouted two heads. I clamp my mouth closed before she seals it shut again with one of her Korean beauty products.
So no lunch, then. Got it.
I close my eyes while Ginny mists my face with foundation from a tiny airbrush machine. It tickles, but I know better than to laugh.
“I’m going to explain the interview process to you while we do this, so listen up.” Ginny takes my chin in her hand and moves my face from side to side for inspection.
Then she grabs a large brush and comes at me with bronzer, except she calls it contouring pigment and says it’s for minimizing my “problem areas,” which are apparently more plentiful than I’d imagined. “The contest has six judges, and each of them will interview you one-on-one for three minutes.”
“Three minutes?” I roll my eyes. “That’s it?”
Even I can carry on a conversation for three minutes without sticking my foot in my mouth. Piece of cake.
Ugh, now I want cake again.
“It’s tougher than you think. The main thing is to keep talking. I mean, don’t ramble, but keep the conversation going. A lull in a three-minute interview means you’re boring.” She gives me a meaningful look. Clearly she thinks I’m more likely to be boring than ramble like a fool. “Miss American Treasure makes all sorts of personal appearances. She has to be able to chat with people from all walks of life.”
“Right.” I close my eyes again as she goes over my face with a large powder puff. When I open them, I say, “But I’m not actually trying to become Miss American Treasure, remember?”
She lets out a snort. “Of course you’re not. That would be insane.”
Yes, it would. Very, very insane.
I would never actually want to participate in any of this—interacting with strangers who aren’t children isn’t my thing. Most adult humans make me anxious.
I adore working in a quiet library, helping kids connect with the books that will eventually change their lives. There’s nothing I love more than seeing a child’s face light up in anticipation, waiting for me to turn from one page to the next. That’s when I know I’ve found it—the book they’ve been waiting for. I don’t need to look like a beauty queen or an Instagram model to do my job. My students hardly notice what I look like, unless it’s Halloween and I’m in my signature Mary Poppins costume.
Still, being on the receiving end of Ginny’s incredulous snort doesn’t feel great.
I sigh. “Just tell me how it’s going to work so I know what to expect.”
“It works like a round robin. The contestants are divided into groups of six. At the pre-arranged time, you’ll line up with the other five girls in your group just outside the ballroom downstairs where the interviews are taking place.” She dips yet another brush into a pot of shimmery silver eye shadow. “One of the title holders from a previous year will be there to help. If you get lost, look for someone in a crown.”
As if that narrows things down.
“She’ll escort your group into the ballroom when it’s your turn. The six judges will be seated at six different tables spaced out around the room. Each of you will walk to one of the tables and stand in front of the chair opposite the judge.”
This is all far more complicated than I’d anticipated. “We don’t sit down?”
“No,” Ginny says sharply. “You stand, so the judge can see how poised and confident you are.”
“The title holder in charge of your group will say ‘Time.’ Then, and only then, do you sit down. After three minutes has passed, she’ll say ‘Time’s up,’ and you’ll move to the next judge’s table and do the exact same thing all over again.” She shrugs and taps a dab of luminescent white powder on the inside corners of my eyes. My face feels like it has ten pounds of product on it. “Easy peasy.”
“Easy peasy,” I echo.
But as the minutes pass, my last shred of confidence begins to wane. I put my contact lenses in because Ginny absolutely forbids me to wear my glasses and the next thing I know, she’s meticulously applying two rows of strip lashes to each of my upper eyelids. The final touch.
Are we really doing this? Can we pull it off?
Can I pull it off?
“Okay.” Ginny puts down the eyelash glue. “We’re finished.”
I swallow. “We are?”
I desperately want to turn around and face the mirror, but I’m afraid. This was a crazy idea. No amount of effort could make me into a pageant girl. I’m a librarian. And what we’re doing feels more like something from a plot in one of the books I love so much than it does real life.
Even more troubling, I know how those books usually end for characters who lie to get what they want.
“Close your eyes,” Ginny says.
I obey and she spins the chair around.
“Open,” she whispers.
There’s a catch in her voice, and it sends a little shiver down my spine. I open my eyes, look in the mirror, and the world tilts sideways.
It’s not me I’m seeing. Those aren’t my perfectly arched brows and bee-stung lips. The beautiful girl looking back at me with the dramatic lashes and waves of tumbling hair—miles and miles of it—definitely isn’t me. She’s my sister. She’s Ginny.
It’s . . .
Disorienting. And more than a little unsettling.
Ginny places her hands on my shoulders and gives them a squeeze. For the first time since she shook me awake this morning, she smiles. “You look incredible.”
I look like you.
I swallow. Hard. And I remind myself there are worse things in the world than looking like my beauty queen twin. Especially in this instance.