9
Just under four hours later, I’m standing backstage with forty-nine other girls who, like me, are wearing nothing but half a yard of Lycra swimwear, their state sash, and enough adhesive spray to permanently destroy the ozone layer.
The aerosol adhesive is a pageant trick, apparently, and it’s kind of miraculous. Ginny sprayed it liberally on my rear end so my swimsuit bottoms wouldn’t ride up when I walk.
Correction: glide.
I’m supposed to glide like Kate Middleton when I cross the stage. No walking allowed, because I’ve apparently been doing it wrong for the past twenty-nine years. Ginny schooled me in the pageant walk all afternoon. I’m a hopeless cause. And even though I never managed to cross the length of our hotel room without tripping, she held my glasses hostage and refused to let me put them on.
This is going to be a complete and utter disaster. I’m dreading every minute of it, partly because I’m still fuming over my stairway encounter with Judge Fitzwilliam Darcy and partly because I’ve never been quite this naked in public.
There must be solidarity in numbers, though, because I feel much less conspicuous now that I’m here with the other girls. I mean, we’re all basically in the same cringeworthy position. Even though the amount of body fat in the room is probably too microscopic to measure, all of us have the same expression on our faces. It’s a cross between a deer caught in the headlights and Wonder Woman preparing to smash the patriarchy.
We’re brimming with confidence. After all, forty-nine of us have been preparing for this moment for months. Yet at the same time, there isn’t a single contestant who isn’t sneaking anxious glances at the full-length mirrors that are strategically placed in the four corners of the backstage area.
I’m searching for Miss Nevada somewhere among the sea of flat stomachs and spray tans that are just shy of tanorexic when a woman in a black T-shirt emblazoned with the Miss American Treasure logo blocks my path.
“Where are you going?” She points somewhere behind me. “Miss Texas is supposed to be over there, between Tennessee and Utah. It’s all alphabetical. We went over this at rehearsal, remember?”
I grit my teeth. No, I don’t remember, because rehearsal was held two days ago, before Ginny’s allergy attack. “Got it.”
But she must not believe me because she escorts me to the proper place, inserts me between Miss Tennessee and Miss Utah, and makes me swear to stay put. I obey.
Surprisingly, I’m not at all tempted to flee. I need to do this. Not just for Ginny, but also for me. I need to prove to that arrogant Gray Beckham that he hasn’t gotten under my skin.
He has, in a major way. But no one else needs to know that, especially him.
I’m not even sure why he’s gotten me so stirred up. I just know that I find him infuriating, and I suddenly want to rock my bikini in a way that will make him sorry he stifled a laugh when he found me surrounded by candy bar wrappers in the stairwell.
At the memory of my vending machine haul, my stomach growls so loud that I can hear it above the din of the chaos backstage. I don’t regret a single nibble. In spite of all her talk about body positivity, Ginny declared food off-limits until the swimsuit prelims are over tonight. She’s promised me the dinner of my dreams, and in the meantime, I’m once again starving.
Clearly, I’m not the only one.
“I’m having a pizza the minute this is over,” Miss Tennessee says. “An entire pie, all to myself.”
Miss Utah laughs. “Oh my God, me too. Followed by a banana split.”
“I was seriously tempted earlier by the bag of puppy chow in my room,” I say drily. I’m only half joking, by the way.
The contestants around me laugh, and Miss Tennessee murmurs under her breath. “I’m sharing a room with Miss Virginia, and we’re having a cheeseburger party right after this—fries, onion rings, the works. You should stop by. Just don’t tell the pageant officials.”
My mouth falls open. “Why? Are burgers actually illegal?”
“No, but we want to keep it casual. No selfies, no Instagrams, no tweets. We want to hang out in sweatpants and be ourselves for a little while, you know?”
I do know. And frankly, as much as I love my twin, a little time apart might do us some good. That hotel room is feeling a little crowded. “That sounds perfect. I’m in.”
Seconds later, the production assistant is back, giving us some final words of wisdom.
“Don’t forget that you’re supposed to walk onstage when the announcer introduces the girl in front of you. Enter from stage left and walk to the center of the stage. There’s an X made out of yellow tape on the floor, marking your spot. Once you hit it, strike your pose and hold it while the other girl does her runway walk. Understood?”
“After the girl before you makes her exit, the announcer will call your state and you’ve got ninety seconds to walk the runway. Make the most of it! Take your time. Don’t rush, and most of all, remember to pause and make eye contact with each of the judges.”
Oh boy.
I have to make eye contact with my nemesis . . . while wearing a bikini.
My stomach lurches. Maybe those candy bars weren’t such a brilliant idea after all.
You can do this, Snickers be damned.
The producer leaves, and Miss Tennessee, Miss Utah, and I all look at one another.
“We’re ready for this,” Miss Tennessee says resolutely. “Both of you look amazing.”
“So do you,” I say.
Miss Utah nods in agreement, takes both of our hands in hers and gives them a tight squeeze. “We’ve got this. We’re beautiful women, inside and out.”
I return her hand squeeze and my throat clogs.
What is happening to me? I can’t possibly be getting choked up over a swimsuit competition in a beauty pageant. Competing in this thing has got to be the absolute dumbest thing I’ve ever done. I should be crying tears of shame.
But the pep talk throws me off-kilter. Of course Ginny told me I look great and assured me I can rock this if I remember to slow down and “embrace my authenticity,” whatever that means.
She has to say those things, though. She’s my twin, and after all, I’m doing this for her.
Miss Tennessee and Miss Utah, not so much. They’re my competition, and yet both women seem so genuinely supportive. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Miss Nevada has been nothing but kind to me, too. Growing up with Ginny exposed me to about a million pageants on television, and when the winner is announced, she’s always mobbed by sobbing girls who act as if they’re almost as happy for her as they are sad for themselves. I guess I just always thought it was an act.
Maybe it’s not. Maybe these women really do all get along.
For the most part, anyway. I’m sure there are a few mean girls in the bunch. Aren’t there always?
I haven’t encountered any yet, though. Weirdly enough, it’s starting to feel like a sisterhood. Even stranger, I almost feel like I belong.
“Welcome to the preliminary swimsuit competition of the Miss American Treasure pageant!” The announcer’s voice booms throughout the ballroom, and my mouth goes dry as a bone.
This is really happening.
All the pageant prelims are taking place in the ballroom, the same room where we had our interviews yesterday. But the space looks nothing like it did the day before. An elevated stage has been constructed along the far wall, with a long runway extending about two-thirds the length of the room. The judging panel sits at a long table running parallel to the runway, extremely close. The whole eye contact thing is going to be a challenge at such close range.
Those of us hailing from states in the second half of the alphabet cluster together in the wings, watching the action onstage as the A through D states strut their stuff. It’s not at all what I expect.
Watching a pageant in person is a completely different experience from sitting in your living room and watching it on television. It feels almost intimate.
It’s immediately obvious which contestants are nervous and which ones feel at ease. Like Ginny said, the girls who are flustered hurry down the runway, barely pausing to pose. Some of them seem to focus on the judges’ foreheads rather than looking them square in the eye. Their arms are stiff. Some of them scrunch their shoulders. I swear, Miss Connecticut has the body of a Victoria’s Secret model, but she walks across the stage with actual jazz hands.
Jazz hands.
Ginny was right. This spectacle isn’t really about bodies. Not altogether, anyway. It’s about body confidence. I never would have believed it if I didn’t have what basically amounts to a front-row seat.
This epiphany should really make me feel better. Unfortunately, my walk isn’t any better than my bikini body. Truth be told, it’s probably worse. So now I’m not only worried about the slight jiggle in my belly and getting down the runway and back without falling on my face, but I’m also concerned about my shoulders, my arms, the stiffness of my smile, and the possibility that I might have a hidden propensity for jazz hands.
I swallow and make fists at my sides—a preemptive measure. Then another pageant official wearing a Miss American Treasure jacket and wielding a clipboard arrives to herd us back into position.
“Back in line, girls. We’re already halfway through the alphabet.” She waves her arms at us as if we’re cattle, and I can’t really fault her, because the clomp of our platform stilettos against the stage floor does sound rather cowlike.
Great, another thing for me to worry about when it’s my turn. Which will be here any second, because time is suddenly moving at warp speed. We fly through the O’s, and when Miss Rhode Island takes the stage and strikes her pose behind Miss Pennsylvania, I’m struck with the realization that there are only three more girls standing between me and my onstage pageant debut.
Oh God.
I close my eyes and try to “find my center,” as Ginny and her yoga-loving friends always say. But I’m so jittery right now that I’m not sure I actually have a center. I am a doughnut.
I’m also a fraud.
I’m nothing but a big, fraudulent doughnut.
And now I’m hungry again. The sudden roar of applause drags me away from thoughts of Krispy Kreme and back to my doughnut-free reality. All the women around me are clapping and cheering. Beside me, Miss Tennessee is waving her hands frantically in front of her face to ward off tears.
Intrigued by all the hoopla, I crane my neck for a better glimpse of the runway. What could possibly be going on out there? I’m almost expecting to see a beauty queen equivalent of Gisele Bündchen gliding up and down the catwalk, but I don’t. What I actually see is even better.
Miss South Carolina is in the center of the runway, smiling down at the judges. Like nearly all the other contestants, she’s wearing a bikini, which means her abdomen is on display for everyone to see. To my complete and utter surprise, there’s a large scar running down the center of her torso. It starts at her sternum and runs almost all the way down to her belly button.
I can’t believe I didn’t notice it when she was standing backstage, awaiting her turn with the rest of us. But it’s pretty dark back here, and until the competition began, I was too consumed with checking out my own body in the mirror to notice anyone but the girls standing on either side of me.
Right now, though, I can’t tear my eyes off of Miss South Carolina. Her smile is electric. Every step she takes radiates poise and grace. Watching her gives me goose bumps. It’s that powerful.
“I heard she had open-heart surgery less than a year ago,” Miss Utah whispers. “She’s got some kind of rare cardiac disorder. As Miss South Carolina, she visits a lot of hospitals.”
Now I’m the one on the verge of tears. I blink furiously. She could have easily chosen a one-piece swimsuit, but she didn’t. She’s out there owning her scar.
Watching her prance and twirl isn’t just inspiring. It’s empowering, just like Ginny said. I’m brimming with admiration.
Oh no, I’ve sipped the Kool-Aid.
I sigh inwardly. Of course I haven’t. I’m just a placeholder. I’m not even competing in this thing. Not for real.
But when it’s my turn to walk onstage, it certainly feels real. The dazzling set is real and so is the surge of adrenaline that hits my veins when the announcer calls my name and the warmth of the spotlight turns toward me.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.
I’m doing it. I’m walking the runway, and it’s not nearly as scary as I thought it would be. Every time a worrisome thought about my appearance enters my head, I think about Miss South Carolina. If she can do this, I can too.
Music is playing over the loudspeakers. It’s a song by someone named Zayn or Justin or Harry that I’ve heard the tween girls go crazy for at the karaoke booth at my school’s fall festival. The beat’s familiarity gives me a little boost and, miraculously, I realize I’m moving with what I think is known as swagger.
My head spins. I’m actually—dare I say it—enjoying myself. Almost. I’m still playing a part, only this time I’m the one cast as Miss Texas. Not my twin. Not Ginny.
Me.
I reach the middle of the runway, and I pause to stand with my hands on my hips and my head tilted just so, exactly like Ginny taught me to do. One by one, I look each judge in the eye. They’re seated in the same order as they were yesterday during the interviews, and each one of them smiles back at me.
Until I get to the end.
Him.
Again.
His gaze is impassive. Stoic. And it never wavers from my face, as if he’s dead set on ignoring the fact that I’m standing there in a bathing suit that could probably pass for a push-up bra and panties.
I do a little spin, then arch a brow. It’s a challenge, and we both know it. I’m daring him to look. It’s his job, after all. He’s here to judge me in all my bikini’d glory. He can’t just ignore me and refuse to venture a glance below my neck.
But that’s obviously his intention.
He’s getting me back for calling him creepy. Fine. Two can play at that game. If he wants to ignore me, I’ll ignore him right back.
I keep moving—past the judges’ table and all the way to the end of the runway, where I do the pose, turn, pose combination that Ginny made me practice for half an hour. I’m not completely sure I get it right, but close enough. I’m not sprinting offstage, and there’s not a jazz hand in sight.
On my way back toward the stage, I pass the judges’ table again and flash judges one through five each another grin. When my handsome, book-quoting nemesis comes into view, I pretend he’s wearing Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak. I look right through him.
When I’m back at the top of the stage and my ninety seconds are nearly up, I give one last hair toss and cast a demure glance over my shoulder. Then, and only then, do I catch my Slytherin friend watching me.
I do something I know I shouldn’t.
I wink at him.
He drops his gaze immediately, focusing on the binder spread open in front of him. Once again, he’s all business as he jots something down in his judge’s book, but I’m almost certain I spy a tiny hitch in the corner of his lips. The barest hint of a smile.