Page 1 of Passenger Princess

ONE

AVA

I think I’m going to vomit.

That’s the only thing going through my mind as I stand under bright lights in a dress my best friend made that weighs as much as a small child, my makeup a full centimeter thick, my feet numb from towering heels, and my hair sprayed within an inch of its life.

I’m going to vomit, and this is the most fun I’ve had in alongtime.

“Third runner-up is…Miss Oklahoma!”

Kristie McGee is sweet, but she stuttered during the interview section, and, from what the girls in the dressing room whispered to me about, that’s worse than a death sentence. Her fake smile doesn’t crack as she gazes at the camera before her light goes out, leaving just three women lit on the stage.

My hands robotically move in small, gentle claps—the only acceptable kind on this stage. It's small enough, you’re barely even moving, and no real sound is made, but like everything else on this stage, it’s for show. To say,look what good sports they are!

And although I’ve been framed many ways over the last four months, from a trailblazer to a disgrace and humiliation to the apparently sacred world of pageantry, no one can say I’m not a good sport.

I breathe carefully, trying not to splinter the dress Harperliterallysewed me into or show my nerves on my face. At least three cameras at different locations are pointed at each remaining contestant, and any tiny shift in my face holds the opportunity to be picked apart and made into a clip or a meme.

What’s worse than losing Miss Americana?

Becoming a memeandlosing Miss Americana.

So my entire body remains stiff, my smile wide and plastered in place

“Second runner up…” Third place isn’t bad—you still get a cash prize, but it’s not as much as second or first, and you don’t have the same sponsorship opportunities thereafter.

And you don’t go on tour.

“Miss New York!”

I allow a hint of disappointment to show through my mask, a frowned upon move someone will probably be annoyed by. What else is new, considering nearlyeverymove I’ve made since getting into the Miss Americana pageant has been against the grain? But since everyone knows Lily and I are friends, I think it’s worth the slight show of emotion.

Making friends here was, admittedly, a surprise to me. Part of me thought all of these women would resent me—the idiot amateur who somehow made it to the big times, the woman who joined just to try to drum up business for her friends. And yes, a handful here feelpreciselythat way about me, but there are even more women who I would call a true friend now.

Lily is one of them, and her coming in third saddens me. If someone was going to beat me, I’d want it to be her. I wish I could hug her, tell her she did amazing, and we’ll get drunk together later and talk shit. Instead, I’m gliding (pageant queens don’t simplywalk, of course) to the center of the stage, where I grasp Anne’s hand between mine and smile wide at her.

It’s a fake smile, of course, because she’s the absolute worst—thekind of pageant queen that’s a cliché of herself. Snotty and unkind to everyone in her orbit behind closed doors, but shining and perfect to the audience.

Her answers are always about girlhood and team spirit and cheering on one another, but as soon as the cameras are off, she’s all underhanded gibes under her breath about extra weight or what people are wearing.

She’s toxic.

She’s also part of the reason I decided to take this pageant seriously.

When I somehow made it past the auditions to become Miss Americana New Jersey and thus entered the nationwide Miss Americana pageant, I fully intended to just have a good time. Another crazy experience I could tell my grandkids about one day and an opportunity to scream about my friends’ businesses from the rooftops.

Until the first joint press event introducing the official Miss Americana contestants for the year when Anne gave me the most wretched once-over. “Strange that they’re lettinganybodyinto this pageant these days.”

If there’s one thing about me you should know, it's that Iloveproving people wrong. Because of thatsingle moment, I worked my ass off and spent the three months between being accepted and the actual pageant learning everything I could about the industry, about what it would take to beat her. I didn’t care if she got last place and I was second to last, I just wanted to beather.

It wasn’t a one-sided beef, of course. From that moment, Anne has done everything and anything in her power to discredit me. She talks shit about me in the underhanded mean girl way she’s perfected in public and straight upignoresme in private, acting like I was invisible and not worth the dust under her red bottoms.

But now her eyes are gleaming and hopeful, and she’s smiling wide at me like we’re long-lost sisters, a look reflected onmy face as well.

Again, it’s what’s expected from the show and what we’re contracted to deliver. If there’s one thing the Miss Americana pageant respects, it’s tradition, and we all had to sign a mile-long contract threatening legal action if we stepped out of line.

The rules and guidelines range from how we should address hot topic items to the press (i.e., divert and ignore) to promising to uphold the vow for the reigning Miss Americana to remain single for her entire term, since apparently a dating or, gasp,marriedMiss Americana is just unsightly.

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