Page 9 of Passenger Princess

It didn’t help when the receptionist led me to the meeting room, the women we passed whispered to each other, hums of,that’s her, and,I just don’t get it, and, my personal favorite,it should have been Anne, drifting to my ears on sharp winds.

I’m not bothered, not really. I’ve always been a bit of an outcast, despite my unending desire to fit in. Raised with two brothers and a single dad, I spent a long time being too boyish, and then I was too girly when I grew into my curves and leaned into my love of pink, cream, lace, and bows.

Too much, too gaudy, trying too hard.

When I won the Miss New Jersey Americana pageant, a dark horse no one expected to get far, the whispers started again. They only continued when I used my knowledge of social media to go viral multiple times while preparing for the final pageant, drawing intrigue from all angles.

Some welcomed me with open arms, fans and viewers called me a breath of fresh air, and media outlets noted how my participation in the pageant has sparked new interest in the seemingly dying industry.

But still, there are always a good handful of haters at every required media outing, every practice, or get- together for the pageant. The people who look at me like some kind of outsider, a wolf in sheep’s clothing who shouldn’t have even made it through the doors, much less allowed to participate. The disapproval came strongest from the actual organization itself, which, at first, saw me as a way to jumpstart public interest, probably by using me as some punchline, but then regretted letting me in at all when I gained the popularity they were craving.

It seems that disapproval hasn’t changed much with the glares I’m getting right now while I sit at a round conference table, a dozen eyes staring me down like some kind of failed social experiment.

Across from me sits Regina, her blonde hair perfectly blown out, the ends perfectly tucked under her chin in a style that, from what I could see when I did my minimal research, she’s had for at least twenty-five years. Her posture, like most of the pageant women I’ve met, both current and past, is absolutely immaculate, and her black tailored skirt suit says professional.

And the glare on her face screams hatred.

I expected that part, at least, since she’s hated me from the very start.

To her left is a lawyer with long, pin-straight dark hair and a boring dark suit, and to her right, for some reason I don’t think I want to know, sits Miss Utah.

If I thought daggers were coming from Regina, full-blown nuclear missiles are aimed at me from Anne. She fully believed she had the crown on lock, only for me and my silly little self to come in and throw everything to the wayside.

Oops.

When no one speaks after a few beats, I take a sip of my water and sit back with my well-practiced, easy-going smile. “So, can I ask why Anne is here?” I tip my chin toward the curly-haired redhead with perfect posture and a glare that could kill me.

“Because.” She pauses, swallowing as if the next few words taste terrible or physically pain her to say. “I am the first runner-up. I won’t be at all events, but I will be at some over the course of your tour.”

“As you know,” Regina starts. “Your tour representing the Miss Americana pageant starts on Thursday.”

This is why I was excited about the win: the tour. As someone who loves adventures, traveling the entire country on someone else’s dime sounds like a true dream. Add in the opportunity to showcase women-owned small businesses while I do it, and I’m more than willing to play whatever part they want me to for a year.

A fair trade, in my opinion.

“I’m excited to get on the road. My followers are so excited to hear all about my travels and learn more about the businesses we’re going to highlight.”

A tight smile tightens Regina’s lips before she nods, her eyes going cold.

“As a reminder, we ask you to maintain a professional composure at all times, since you will be so directly linked to the pageant and the Miss Americana brand. Any violation of the core tenants of this organization could result in you forfeiting your crown to the first runner-up,” she says, the threat obvious.

Stay in line, or we’ll rip that pretty crown right off your head.

“And wouldn’t that just be so convenient for you, Anne?” I ask the woman who would love nothing more than for me to fail.

“At least someone who deserves it would have the title,” she mumbles.

Now that? That pisses me off.

“I worked my ass off, same as you. I answered my questions, performed my talent, and modeled the swimsuit just like you. I’m sorry you have the personality of a wet carpet and you think you’re above putting yourself out there and letting the plebs get to know you, so no one voted for you?—”

Something in Anne snaps, and she leans forward, her beauty turning to ugly venom before my eyes. “It’s a stupid loophole! All that should matter is if you’re pretty and if you’re pageant queen material. Just because people felt bad for you?—”

“Enough,” Regina says, the words firm and menacing, and instantly Anne sits back like the obedient dog she is. I have to roll my lips between my teeth to stop from laughing while Regina closes her eyes and sighs deeply as if she’s trying to grasp onto one last strand of her patience.

“All we are trying to say, Ms. Bordeaux,” the buttoned-up lawyer starts. I wonder if she’s also a former pageant queen with her calm decorum and flawless posture. “Is that you signed a contract agreeing to act within the realm of the brand or risk losing your title and potentially being sued for damages made to the Miss Americana brand. Of course, that won’t be an issue if you act in a way befitting your new position.”

I give the poor woman a sweet smile before turning to Regina, the real person who needs to hear what I have to say.

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