Page 38 of The Accidental Beauty Queen
Then why do you?
I push this question as far from my thoughts as I can while I make my way to Torrie’s room. I know I’ve got the right one when I hear music and laughter streaming into the hallway. I knock three times, and the door swings open almost immediately, revealing Torrie and about eight to ten other contestants.
Girls are sitting on both beds, the love seat, and the floor, and to my immense delight, they’re all wearing actual sweatpants. Some are even in their pajamas. If not for the glam hair, lashes, and extreme tans, they’d look like any normal bunch of friends getting together for a night in.
“You probably want to take that off.” Torrie gestures to my Miss Texas sash. “At my last pageant, a girl got honey mustard on hers and it wouldn’t come out. She legit had to compete in the evening gown competition with a yellow stain covering one of her state letters.”
My jaw falls open in horror, mainly because if such a terrifying thing happened to anyone in this room, it would no doubt be me.
“Note taken.” I slip the sash over my head and drape it over a hanger in the open closet, where all the other guests at this little shindig have discarded theirs. A quarter of the country is represented, from New York to California. It’s like a sparkly Congress.
“Everyone, this is Ginny Gorman from Texas,” Torrie says, waving at me with a flourish, Vanna White–style.
I’m welcomed with a chorus of hellos. Torrie’s roommate, Miss Virginia, introduces herself and I take a seat on the floor, crisscross applesauce.
“Didn’t we compete together once?” A willowy brunette narrows her gaze at me over an onion ring.
The servings are small. Miniscule, actually. Each burger is cut into quarters and we’re all sharing single orders of fries and onion rings, but I don’t care. It’s food. At this point, I’d happily gnaw on one of the paper napkins.
“I think we did. What was it? Miss...” I grab a handful of fries and shove them into my mouth, buying time.
“Miss American Daydream,” she says. “I’m sure that wasit.”
Thank goodness. I nod and reach for a section of cheeseburger. The food tastes so good I’m afraid I might start drooling all over myself.
“So how did it go for everyone today? Any horror stories?” Torrie plops down beside me on the carpet and then slides the basket of fries between us. She’s definitely my new best friend.
“When I came out of the ballroom, my pageant coach told me that the double-sided tape on my swimsuit top was showing,” a blonde stretched out on one of the beds says. “I wanted to die.”
“If that’s the worst thing that happens to you during this pageant, I think you’re safe,” someone says.
I nod. “Agreed. I wet my pants in my first pageant.”
The room goes silent.
“I was four years old,” I add.
Torrie bursts into laughter, and everyone else follows.
“Oh my God, you’re hilarious. Thanks for that. I needed a good laugh,” the blonde says.
One by one, we bemoan the struggles we’ve experienced thus far throughout the preliminaries. The tales are an assortment of self-tanning mishaps, lost earrings, and broken stilettos. One poor girl had a strip of false eyelashes fall off during her personal interview.
“It started coming loose, and then it just slid down my face like a black fuzzy caterpillar.” She sighs.
Torrie and I exchange a mortified glance, and then she says, “What did you do?”
“I left it there until my three minutes was up. I figured acknowledging it would just draw attention to it. Was that the wrong call?”
There’s a beat of silence, during which we all conjure a mental picture of an eyelash caterpillar crawling down her face. A snicker escapes me. I can’t help it. Within seconds, the entire party collapses into a fit of giggles.
For the first time in days, I actually let myself relax. I’m having fun. I remind myself that I’m supposed to be Ginny, not Charlotte. But as the evening progresses, I let my guard down just a little bit.
The conversation turns to the judges. Torrie thinks the formerBachelorettecontestant is hot, and I let my opinion fly.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I think it’s gross that he’s judging a pageant. He’s a man. It just seems a little archaic.”
The girl on the other side of Torrie snorts. “More archaic than anythingBachelorrelated?”
