Page 40 of The Accidental Beauty Queen
“Seriously? You didn’t know?” The girl with the wandering caterpillar lashes sits up straighter on the bed, studying me. “How is that possible? It was all over our pageant welcome packet. Every one of us had to sign a pledge promising to act as emcee for the next Miss Starlight pageant inthe event we’re crowned Miss American Treasure. The top ten finalists all show up every year to pose for pictures with the little girls and help the ones in wheelchairs get down the runway.”
Wow.
I try to imagine such a pageant, and I can’t. It’s too poignant. Too devastating. If I think too hard about sick little girls in tiaras, I’ll start sobbing. It sounds so...
So sweet. And heartbreaking. And not creepy in the slightest.
Quite the opposite, actually. The Miss Starlight pageant seems like a wonderful thing. A kind, compassionate thing.
Which would make the man who created it more of a real-life Prince Charming than the supervillain I’ve made him out to be.
Oh my God, what have I done?
My paper plate slips out of my hands, falling onto the carpet with a plop. It echoes throughout the quiet room.
I’ve accused a perfectly nice man—anhonorableman who does things like make terminally ill children feel special and beautiful—of wanting to do nothing but ogle women in bikinis. I told him to his face that I think he’s pervy.
Why didn’t he say anything?
He could have berated me right there in the stairwell. He probably could have reported me to the pageant officials and told them I was unfit to wear the crown. Because clearly I’m not worthy.
He didn’t do any of those things, though. Instead, he’d just looked at me with that brooding glint in his moody blue eyes and tried to make light of my scathing assessment of him.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” I whisper. My voice cracks, which seems appropriate, since I suddenly feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. You didn’t know. You probably just got the name of the pageant confused with another one.” Torrie gives my leg a pat.
“Yeah.” The willowy brunette nods. “Who can keep up with all the various titles? I need a spreadsheet just to plan my year. I’m at a different pageant almost every weekend.”
“Spoken like a true crown chaser,” Miss Virginia says.
Everyone laughs.
Everyone but me, that is.
I try to swallow. I can’t eat anymore—my throat is too thick with regret.
And shame. No wonder Gray Beckham refused to look at me during the swimsuit competition. He probably loathes the very sight of me.
I take a shuddering breath.
But hehadlooked, hadn’t he? He’d stared right at me when he thought I wouldn’t notice.
At least I think he did. Now I’m not so sure.
11
As soon as I can manage, I excuse myself from the hotel room party and take shelter in the stairwell. The minute I’m alone, I pull out my phone.
I’ve got a few texts from Ginny, plus one missed call, but I ignore those and tap the little internet browser icon. I’m desperate for information on a certain pageant judge, and Google is my friend.
Within seconds, I’m on the Miss Starlight website, looking at pictures of smiling, delicate little girls with sparkling tiaras on their tiny heads, dressed in enough tulle to choke a Disney princess. I flip past photo after photo, with tears streaming down my face. I can’t bear to look, but I also can’t make myself put down my phone.
These little girls are brave. Special. They deserve to be celebrated... to be seen.
If anyone knows the value of such appreciation, it’s me.
I choke on a sob, but I keep scrolling. I take in every last picture, every glittering crown, every triumphant grin until I finally reach the end. The girls range from age five all the way up to the late teens. Some of them are bald from chemo treatments. Others walk down the runway pulling their IV poles alongside them.
