Page 2 of The Accidental Beauty Queen
I know exactly what she’s thinking. “You’ll make the finals. I know you will. You’re a shoo-in for the top twenty.”
Ginny always makes the finals. She’s up onstage every year alongside the winner and the runners-up. She’s just never managed to crack the top five.
“This year will be different,” I assure her.
She nods. “It has to be.”
As much as I hate to see my sister devoting her life to chasing a silly crown, and even though I positivelyloathethe pageant scene, my heart gives a little tug. Sometimes I forget why she got started in all of this. But every once in a while, when Ginny’s composure slips, I remember that this is her way of feeling connected to the mother we barely knew. The crushing sense of loss that inevitably follows always seems to catch me off guard. It’s in those moments—moments like this one—that I understand her dream.
I paste a smile on my face. “It will. I promise.”
I have no right to make that kind of promise. After all, I’m not judging this thing.
Truly, why would anyone want that job?
But it’s so rare to see my sister like this that I can’t stop myself. She’s always been the poster child for confidence. Which just goes to show how much this particular pageant means to her. More than all the others combined.
“You’re right.” She nods with renewed vigor. “Of course I’ll make the finals. This is my year.”
“Definitely.” Pep talk over for now, I head toward the bed on the far side of the room—the one that’s still neatly made and not covered in anything bedazzled.
Every item on Ginny’s bed shines like a disco ball, including her official Miss American Treasure tote bag. I’m beginning to understand why she uses one of those sleep-mask things like Audrey Hepburn inBreakfast at Tiffany’s. I might need to invest in one myself.
As I cross the room, Buttercup launches herself at my wheeled suitcase, growling and nipping at it as it drags behind me. By the time I’m within a foot of my bed, she’s fully attached herself to it and I’m hauling both luggage and bulldog.
“Is this normal behavior?” I ask. It can’t be, can it?
Ginny waves a dismissive hand.
I give Buttercup a little nudge with the toe of my Adidas sneaker. She backs away, peering up at me with her bulgy little eyes. They almost seem to point in two different directions. Like plastic googly eyes.
We stare each other down for a second, and then she resumes her attack on my luggage.
“Is she always so”—I pause, struggling for an appropriate adjective—“headstrong?”
Buttercup and I have never been properly introduced. I only know her via Ginny’s Instagram, where she’s usually doing something less destructive and far more adorable.
“Buttercup is shy,” Ginny says by way of explanation.
I look down at the snarling dog. “Sorry, I’m not getting shy here.”
“You’re stressing her out. She’s not used to strangers and new experiences. She’s a rescue dog, remember? The poor thing sat in the shelter for four months before I adopted her.”
Ginny checks the position of her sheet mask in the large mirror over the bathroom counter. It’s a double vanity, theoretically big enough for both of us. But Ginny’s massive amount of toiletries take up the entire space. “Did you know that seven million dogs and cats enter shelters every year, and half of them end up being euthanized?”
I didnotknow that, and it’s a horrible, horrible statistic. But her canned delivery prevents me from absorbing the news with the proper level of emotion.
She’s slipped into pageant mode. She’s rattling off more devastating facts and figures about homeless pets, all the while posing with her hand pressed to her heart and her head tilted just so.
I glance at Buttercup. Something tells me she’s heard the speech before.
“Maybe less euthanasia talk in front of the rescue dog?” I suggest. No wonder the poor thing is stressed.
“Oh my God.” Ginny blinks. “Do you think she understands?”
“I have no idea, but why take the chance?” Besides, I can’t handle Ginny’s platform-level intensity right now. I’ve been up since 4:00 a.m.
“I suppose you’re right.” Ginny scoops Buttercup into her arms.
