Page 35 of The Accidental Beauty Queen
She has to say those things, though. She’s my twin, and after all, I’m doing this for her.
Miss Tennessee and Miss Utah, not so much. They’re my competition, and yet both women seem so genuinely supportive. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Miss Nevada has been nothing but kind to me, too. Growing up with Ginny exposed me to about a million pageants on television, and when the winner is announced, she’s always mobbed by sobbing girls who act as if they’re almost as happy for her as they are sad for themselves. I guess I just always thought it was an act.
Maybe it’s not. Maybe these women really do all get along.
For the most part, anyway. I’m sure there are a few mean girls in the bunch. Aren’t there always?
I haven’t encountered any yet, though. Weirdly enough, it’s starting to feel like a sisterhood. Even stranger, I almost feel like I belong.
“Welcome to the preliminary swimsuit competition of the Miss American Treasure pageant!” The announcer’s voice booms throughout the ballroom, and my mouth goes dry as a bone.
This is really happening.
All the pageant prelims are taking place in the ballroom, the same room where we had our interviews yesterday. But the space looks nothing like it did the day before. An elevated stage has been constructed along the far wall, with a long runway extending about two-thirds the length of the room. The judging panel sits at a long table running parallel to the runway, extremely close. The whole eye contact thing is going to be a challenge at such close range.
Those of us hailing from states in the second half of the alphabet cluster together in the wings, watching the action onstage as the A through D states strut their stuff. It’s not at all what I expect.
Watching a pageant in person is a completely different experience from sitting in your living room and watching it on television. It feels almost intimate.
It’s immediately obvious which contestants are nervous and which ones feel at ease. Like Ginny said, the girls who are flustered hurry down the runway, barely pausing to pose. Some of them seem to focus on the judges’ foreheads rather than looking them square in the eye. Their arms are stiff. Some of them scrunch their shoulders. I swear, Miss Connecticut has the body of a Victoria’s Secret model, but she walks across the stage with actual jazz hands.
Jazz hands.
Ginny was right. This spectacle isn’t really about bodies. Not altogether, anyway. It’s about body confidence. I never would have believed it if I didn’t have what basically amounts to a front-row seat.
This epiphany should really make me feel better. Unfortunately, my walk isn’t any better than my bikini body. Truth be told, it’s probably worse. So now I’m not only worried about the slight jiggle in my belly and getting down the runway and back without falling on my face, but I’m also concerned about my shoulders, my arms, the stiffness of my smile, and the possibility that I might have a hidden propensity for jazz hands.
I swallow and make fists at my sides—a preemptive measure. Then another pageant official wearing a Miss American Treasure jacket and wielding a clipboard arrives to herd us back into position.
“Back in line, girls. We’re already halfway through the alphabet.” She waves her arms at us as if we’re cattle, and I can’t really fault her, because the clomp of our platform stilettos against the stage floor does sound rather cowlike.
Great, another thing for me to worry about when it’s my turn. Which will be here any second, because time is suddenly moving at warp speed. We fly through theO’s, and when Miss Rhode Island takes the stage and strikes her pose behind Miss Pennsylvania, I’m struck with the realization that there are only three more girls standing between me and my onstage pageant debut.
Oh God.
I close my eyes and try to “find my center,” as Ginny and her yoga-loving friends always say. But I’m so jittery right now that I’m not sure I actually have a center. I am a doughnut.
I’m also a fraud.
I’m nothing but a big, fraudulent doughnut.
And now I’m hungry again. The sudden roar of applause drags me away from thoughts of Krispy Kreme and back to my doughnut-free reality. All the women around me are clapping and cheering. Beside me, Miss Tennessee is waving her hands frantically in front of her face to ward off tears.
Intrigued by all the hoopla, I crane my neck for a better glimpse of the runway. What could possibly be going on out there? I’m almost expecting to see a beauty queen equivalent of Gisele Bündchen gliding up and down the catwalk, but I don’t. What I actually see is even better.
Miss South Carolina is in the center of the runway, smiling down at the judges. Like nearly all the other contestants, she’s wearing a bikini, which means her abdomen is on display for everyone to see. To my complete and utter surprise, there’s a large scar running down the center of her torso. It starts at her sternum and runs almost all the way down to her belly button.
I can’t believe I didn’t notice it when she was standing backstage, awaiting her turn with the rest of us. But it’s pretty dark back here, and until the competition began, I was too consumed with checking out my own body in the mirror to notice anyone but the girls standing on either side of me.
Right now, though, I can’t tear my eyes off of Miss South Carolina. Her smile is electric. Every step she takes radiates poise and grace. Watching her gives me goose bumps. It’sthatpowerful.
“I heard she had open-heart surgery less than a year ago,” Miss Utah whispers. “She’s got some kind of rare cardiac disorder. As Miss South Carolina, she visits a lot of hospitals.”
Now I’m the one on the verge of tears. I blink furiously. She could have easily chosen a one-piece swimsuit, but she didn’t. She’s out there owning her scar.
Watching her prance and twirl isn’t just inspiring. It’s empowering, just like Ginny said. I’m brimming with admiration.
Oh no, I’ve sipped the Kool-Aid.
