Page 5 of The Accidental Beauty Queen
It’s obviousshyis code for somethingfarless flattering.
I have a sudden pang of sympathy for the ridiculous dog. We’re both outsiders here.
Maybe Buttercup senses this too, because when I squat to scoop her wiggling bulk into my arms, she goes still. For once, she’s cooperative. “She’s a rescue.”
Miss Nevada nods. “Well, my name is Lisa Ng and I’m right down the hall if you need anything.”
“Thank you. We’re fine, though. Really.” I turn and head for the elevator, trying not to dwell on what a pathetic pair Buttercup and I must make.
When the elevator doors slide open, there’s no escape. I’m confronted by our reflection in the mirrored walls, and the sight is pathetic indeed. My hair has somehow gone even limper, plastered to my head and neck in damp copper strands. The Hogwarts T-shirt, which seemed so quirky and intelligent a few hours ago, seems juvenile in comparison to the fancy day dresses and sleek suits all the pageant contestants are wearing. The pitiful lump of dog I’m holding doesn’t help the situation.
At least we’re alone.
Not for long, though. The elevator stops on every floor, picking up beauty queens all the way down. By the time we reach the lobby, I’m pressed against the back wall, choking on hair-spray fumes and a half-dozen different varieties of perfume. It’s pretty awful, but just as the descending numbers on the display above the elevator doors wind down to1, an aroma much worse fills the confined space. The stench is horrendous, so thick that I can taste it at the back of my throat. Its pungency obliterates any and all lingering traces of flowery perfume and hair products.
And to my great horror, it seems to be coming from Buttercup.
Every head in the elevator swivels in our direction. Perfectly pert noses scrunch in unison. There’s apparently no doubt that the source of the stench is either me or the dog in my arms. Miss Idaho presses a hand to her flat stomach, as if she might vomit. I wish I could say it was an overreaction, but honestly, it isn’t.
What on earth has Ginny been feeding this creature?
“Sorry,” I mumble, longing to feel invisible again. Like usual.
My face burns with embarrassment as the elevator doors slide open and everyone bolts. I’m sure of two things...
First, I’m going to murder my sister. Strangling her with her beauty queen sash seems like a really great idea.
And second, for the rest of the week, Buttercup and I will be taking the stairs.
Five hours later, after I’ve left Ginny and Buttercup behind, I return to the Huntington Spa Resort, as happy as a person can possibly be.
I’ve spent my afternoon riding the Hogwarts Express, eating an enormous amount of chocolate frogs, and, thanks to the magic of technology and J. K. Rowling’s imagination, zipping around on a broomstick through the middle of a Quidditch match. There’s an actual magic wand in the back pocket of my jeans, which I used to cast spells all over the park. If butter beer contained alcohol, I’d be sloppily drunk.
Best of all, I’ll get to do it all again tomorrow.
My mind is spinning with ideas for the upcoming school year’s book festival at the library. It’s one of my biggest responsibilities, but also one of my favorite parts of my job.
Last year, the festival’s mascot was Skippyjon Jones, the star of the popular children’s book series about a Siamese cat who thinks he’s a Chihuahua. This year will be all about Harry Potter.
I broke down and purchased a sorting hat from one of the gift shops, simply because I know the kids will love it. Plus I invested in a whole pile of Harry Potter–themed arts-and-crafts books. I spread everything on top of my hotel bed and grin at Ginny, waiting for her to tell me I’m the best school librarian in the state of Texas.
“What’s with that huge hat? It’s crooked.” She crosses her arms.
I don’t even dignify this with a response. Honestly, I know she doesn’t read much, but hasn’t she seen at least one of the Harry Potter films? Or has she been living under a bedazzled rock for the past two decades?
“Do you think it’s possible to rent an owl?” I ask.
Her gaze narrows. Or it would, if not for the Botox. “You want to adopt a live owl?”
“No. That would be crazy. I just want to borrow one for the day. For the book festival. Not a regular owl, though. I need a great big white one.” I spread my arms out wide to indicate Hedwig’s approximate wingspan.
“Right. Because that’s not crazy at all.” Ginny smirks.
From her perch atop Ginny’s pillow, Buttercup rolls her googly eyes at me. I’m clearly outnumbered.
But I’m also in a fantastic mood. Avacationmood, so I refrain from pointing out the general insanity of Ginny’s pageant obsession. I don’t want to argue. Besides, I’m pretty sure she knows how I feel about her quest to become Miss American Treasure.
The title alone is absurd. It sounds more like a Nicolas Cage movie than a beauty pageant. But hey, it could be worse. Our mother could have been crowned Miss Armadillo Festival Sweetheart. Which, in case you’re wondering, is an actual small-town Texas pageant. I know this because Ginny contemplated entering it one year as practice for the big leagues. I managed to talk her out of it when I pointed out that instead of a tiara, the winner was crowned with a stuffed armadillo that had been fashioned into a hat. As much as Ginny loves the pageant life, she draws the line when the crown involves wearing roadkill on her head.
