Page 78 of The Accidental Beauty Queen
But there are other things—things that make me realize she hasn’t just been floating lazily through her adult life on a wave of duck-face selfies and #outfitoftheday posts on Instagram. She’s been saving money. Piles of it. I always knew she made a decent living off her sponsored social media posts, but that was just the tip of the iceberg. All those tiaras she so proudly displays on the shelves of her upscale apartment in Dallas’s trendy Bishop Arts District are worth far more than their weight in rhinestones.
Each of Ginny’s pageant wins has brought in some serious cash. As it turns out, she was telling the truth—most beauty pageants are, in fact,scholarship competitions. Miss Congenialityis more of a documentary than a rom-com. Throughout her lifetime as a beauty queen, my sister has accumulated almost $200,000 in money earmarked for higher education.
Even more surprising, she’s planning on using every dime. Now that she’s aged out of the Miss American Treasure program, she’s begun filling out applications for textile and art programs all over the country. Her ultimate goal is to attend the Parsons School of Design in New York City. I’m fully convinced she’ll end up onProject Runwayat some point. If anyone can “make it work” Tim Gunn–style and handle the intense pressure of reality television, it’s my twin.
In the meantime, she’s still taking twirling lessons and competing in the pageants that have divisions for contestants who’ve passed the big 3-0.
Crazy, right? I would have assumed that if anything could get a person blackballed from the pageant circuit, it would be having your identical twin take your place after you’ve suffered an allergy attack instead of withdrawing from the competition altogether. But no. Apparently, her onstage confession is being seen as a sign of personal growth. Ginny is even using the whole experience as something to talk about in her personal interviews.
Some things never change.
Then again, some things do.
Ginny isn’t the only one who has new career aspirations. I do too.
I still love being a librarian. Books are my heart and soul. They’ve been there for me all my life—in good times and bad. Case in point: I’ve rereadPride and Prejudicefive times since I left Orlando. I know that sounds nuts, but something about disappearing into the pages of my favorite comfort read helps me forget the less than spectacular moments of late, while at the same time allowing me to savor the moments I spent with Gray...
My own personal Mr. Darcy.
For a few days, at least.
I wonder what he’d think if he knew I’d decided to take my passion for literature one step further by writing a book. I’ve only got fifty pages so far, but it’s a start. Every night after work, I sit down at my laptop and try my best to putwhat happened at the Miss American Treasure pageant into words. It’s quite a story. I’ve no idea if it will ever getpublished or if anyone out there really wants to read about a girl who lost her mind a little bit and compromised everything she believed in, all in pursuit of a crown made of paste and plastic. But it’s about more than that, really. It’s about what it truly means to be beautiful, inside and out. And that’s a lesson I’m still learning. I’m not sure I’ll ever fully grasp it, but I’m trying.
In any case, writing about my tenure as an accidental beauty queen helps me make sense of the things I did and the choices I made. I just wish things could have turned out differently for Gray and me.
The Miss Starlight pageant took place two weeks after Lisa Ng was crowned Miss American Treasure. I wanted to be there. I wanted to see the amazing way Gray honors the memory of his sister, up close and personal. I even went so far as to check out flights to Boston, where the pageant takes place every year. My credit card was right there beside my laptop, but I just couldn’t do it.
Every time my cursor hovered over the purchase button, I remembered the look on his face when our eyes met in the ballroom after Ginny’s onstage confession. I remembered the sag in his shoulders when he turned his back and walked away. I remembered the way his silence slayed me with deadly precision in a way that sharp words would have never been able to achieve.
I’d wanted him to tell me what I’d done was wrong. I’d wanted him to take all his brooding hostility and unleash it at me in a torrent of blame and admonition. Because then I would have known that what we’d shared had been real, that it had meant as much to him as it did to me.
Maybe it didn’t. Deep down, I suspect it did. But thinking and knowing are two different things, and even if Gray had fallen for me in the same way I’d fallen for him, I still wasn’t sure he’d forgiven me. I couldn’t just show up at his pageant and ruin one of the most meaningful days of his life.
Instead, I stayed home and used my credit card to make an anonymous donation to the Miss Starlight foundation. My contribution was enough to pay for five large tiaras for girls in Gray’s program. I’ve been waiting for photos from the event to show up on social media, but so far I’ve only seen a handful on the Boston local news sites. I can’t rely on Ginny to keep me updated, because in the biggest shocker of all, she’s completely deleted her online presence.
So here I sit, balanced in one of the tiny student workstations in the library after school, scrolling through posts bearing the Miss Starlight hashtag while Buttercup snores in my lap.
Before the school year started, I collected every bit of data I could find on the benefits of reading-assistance dogs. Apparently, children feel more comfortable reading aloud to pups than they do in a traditional classroom setting. It’s no wonder—dogs are patient and nonjudgmental. They lavish praise on readers in the form of tail wags and puppy kisses regardless of whether every word was pronounced correctly. As a result, kids read more. And everyone knows practice makes perfect.
After I presented the evidence to the school principal, he agreed to let me bring Buttercup to school with me twice a week and set up a quiet reading area in the corner of the library closest to my desk, so I could keep tabs on things. So far, the program has been a huge hit. Buttercup hasn’t been officially certified as a reading-assistance dog yet, but she seems to be a natural. The kids especially love the way her big ears swivel to and fro when they tell her a story.
At the moment, she’s exhausted. Her little paws twitch in her sleep, and I wonder if she’s chasing Crookshanks the cat in her dreams. Because yes, the Harry Potter series is a big favorite in my library.
I scroll through the most recent posts about the pageant, and suddenly, Buttercup lifts her head. Her big eyes open wide, and her ears prick forward like they always do when she’s on high alert for the UPS man.
I rest my hand on her back. “Calm down. We’re the only ones here at this hour, besides the janitor. And you love him. He carries dog biscuits in his pockets.”
“Shall I come back when I’m properly armed with Milk-Bones, then?” someone behind me says.
Not justanysomeone.
I know that voice. I know it well. It’s deep and languorous. So velvety smooth that I feel it as much as I hear it. I love it best when it’s reciting lines from Austen or Shakespeare. Even better, when it calls me Hermione.
But as much as I love that honeyed voice, as much as I’ve longed to hear it whisper my real name, it belongs to a man who lives in another state. A man who may very well despise me.
Buttercup hops down from my lap and scurries out of view. I know I should follow, but I’m afraid to look. What if it’s only wishful thinking? What if I’ve spent so much time thinking about Gray that I’ve started hearing things? If that’s the case, I won’t be able to bear the crushing disappointment of turning around and finding an empty space where I hope and pray my favorite pageant judge is standing right now.
Take a chance.
