Page 24 of The Daredevil

“Okay.” Dylan forces a smile on his bruised face. He has a cast on his arm and leg.

“How about you?”

“I’m okay,” I say as a college commercial comes on his TV screen. “I’ll be attending Boston University very soon. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A doctor.” His lips tremble, but in his eyes, I see determination.

“Why? Why not give up?” I don’t know why I’m asking a twelve-year-old boy this question. Maybe when I look at his injuries I expect him to feel grief instead of hope. “Why not give up on everything?”

“I have to live. I have to believe that my parents didn’t die for nothing. They have a college fund saved for me. My grandparents will help me with that.” He looks at me and I see an inner strength I lack. “These doctors saved me, and I want to make sure I can save others like me in the future.” Tears slide down his face.

I can learn from this young boy. Though he’s grieving, he knows what he should do. He knows not to surrender to the darkness. He knows there’s meaning to life, and he’s fighting to hold onto that belief.

Dylan inspires me to fight the monster inside me. I have to find my place in the world.

I thought of Dylan often. Was he in med school going after his dream?

As my heart rate increased on the treadmill, I imagined myself running away from my problems. Logically, I understood I should face my problems, not run away from them. But this was my method of separating myself from that which had hurt me. I needed the space to think without interruption.

After spending two years with someone, I thought I knew him well. Boy, was I wrong. Some people had a special way of hiding their true selves. Maybe love had blinded me. Had I been in love with him? I thought I was, but when things ended, I was relieved that I didn’t need to hear him say those awful things about me or comment on how I should get a boob job like his friend’s wife. He compared me to his friends’ significant others, who were mostly models or daughters from wealthy families.

It took me a while to realize Julian was just like my mom—he wanted to control me. I was a means to an end. With my mom, she lived the pageant life through me. With Julian, I was an accessory to show off to his friends. He didn’t care about me. In the beginning, things were fine, but he revealed his true colors during the last year we were together. Especially when I shared about my eating disorder.

The truth always revealed itself. Sometimes it took longer, but there was nothing more powerful than the truth—it doesn’t lie. What I felt for Julian wasn’t love. It was a complicated relationship between a selfish individual and a woman still trying to find her way. That was the truth.

I wished I’d met Audri and Kiera in my teens. They could have given me a place to be myself or talk about my issues. But the stress of being a beauty queen did me in. I had paid for the shiny trophies, sparkly tiaras, and cash prizes with my wellbeing.

A memory surfaced, wanting to come forth, and I let it. Why not? It was my way of “decluttering.”

Behind the curtains, I hear the audience clapping for the previous girls who have just walked out. Heat swarms my body, and my palms are clammy. I’ve been doing this since I was six, but I still get nervous before the show. Wiping my sweaty hands on my baby blue gown, I inhale a deep breath.

At eighteen, I should be accustomed to people surrounding me, doing makeup and hair, making sure I’m perfect before the spotlight is on me, but I’m not. I don’t like the constant hands pulling at my hair, the strong smell of hairstyling products, and the makeup brushes scraping my face. Thank God this is the last contest before I start college.

I’m so happy I don’t have to do this anymore except for the occasional banquets that Mom says I should attend to thank all the judges who voted for me. Mom always wanted to be a pageant contestant when she was younger, but my grandmother didn’t have the money or time to take her. I know Mom loves me, and she wants me to have what she never had.

When I was six, I enjoyed pageants because I didn’t know better. Over time, I’ve learned to tolerate it because Mom loves seeing me win. The joy and pride in her eyes makes me temporarily forget the stress. Since this is the last competition, I square my shoulders, inhale a deep breath, and prepare myself for the finale.

The girl in front of me walks out to the stage as another one returns. I know most of these girls because they’ve been competing for as long as I have. Do they like it? I’m not sure. We aren’t close. They seem to love it with their smiles. But then again, I present myself like that too.

I inhale another deep breath as I step behind the curtains, waiting for my name to be announced. The winner of this pageant will getanother tiara, a trophy, and twenty thousand dollars. That will help my college tuition for sure. My mom is a single parent and has worked hard to raise me, so any extra money helps a lot.

Nerves jitter in my stomach as I glance at myself in the mirror hanging on the wall. The person looking back at me is different. Much older. I don’t recognize her with the blue eyeshadow, heavy blush, pink lipstick, and long lashes. The one thing my mom doesn’t allow is Botox. I’ve seen parents inject their daughters to prevent lines on their foreheads and crow’s feet at the corners of their eyes. I witnessed a mother doing it to her eight-year-old once. It’s so messed up.

I don’t like the person staring back at me in the mirror. She seems soulless, directionless. I don’t want to be that person anymore. I’m not six years old anymore. The tiaras I have look the same; they’re just accessories. They can’t save me or make me happy. They can’t stop this pain inside me, nor can they chase away the monster that grips me every day.

Despite that, I can understand how a tiara can give a little girl tangible hope. It gave me that kind of hope when I was six and won my first one. I’d felt love from Mom and everyone around me, but the glitter fades over time.

“Where’d you get that dress?” Brittany Parker slides her gaze down my baby blue dress with iridescent sequins. She’s my age and the most popular girl among us. However, she has never won first place, always relegated to second. That explains why she hates me.

“At the store,” I reply in a sarcastic tone. “Just like where you got your shoes.”

She purses her red lips and makes a distasteful face at my shoes. “My agent got them for me at a boutique in Los Angeles on Rodeo Drive.”

I roll my eyes, and I don’t care that she sees it. “Well, good for you. Hope you don’t trip on those pretty shoes.”

From behind me, I hear Brittany whisper, “What a bitch.”

Anger boils inside me. Normally, I ignore Brittany. But I don’t have that kind of patience today. All the frustration from the past attacks me like a swarm of hornets, stabbing me everywhere. I whirl around and glare at her.

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