by Amity Allen
“Sure,” Skylar said and we found some lemonade and sodas.
Cracking open a can, I observed to one side of the gazebo a gaggle of young girls playing a game with a red ball. Four square? I didn’t even remember how to play that, but the girls’ laughter reminded me how fun it was. A few girls were building sand castles, but most of them were running around shrieking and giggling.
As adorable as the kids were, I felt like I was crashing an elementary school party.
When I was first asked to be a judge for this pageant, I almost said no. What I knew about judging little girls’ beauty pageants would fit on the head of a pin, but Skylar had insisted.
“Bloomin’ Belles is one of the best pageants in the region,” she’d said. “It has national prominence.”
When I told her it would feel weird judging kids on their beauty and talent, Skylar had rolled her eyes and asked, “Isn’t that exactly what Hollywood does?”
Her comment really put things in perspective. I did have experience in that sort of world.
“Besides, the scorecard will be self-explanatory. It’s not like it will be difficult to do. And I’ll be there anyway helping dress some of the girls. It will be fine,” Skylar assured me.
So I agreed.
A lady with a dark bobbed haircut came over. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her. “Did you girls get something to eat?” she asked. “There are burgers and hot dogs over there.” She pointed to a big grill that was surrounded by little girls with paper plates, waiting for the man with the apron to plop wieners onto their condiment decorated buns.
“Thanks, we’ll get something in a few,” Skylar said.
“Thanks,” I echoed.
But before we could get more comfortable, Heather sashayed back over. “I see you’ve met my sister, Denise.”
“Denise Tellerman?” I asked.
She nodded.
I realized now why she looked so familiar. “I remember going to your ranch for a horseback riding camp when I was little.”
“That’s right. It’s good to see you again, Poppy,” Denise said. “I’ve been following your career. Loved your show.”
Denise hadn’t aged well. The lines on her face were deep and there was a weariness about her that made me think life hadn’t been kind to her.
“Aww, thanks,” I said. “Coming out to your ranch was so fun. Do you still teach riding out there?”
Denise smiled weakly. “When there are kids who want to ride.”
“Oh. This is my friend Skylar Pierce. She’s helping some of the girls with hair and makeup.” I turned to Skylar. “And this is Denise Tellerman.”
Skylar and I shook hands with Denise, and Heather looked annoyed.
“So what are you going to do now that your show’s been canceled, Miss Poppy Parker?” Heather asked viciously.
“Heather!” Denise hissed, obviously embarrassed by her sister’s insensitivity.
Heather’s condescension shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. I remembered Southern people as being kind and friendly, but apparently Heather didn’t subscribe to that stereotype.
“What?” Heather shrugged at Denise.
“Excuse me.” Denise gave Heather a dirty look then walked away.
Heather’s question hung in the air, so I said, “I haven’t quite decided. For the moment I’ve joined The Flower Shoppe with my friends, and I’m enjoying that.”
“Well, you know what they say about mixing friendship with business . . .” Heather made a clucking noise.
I tilted my chin and uttered a noncommittal, “Mm.” Then I pointed to an imaginary acquaintance at the other side of the party. “Excuse me. I see someone I must speak with.” And I started to make a beeline for the restroom across the park.
But Heather put a hand out to stop me. “All right, but when you get back, we have a special table for the judges. Be sure you sit there, as we don’t want you interacting with the contestants. I can’t afford any hints of impropriety at this point.”
Wondering what she meant by “at this point,” I looked over and noticed the “judges table” was empty.
“Where are the other judges?” I asked.
“Well, William McWilliams is doing the news right now, so he won’t be here, and I guess Cecily is late like you were.”
“Cecily?”
“Yes. She’s a professional judge. A real good one. She’s a former Miss Watermelon Patch, you know.” Heather pursed her lips and bobbed her head like I should be real impressed.
I pretended I was. “Wow,” I managed.
“I know. Though she has gotten kinda fat. Listen, I gotta go tend to some of these moms over there.”
“You do that.”
The woman actually just told me the other judge, the one she was so proud of, had gotten fat. I didn’t want to know what she told the former Miss Watermelon Patch about me.
Heather strode off, leaving me to ponder why, if the judges weren’t supposed to be interacting with other people, I had been encouraged to attend this event in the first place.
That woman gave me a bad feeling. I knew the type—bitter, mean, and uber competitive. The kind who wished ill on others.
As I headed for the restroom, a cool breeze blew past the nape of my neck and sent a shiver up my spine.
I was inside the bathroom stall, minding my own business, when two women apparently came out of the other stalls and began a conversation.
“I didn’t realize you would be here,” one of them said, displeasure creeping into her Southern drawl.
“Of course I’m here. I support my sister in everything she does.”
It sounded like Denise Tellerman. Maybe she was talking about Heather.
The other woman snorted.
“What’s that for?”
“Nothing. Let’s not go there. I’m here for my daughter. I don’t want this to turn into a big thing with you.”
“I’m sure you don’t. You just want to destroy people and just walk away, taking no responsibility for your actions.”
Whoa! That was a pretty big accusation. As awkward as it was being trapped in the bathroom stall like that, this was getting good.
“I can’t help what Dimples wants to do, Denise.”
“Of course you can,” Denise snapped back. “You’re her mother!”
“Are you suggesting I force my daughter to continue doing activities that she doesn’t like just because you want her to?”
“No. But Dimples could have been a champion rider. She could have gone far—maybe even to the Olympics. Surely you realize that. Accomplishments like that take you further in life than winning beauty pageants,” Denise snorted.
I shifted on the toilet seat, trying to get a good look at the two women, but the crack between the door was too tight. Sugar!
“Well, my baby is beautiful, and she likes getting all made up better than she does getting all sweaty and dirty at your barn. I’m sorry, Denise. That’s just the way it is.”
“Okay, well, good luck then.” It came out more of a sneer than a sincere conveyance of well wishes.
I quickly pulled up my pants and burst out of the stall, relieved to hear the automatic flush behind me as I bolted to the sink to wash my hands, hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman who’d been talking to Denise.
She was still there, and I didn’t recognize her. A tall blonde woman with pretty blue eyes and an ample figure. She wore a wrap skirt and ruffled blouse, dressier than most of the other moms, and something about her screamed wealth. Perhaps it was the huge rocks that dotted her fingers and throat. Plus, even though her bag lacked the telltale designer logos, it looked like it might cost more than Aunt Cricket’s car.
I gave my appearance a quick check. My curly dark hair was wild as usual, and I tried to finger comb my cowlick back in place. Her eyes met mine in the reflection of the mirror and recognition crossed her face. “Oh my word,” she said. “You’re Poppy Parker, aren’t you?”
I offered
the requisite smile. “Yes, it’s me.”
“My kids love you. I mean, we all do. We watch your show.”
“Thanks,” I said, and after I dried my hands, I stuck my right one out to her, hoping she would shake it, since she’d just seen me wash it. “And you are?”
“Tippy Bradshaw.” She beamed, shaking my hand. “Just wait until I tell the kids I met you. They are going to be so jealous!”
Never sure what to say, I laughed nervously. “Nice to meet you too.”
Tippy got out a lipstick and started to reapply it to her mouth, and I had the feeling I was dismissed.
With nothing else to do in the bathroom, I walked outside, feeling out of place and wishing I were at home curled up with a good book.
Scanning the crowd, I spied Skylar across the party tying a bow in a little girl’s hair. Standing next to her, a young woman looked like she was crying. And upon closer inspection, the girl with the red-rimmed eyes looked like a more-grown version of my friend Josephine from middle school.
Was she upset over something Heather had said to her?
I’d always been too curious for my own good. Putting aside all of Heather’s concerns about judges fraternizing with contestants and their families, I marched across the party to find out what was the matter with Josephine.
“Hey, Poppy. Josephine, you remember Poppy, don’t you?” Skylar asked.
The young woman stared up through a web of wet black lashes and nodded. “Hi, Poppy. I love your show.”
“Aww, thanks.”
Growing up, Josephine had been an overweight kid. Most of my memories of her involved food. The delicious cookies her mom made and Josephine brought to class to share. The Popsicles she taught us how to make with juice and toothpicks. And I can still picture Josephine’s face with her mouth and fingers covered in chocolate pudding. I think she was also the one who stuck a bean in her ear in kindergarten, but that was irrelevant.
Seeing her now, I was struck by how gorgeous she was, even with her green eyes all swollen and her face all splotchy. She had long, raven beach waves that every Hollywood actresses I knew would kill for, and a rosebud mouth that made her look like a doll. Josephine was still on the heavy side, but her delicate features were so pretty that she could give that curvy Sports Illustrated swimsuit model a run for her money any day. Of that I had no doubt.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Is there anything I can do?”
“There’s nothing you can do. It’s all up to Heather. Everything has to go through her,” Skylar said.
“What does?” I asked, confused.
Josephine just sniffled and looked to Skylar to explain.
“Apparently someone emailed Heather that the little girl she’s coaching, one of the ones I’m doing hair for, Allessandra Gustavez—well, someone is questioning her age and demanding to see her birth certificate.”
“So they’re accusing her of cheating?”
“Kinda. Or accusing her mom.”
“But it’s not true!” Josephine wailed. “I’ve been coaching her for almost two years now and no one has ever accused her mom of this before.”
“I take it they don’t have a birth certificate on them.”
“Of course not,” Skylar huffed. “This is just her rivals trying to create drama.”
“Do you think that her mom could maybe get someone to send a copy from home?” I asked.
“No one is home at her house. She says she’s got one, but it’s in the suitcase that has been lost by the airline. According to Brittany—that’s the mom—they have all the rest of their luggage. They’re just missing the one bag and they’ve spent most of the afternoon trying to find it, but so far no luck.”
“They think it’s gone to London,” Josephine sniffed.
Nothing made you feel quite so out of control and at the mercy of the universe than lost luggage. Not sure what else to do, I patted Josephine on the back. “Maybe they’ll find it, and everything will be okay.”
“It’s not only that.” Skylar scowled.
“What else is wrong?”
“Allessandra’s mom is convinced that one of the local moms sent Heather an email saying Allessandra was trying to compete in the wrong age group and that Heather had better check her birth certificate, “Skylar said.
“I feel awful. I mean, I vouched for this pageant. I convinced her to bring the child all the way from Texas for it. Her mother is going to kill me if she can’t compete. They’ve spent a small fortune getting her here,” Josephine said.
“Why would she be upset with you?” I asked. “None of this is your fault.”
Skylar shot me a look that told me I didn’t understand pageant politics, which was true. I knew the backstabbing ways of Hollywood. Could it possibly pale in comparison to the backbiting that occurred behind the scenes at a Southern beauty pageant? I’d heard rumors about teams stealing another contestant’s hair and makeup person, and on TV I’d seen more than one child’s mamma threatening to “throw down” if her child was disqualified for her excessive spray tan. I’d already determined if I had anything to say, I’d leave a short and sweet note on my judging card.
Passive aggressive? Maybe, but trust me, you do not want to get into it with these stage moms. They could be vicious, armed with their Red Bull, yoga pants and “interesting” highlighting jobs.
“People like to play the blame game, you know?” Skylar answered for Josephine.
I nodded. “The old ‘shoot the messenger’ routine, huh?”
Josephine nodded.
“They’ll get it straightened out, I’m sure,” Skylar reassured her.
“Which one is Allessandra?” I asked.
“They’re not here. They’re fighting with the airline about that bag. But I think they’re staying at your aunt Cricket’s bed-and-breakfast, Poppy, so maybe you can help them coordinate getting their luggage when it finally shows up.”
“I’ll do my best.”
So this was it—my first taste of the pageant catfighting, and the reason they had a television show about these kiddie pageants. With that on my mind, I looked around to find the cameras, only they weren’t there. If the executive producer found out they were missing this footage of Josephine crying over this, someone would lose his job.
I reminded myself I was no longer in the television business. I was only here to be a judge for the pageant. No need for me to be on camera or to get involved with this chaos.
“Brittany is sure that Tippy Bradshaw sent that email to start stuff with Allessandra. She’s the local mom whose daughter Dimples is doing the pageant. I’m doing her hair and makeup too. She’s Allessandra’s biggest competition other than the Martindale girl,” Skylar said.
“Who does Heather say the email was from?” I asked.
“Heather says it was anonymous and that she didn’t recognize the email address it came from,” Josephine said.
“Well it doesn’t seem fair for her to only check birth certificates from one child,” I said.
“Tell me about it,” Josephine snorted, and I watched her go from overwhelmed and distressed to pissed off.
“Josephine used to coach a lot of the girls down here before she moved to Dallas,” Skylar said.
“I see.” I nodded.
“Yeah, there’s a lot more money if I can be more centrally located.” Josephine blew her nose loudly into a tissue then balled it up and tossed it into a nearby trash barrel. She missed and it floated onto the ground next to it. I itched to go pick it up and deposit it in the receptacle, but then I got a visceral feel of her wet, snotty tissue and hoped that Josephine would do it.
“I had no idea that coaching little kids’ pageants was so lucrative,” I said.
“Oh yeah,” Skylar said. “That’s why I’ve been helping with the hair and makeup for some of these girls. I would love to be able to dress some of them in the future. A few of them are really going places.”
It was a shame that I couldn’t have gone to Hollywood t
en years later than I did. Then I could have brought Skylar with me. She would absolutely love being a stylist out there, and she could’ve started out by being mine. But I was happy to be home now. I wanted to make my place here, so me and Skylar and her twin sister Mads (short for Madison) would just have to set the world on fire from our small town floral shop.
Running a little shop sounded great to me, but I wasn’t sure if it would be a big enough life for Skylar.
Josephine looked like she was feeling a little better. There was hope for dragging her out of her funk. “Hey, I think they have Creamsicles over there. Want one?”
Skylar gave me a look that told me she hadn’t eaten a Creamsicle since she was five and Josephine said, “Um, I don’t do dairy.”
“Well, I can’t resist.” I smiled, and made my way over to the cooler where I’d seen the frozen treats emerge from. As I passed the refreshments table, I snatched up a couple of extra napkins and used one to aid me in the disposal of Josephine’s discarded tissue.
Littering is a big pet peeve of mine.
After I’d done that and snagged myself an orange ice cream treat, I looked over at the empty table where I was supposed to sit. To heck with that, I thought and went back to hang out with my friends.
Later that night, I went into the kitchen where my aunt Cricket was doing some dishes, her gnarled fingers wiping the wet spots off before setting the mugs in the cupboard.
“Hi,” she said, looking up. “How was the party?”
I slunk down into a chair at the breakfast table. “I’m not sure you could really call it a party.” A barbecue dinner at the beach was nothing like the parties I was accustomed to attending. Those usually involved highbrow catering, a red carpet, and paparazzi.
“Well, did you have fun?” she asked, not playing into my sullen game of comparisons.
I shrugged. “I guess. Some of the kids were cute.”
She chuckled. “I should hope so if they’re entered in a beauty pageant.”
That made me smile despite myself. “The director is a ‘b’.”