When she was finished, I couldn’t help laughing. “I look like Marie Antoinette in her wig.”
“Who?” Mama said, not r eally paying attention. She stared fiercely at the snowy folds of my skirt. “You think I got all the wrinkles out?” she said, but before I could answer, there was a knock at the door and we heard Miss Denise half whispering out in the hall, “It’s me, Janie!”
She was wearing black jeans and a bright green blazer and too much perfume, the kind some movie star makes, because if you’re a movie star, then you know what men like. At least, that’s what Miss Denise says. “Well, good Lord, girl! ” she said, squeezing herself into the tiny bathroom with me. “Don’t you just look fantastic!”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Ooh, Janie, this dress is perfect. Per-fect. It sets off her skin so nice.” Miss Denise put her makeup cases on the counter and looked me up and down, hands on her hips. “Oh, yes. Perfect. Don’t you think, Olivia?”
“I think it’ll make the judges think of Christmas,” I said.
“Oh, yes. Definitely. Yes, indeed,” Miss Denise said, nodding, still judging. “You’ll knock their socks off.”
“That’s what I think,” Mama said from the doorway. “You don’t think it looks wrinkled?”
“I don’t think so, Janie, no.” Miss Denise studied every part of me as though I was a car she was thinking of buying, then flashed her pageant smile at Mama. “You did good, girl!”
Mama smiled. “I was worrying all night about wrinkles,” she said.
“Now, Olivia, you haven’t eaten this morning, have you?” Miss Denise unzipped one of her cases, getting ready for makeup applicating. “You don’t want to be looking puffy onstage.”
Something changed on Mama’s face. “Denise, I’m not one for having Olivia Jane skip meals.”
“I’m just saying—”
Mama’s brow furrowed. “In our house, we don’t believe in not eating for no good reason.”
Mama had been a yo-yo dieter when she was a girl. She knew how bad that was.
Miss Denise shrugged in a's uit-yourself kind of way, and also in a well-I’m-too-polite-to-say-so-but-have-you-looked-in-a-mirror-lately? kind of way. My heart broke a little, but Mama ignored her. She pulled an apple and a cruller and a plastic bottle of orange juice from her suitcase and handed them to me. “Here you go, baby,” she said.
I took a huge bite of the apple and chewed loudly on purpose. It tasted absolutely delicious.
Miss Denise fussed with her makeup brushes, pretending to ignore me. “How much time we got, Janie? Half hour? Forty minutes?” She looked at me, suddenly all business, and said, “Let’s get a move on, Olivia. We’re running out of time.”
I finished my breakfast while Miss Denise arranged her brushes and creams and gels and powders. Foundation and concealer, eyelash curler, false eyelashes, liner. Like at the dentist’s office: all the tools for poking and scraping laid out. I raised my face to the light so Miss Denise could see her work.
She told me when to close my eyes, when to look up, when to purse my lips. Her eyes narrowed into slits. I knew it wasn’t really me she was seeing. By the end, I would be invisible, hidden away.
“You been practicing your dance?” she asked. Wanting to let me know how mad she was about Mrs. Drucker, all the trouble she’d gone through to get me a lesson, how ungrateful I was, and full of myself, turning up my nose at that kind of opportunity.
“I’m not dancing,” I said. “I’m singing.”
Miss Denise’s jaw dropped. She looked up at Mama, who was standing behind me in the tub, taking the rollers out of my hair. Then she looked back at me.
“What? Olivia Jane, are you out of your gol-darned mind?” she said.
“I’m doing it.”
“You been practicing? On your own? Janie, did you know about this?”
Mama shook her head as she fumbled with a roller, her lips folded into a thin, stiff line. “I did not. And I ain’t too happy about it, neither.”
“Well, I can see why.” Miss Denise glared at me. “Olivia, I am taken aback by this.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “It’ll be all right.”
“Honey, have you heard yourself?” She shook her head. “I don’t understand why you didn’t go see Mrs. Elsie Drucker if you had your heart set on singing.”
“It will be all right,” I said.
In the mirror, I could see Miss Denise and Mama exchange a look. Mama shook her head and said, “I guess it’s in the Lord’s hands now,” and Miss Denise, who didn’t care for church, said, “I hope He’s wearing earplugs.”
Minutes later, I was finished. Looking at myself in the mirror in my gown, my hair-sprayed curls tumbling over my shoulders, my face shiny with new glaze, I smiled.
Mama stood behind me, her eyes going a little misty. “So pretty, huh?”
“Yes,” I said, but that wasn’t why I was smiling.
It was because, for the first time, I could see myself under all that stuff.
We walked fast down the hallway toward the conference room. “Good luck!” the woman sitting at the table out front whispered after she’d checked me in.
Mama put her hands on my arms. “Now you just do your best, honey,” she said. “Remember everything we talked about. I’ll be praying for you.”
Miss Denise pointed to my eyes, then to hers, then back to mine. “Eye contact. Eye contact. And smile,” she said.
I nodded, already not listening, going into myself. “I know,” I said.
I waited until they’d gone in, then hurried down another hall to get to the door at the front of the conference room, where they’d set up the stage. The carpet was blue with swirls of gold dots, like galaxies of stars in space. Two little girls—blond, in sparkly dresses—stood by the wall, watched over by their mothers. “I’m gonna win!” the taller one said, nodding her head so hard that she tipped at the waist. “I’m gonna win, too!” the other one said, but quietly, not nodding. The taller one glared at her. “Winning only counts if there’s just one,” she said. One of the women leaned down and whispered, “Chantilly, you hush!”
At the door, a woman wearing a red dress and a headset stood with a clipboard. “Olivia Jane Tatum?” she asked. “You ready for your interview, honey?"
"Yes, ma'am."
“It’ll be another minute. Amber Dickerson’s just finishing up. I’m Donna, by the way. I’m Mrs. Crosby’s assistant.” She folded her arms across the clipboard, clamping it to her chest. “You done many pageants?” she asked. “You look like you done a lot of them.”
“I’ve done a few.”
“You girls all look so pretty. The little ones”—she glanced at Chantilly and her friend down the hall—“they’re all so cute. But you older girls. Well, now you can really see. You know. The ones who’ve stuck with it this long, well, you’re the pretty ones. The ones who’ll be pretty grownups.” She opened the door and peeked in, then closed it, holding the handle so the latch wouldn’t make a loud click. “The ones who give up on it have to find another hobby, I guess,” she said.
“It’s not a hobby, exactly.”
“Oh, you’re right. It’s a lifestyle, isn’t it?” She smiled. “You ever met Mrs. Crosby?”
Mrs. Crosby was the pageant coordinator. I’d seen her at the registration desk the night before. She had black hair except for a stripe of silver on the right side, flipped up at the ends. “Just last night,” I said.
“She’s so nice. She loves all you girls. She used to be a schoolteacher. Second grade, I think. But she wanted to do something more. And she was tired of the boys. The way they couldn’t sit still.” She peeked into the conference room again. “Amber’s almost done. You ready, honey?”
“Yes, ma’am. I think so.”
“Now just relax. Have fun with it. And smile.” She laughed. “I guess you know that, right?”
The door opened and Amber Dickerson flounced between us. She wore pale pink, and her creamy, suntanned skin sparkled with
body glitter. “Stupid question! ” she said. “Damn! ” She looked angrily at Donna, ready to argue if she said anything about watching her language. But Donna just smiled nervously and checked something off on her clipboard.
“What’d they ask you?” I asked.
“If I were stuck on an island in the middle of the ocean, what would I bring? Like, how many times have I answered that one? Is my hair okay?” she asked, puffing it up with her gloved hands.
“It’s fine. What did you say?” I asked, only halflistening, waiting to hear my name announced.
“I don’t know. A picture of my granny. A book. I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Shit. I should have said a Bible. Shit.”
“Olivia Jane, you’re on,” Donna said, holding one hand to her headset and pushing me gently through the door. “Good luck! ” I heard her whisper.
Out onstage, I felt myself smiling, holding my hands stiffly down at my sides, my head tall on my neck. I didn’t even have to think. The parts of my body that had work to do just did it, without my even trying. I glanced out at the room, which, I could see now, was just a room, with rows of metal folding chairs, most of them not even being sat on. When I was little, I thought conference rooms looked like movie theaters, grand, the rows of seats extending back and back.
A few parents were clustered up near the front. Mama and Miss Denise were craning their necks, as if there were people in front of them they had to struggle to see over. I looked carefully for the judges’ table, finding it in the front, just at the end of the stage and its little makeshift runway. Three judges, a man and two women. I knew the man and one of the women from other pageants. The women were in their thirties, both wearing the kind of sparkly, low-cut dresses that you’re supposed to wear at night. The man was African American and wore a gray pinstriped suit with a blue satin handkerchief in the breast pocket.
Mrs. Crosby, holding a clipboard in one hand and a microphone in the other, stood in the center of the stage, waiting for me. Her face was lit with a school-teachery smile that said “Relax, dear” and “Get your fanny out here right now” at the same time. “Olivia Jane Tatum!” she said into the microphone. I heard scattered applause, Mama clapping hard, Miss Denise calling, “You go, girl!” I smiled big at each judge, meeting each one’s eyes. The skirt of my dress bobbled stiffly as I walked.
I reached the center of the stage, and Mrs. Crosby said, “Well, now, Olivia.” She smiled as she looked out at the audience. “Your question is, ‘Who do you admire most, and why?’ ” Standing next to her, I thought she seemed to be made of porcelain or clay: something that would break if you dropped it. She was too thin for a grown lady. The silver stripe in her hair made me think that her forehead should have had lines in it.
I thought for a moment. Then I said, “The person I admire most is my friend Dan, because he gets teased all the time for something he can’t help. And even though he hates being teased, he doesn’t let that make him stop being who he really is.”
I could see Miss Denise wincing. She would have said that I was making it too complicated, that I should have kept things simple and just said my mom.
“This Daniel sounds like quite a young man,” Mrs. Crosby said. “Is he a classmate of yours?”
“No. Just a friend. He has to do something hard that he doesn’t really want to do. But he’s going to do it anyway, for his mama, and maybe a little bit for himself.” I’d said too much. I’d gotten too serious. I was making Mrs. Crosby nervous. I knew she wanted the next girl to come out. But I kept talking. “He taught me that part of growing up is knowing when to stand up for yourself. And that, sometimes, backing down is the right thing to do, the better path to walk.”
Mrs. Crosby didn’t know what to do with that. “Thank you, Olivia Jane Tatum!” she said into her microphone. I knew she was just praying that that would get me to shut up and give the next girl a turn.
Before I turned to make my way backstage, I saw one of the judges lean over her scorecard and make a check mark. When she looked up again, she smiled at me and winked.
“How’d you do?” Donna said when I’d gotten back out into the hallway.
“Okay. Not so great, maybe. I don’t know.” My heart was thudding.
“It’s hard to tell sometimes.” She patted my glove. “Don’t worry, honey. You just get yourself back down here at eleven for Talent, okay?”
Mama and Miss Denise were heading toward me. “Who’s this Dan?” Mama was asking as Miss Denise said, “It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s just Interview. We got lots of time. Don’t nobody panic.”
I let them fuss for a minute, primping my curls, smoothing my skirt. Mama asked Miss Denise was I better than the others, and Miss Denise said it didn’t matter, I was prettier than any of the other gol-darned girls.
I didn’t say anything. I thought how just talking about him—saying his name—made it seem like he was in the room with me.
I wore my green satin dress for Talent. “It’s cute,” Miss Denise said as she and Mama rode the elevator down with me, Miss Denise taking advantage of the privacy to floss her teeth. “They’ll see you got cute legs.” She wrapped the used floss around her fingers and stuffed it in her purse.
Outside the stage door, I let Donna tell me what everyone else was doing: Amber was tap dancing, Candace Hebert was twirling a baton, Whitney Sullivan was doing a cheerleading routine with cartwheels and splits. A few girls were singing. Marla Timmons had sung “My Heart Will Go On” like an opera singer. I’d heard her sing it before. It gave me goose bumps.
“You all set?” Donna asked me as McKenzie French left the stage after doing gymnastics to “Cowboy Casanova.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, but my teeth were chattering.
“Let’s welcome back Olivia Jane Tatum!” Mrs. Crosby said from the stage. I felt Donna’s push on my back and walked out into the bright lights and the clapping that sounded like wild animals scrabbling in an attic. I smiled from habit. I reached the center of the stage and beamed at each judge, but only because I was so used to doing it that I did it automatically, without thinking.
I was vibrating with fear.
Oh! You beautiful doll,
You great big beautiful doll!
Let me put my arms about you,
I could never live without you;
Oh! You beautiful doll,
You great big beautiful doll!
I was terrible. I could tell. But somehow, it was all right, better than if I’d tried to prop myself up with lessons from Mrs. Drucker, who wouldn’t have made a difference in just a week or two. That would have been something I did for Mama and Miss Denise. This was just for me, to show myself I could.
It was weird not to mind being bad at something, for once.
If you ever leave me, how my heart will ache,
I want to hug you but I fear you’d break.
Oh, oh, oh, oh,
Oh, you beautiful doll!
Oh, oh, oh, oh,
Oh, you beautiful doll!
If I was going to spend time working at getting good at something, it wasn’t going to be singing. Chess, maybe, or public speaking. Mrs. Fogelson would sponsor a public-speaking club, I was pretty sure. The pretty girls and the jocks would laugh. It was okay. I could be in my own box.
The judges were writing things down, whispering to each other. Mrs. Crosby, standing off to the side, bit her lower lip and looked out at the audience, smiling a little, as though she was saying she was sorry and not to worry, it would be over soon.
The applause was thin; Miss Denise’s “You go, Olivia Jane!” was too loud and made the clapping sound even quieter.
I smiled and bowed, happiness and maybe just a little relief flooding through me like a river.
Beauty was at two o’clock. The babies were first, held up by their mamas for the judges to see. I stood at the back of the conference room with all the girls from the preteen and teen divisions to watch. It was always my favorite part of any pageant. The babies wer
e so cute in their little suits, and the mamas so proud and each sure her own particular baby would win.
The Pee Wees were next. Pushed out onstage by their mamas, who got to stand backstage with them. Some of the girls cried; one stamped her foot and sat down on the stage, pouting. The people in the audience laughed, knowing it was always a risk, that a little girl might just throw a fit for the whole dang world to see. The girl sitting down let her mama pull her up to standing, but when she stamped her foot again, her mama led her off. The other mamas clapped politely and said things to each other about how hard it is to miss a nap. But I could tell they were faking their niceness. They were really thinking, My daughter’s so much better. My daughter’s going to win.
The Little Misses were between five and seven, so their mamas stood in the back of the room, reminding them what they were supposed to be doing. They pointed at their own teeth-baring smiles and mouthed “Look at the judges!” without actually talking. The girls smiled and turned, and one of them—so happy to be the center of everyone’s attention—even waved as she walked offstage. Their faces were all pretty, all a little bit the same: a painted-on blankness, smiles that had been learned, nothing to do with happiness. Eyes propped open, unblinking.
We—the teens—were next. Lining up outside the door, I smiled, thinking of what everyone would do if I just sat down on the stage and refused to move. Of course, I wouldn’t really do it. But in the old days, I wouldn’t even have let myself think about it: it would have been like standing too close to the edge of the Grand Canyon and feeling as though you might forget yourself and jump. Now I didn’t care. Now I thought, I could if I wanted.
“Your singing sucked,” Amber Dickerson whispered. She was just ahead of me, in her cotton candy dress, leaning backwards to whisper so Donna couldn’t hear.
“I know,” I said.
“My coach said they might make a new rule, that you’re not allowed to sing unless you get pageant-director approval first. All because of you,” Amber said.
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