Beautiful Beast

by Dayle A Dermatis

  Did the judges know? Would they do that, just to see how I held up under pressure? Or was it just a sick, twisted coincidence?

  I’d practiced enough that the first words I said weren’t coming from conscious thought, but automatic response. “I believe drunk driving is inexcusable.”

  What next? “It’s not just risking your own life, but the lives of everyone on the road the same time as you.”

  I wanted to give the statistic of how many people were killed by drunk drivers every year, but my mind went blank. My wonderful, math-loving mind completely and utterly deserted me at that precise moment, refusing to give me the most important number I’d ever needed.

  My smile didn’t waver. I paused a little too long, but then I plowed on. “It doesn’t matter how many people are killed by drunk drivers—each one of those people matters to someone. Drunk driving is a choice, and I believe the sentencing should be serious, even for the first offence.”

  At first, I’d sort of wanted the guy who killed my parents dead, even as, at the same time, I was horrified for wanting it.

  “Along with sentencing, offenders should get counseling for their addiction. Hopefully they will also come to understand the way their actions can ruin people’s lives. Thank you.”

  I handed the microphone back to the announcer, who said, “A thoughtful comment on drunk driving penalties from Miss Annabelle Moss.”

  The applause followed me back to my prescribed spot between Shania Mendes and Jess Quirke. I pivoted smoothly, not a wobble to be seen.

  But in my head, I was a mess.

  I hadn’t properly answered the question. I hadn’t used a statistic that showed I really understood the issue, and I’d completely talked around the part about what the harsher sentencing should be.

  Mentioning counseling was a good thing, though. Or was it? Not all drunk drivers were alcoholics; that assumption could offend some people. As if I cared that a drunk driver got offended by something I said.

  Oddly, I wondered what Taryn would have to say about this. Oddly, that I cared about.

  My emotions yo-yoed. Even as I was kicking myself for not nailing the answer, I hadn’t completely fumbled or said something utterly inane. My talent portion had been spot on. I had a killer dress for the evening gown portion, and oh, look at that, it was time to start walking, make a wide circle on the stage and then file backstage to change for the swimsuit competition.

  Many pageants were calling this the fitness category. It was supposed to be about physical fitness, good health, and how well we chose the outfits to fit our personal tastes and bodies. (All of the competitions included that last part, really.) But whatever you called it, this portion still involved sliding into a bathing suit.

  Because this was a teen pageant, we were restricted to one-piece suits, no bikinis. Mrs. Wentworth and Kiara (whose fashion talents apparently went beyond gowns) had decided on a purple suit, cut high on the thighs with two thin bands across each hip, and a plunging neckline with three bands across my torso. It stood out from the simpler suits without being overly flashy. (Suits did not need rhinestones, IMO.)

  Butt glue to keep my suit from giving me a wedgie aside, my spirits lifted during this portion. I’d lost almost all the weight Mrs. Wentworth said I needed to (fourteen pounds as of this morning, although I’d been drinking water and chewing caffeine gum) and that gave me a rush right there. My belly was flat, my legs looked killer in my heels, and if I held my arms just so, Carlos swore he saw the beginnings of that triceps curve.

  I had been surreptitiously checking out the other contestants’ arms. Many of them did not have triceps curves at all. I felt bad for feeling the tiniest bit smug.

  I felt great, however, about the swimsuit portion, in part because it was easy, as long as I didn’t trip or wobble. I smiled, I posed, I did everything right.

  One more big circle, back to the dressing room, time for the evening gown portion.

  Time to put on that amazing dress with its aquamarine bead pattern, with a mermaid train that put a little swish in my walk. The gown that, for me, made this shit real (although I could never say that in front of Mrs. Wentworth; I had learned her feelings about swearing the hard way). Shania whistled as she zipped me up.

  “Girl, you are a heartbreaker in that thing,” she said. “You can do no wrong.”

  I pressed a hand to my stomach, not to feel its shape, but because inside it felt like Eliza taking out zombies. A full-on Regency massacre.

  I couldn’t believe the pageant was almost over. This one last sweep around the stage, and then they’d announce the winners, and everything I’d worked for would be done. Sure, there’d be another pageant soon enough, but this one… Mrs. Wentworth had been right: this one was the only one, right here, right now.

  The pageants I’d done as a child hadn’t had nearly the same impact. They’d been fun—I’d loved to go out and dance (with no self-awareness about how good my dancing might be) and pose and do a little routine and have everyone clap for me. They’d given every little girl a sash, calling her a princess, no matter if she made it to the top three or the top ten or not. It had been more about the excitement and my parents hugging me afterwards and telling me they were proud of me. Winning was the icing on the cake…because along with getting a sparkly tiara (and what six-year-old doesn’t love a sparkly tiara?), I’d get a cupcake with a sparkler and a plastic thing sticking out of it that said You’re a Star!

  Now, I dabbed powder on my face and fluffed my hair and looked at myself dead-on in the mirror. I was a star! Time to bring this baby home.

  And then collapse on the sofa with Taryn and a snack and you know what? Whatever movie she wanted to watch. That sounded even better than a cupcake.

  Fourteen

  I was in the top ten. In my first teen pageant—my first real pageant, and my first any-kind-of-pageant in ten years—I made it to the top ten.

  Then I made it to the top five. I could barely breathe. I felt lightheaded, and I bit the inside of my lip to ground myself, to keep myself from floating away, never breaking my smile.

  Shania gripped my right hand so tightly it hurt, although not as much as the teeth whitening or the very personal waxing. Her hand was clammy. On my other side, a girl whose name I couldn’t remember clung to me with a hot, sweaty hand. Under all the perfume and talc, I could smell the level of perspiration from all the contestants. We were sweating from anticipation as well as because of the lights, which felt hotter and brighter than ever.

  “Miss Annabelle Moss!”

  Second runner-up. Me.

  My breath whooshed out of me and my polished, practiced smile cracked into a massive cheek-straining grin as someone draped the sash across me and handed me a bunch of purple and white flowers. Holy moly! Third place!

  Shania made a high keening noise, almost silent. A little higher and it would have been only for dogs to hear. I was pretty sure she wasn’t aware of it.

  It was between her and Jess Quirke. I mentally crossed my fingers for Shania. I barely knew her, but she’d been nice to me, and her bubbly, breathless personality had been infectious.

  They announced her as first runner-up, and she gave a small scream, which was lost under Jess’s louder shriek of triumph. They both cried. I had tears glittering heavily on my long, fake lashes.

  Everything after that was a blur. We did a final exit, and then the changing room was in an uproar. Everyone’s nerves released, and all the tension poured out like a dam bursting. The chatter beforehand had been restrained; now it was at full volume, full speed. Laughter, a few tears, hugging, everyone rushing to change out of their gowns and heels into jeans or soft summer dresses, to gather up all their belongings. Sequins glittered, water spilled, people bustled and jostled.

  I managed to get a selfie with Shania and Jess and post it to Instagram. Top of the heap! #secondrunnerup #pageantprincess #didntfallover #gloriousday #icecreamnowplease

  I also texted the picture to Aunt Pat, telling her ho
w well I’d done, and that I’d call her tomorrow with all the details.

  I packed up all my stuff—I’d only touched a fraction of it, but I was glad I’d been prepared—and thought to pile it on the bottom of the garment rack. My dresses were hung safely in the bag. I rolled the rack out the door and waited for Mrs. Wentworth to pull the car around.

  The summer night air was a soft caress against my cheek. As much as I’d loved the makeup, now I wanted it off, wanted to feel the breeze against my bare skin. Wanted to blink without the heaviness of the false lashes, without seeing them in the edges of my vision.

  A group of girls tumbled out the door behind me. They were going out to enjoy the fair—did anyone want to join them?

  It was tempting, but notwithstanding the fact that Mrs. Wentworth didn’t seem like the fair type, I thought it would be more fun with Taryn and her sharply astute, dry comments. She would point out how all the games were rigged, say “Whatever” about the quilting contest, but she would probably like the Ferris wheel. It would take us away from the crowds and the noise, and at the top, we’d see a pretty glittering midway, a miniature world from our height. She’d probably want to sketch it.

  I envied her, and her desire to stop and capture the world, capture a moment. I’d been so focused, pushing so hard for this pageant, and now it was over. Poof. Done. No do-overs, no strict schedule for tomorrow, go home.

  It wasn’t a bad feeling. Just a confusing one. I was thrilled at how well I’d done, but I was also exhausted now that the adrenaline had drained away. It wasn’t exactly a letdown…it was hard to describe. I wanted to remember everything, tell someone all about it, each detail. I wanted to sit quietly and process.

  I wanted to rewind to yesterday morning and do it all again, but this time pay more attention, savor every moment.

  I’d settle for a movie and a snack with Taryn.

  No, it wouldn’t be settling. It didn’t feel like settling at all.

  I wished, again, that I could talk to her about this experience. Maybe she would be more willing to listen now, given that she’d done my makeup and given me a really sweet, heartfelt pep talk. That could be an opening for me to explain why this was important to me.

  We might finally be able to make that connection.

  The Mercedes pulled up. Other exiting contestants streamed around the car as Taryn got out to help me.

  Mrs. Wentworth didn’t shut off the car or get out. She sat inside, hands on the wheel, looking straight ahead while Taryn and I put boxes in the trunk and hooked my garment bag above the door. By the time I’d returned the clothing rack inside, Taryn had hopped in the back, leaving me the front seat. She probably figured her mother and I would have a lot to talk about, and it made more sense for us not to try having a conversation over the seat.

  “Thanks,” I said to Taryn over my shoulder. She nodded once, then looked out the window. I suppressed a sigh. Maybe the connection was further away than I thought. I wouldn’t let it bring me down, though. I was too jazzed to let anything ruin my mood.

  I was wrong about that last part.

  Mrs. Wentworth didn’t speak as we wound our way out of the fairgrounds. I’d already figured out she wasn’t the demonstrative type, but I’d expected some level of congratulations. Not a car filled with balloons, maybe, but happiness, a fist bump, something.

  Maybe she’d had something set up at home while we were gone, balloons and cake prepared by the invisible staff?

  We waited, blinker ticking, to turn onto the main road. Traffic cleared, and we moved. It was dark out here, the glow of the fair behind us, the fairgrounds far enough from houses and businesses that the late-night lights and noises didn’t bother anyone.

  Finally, Mrs. Wentworth spoke.

  “First of all,” she said, her voice steely, “that selfie was extremely inappropriate. One does not gloat. One does not suggest one might have ‘fallen over.’”

  I heard those quotes, I really did.

  “And the photo itself… Filters exist for a reason. You did not present your best self. I didn’t delete it, because you do need to make your pageant presence known, but in the future I must insist that you run all photos of yourself by me—and any accompanying text—before you post them.”

  I slid a little further down in the leather seat with each sentence. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I was just so excited. It was a heat-of-the-moment thing.”

  “The heat of the moment is when people make the most damaging decisions,” she snapped. “Don’t make excuses for your poor judgment.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.” Tears were forming on my lashes again, and I blinked them away. I didn’t want to be obvious by swiping at my eyes.

  “As for your performance itself. Well. Your interview was appalling. Appalling. You hesitated, you didn’t give any specifics to show that you were familiar with the issue, and then you barely answered the question at all.”

  I sucked in a breath, which came in shakier than I wanted it to. My hands felt ice cold, and I pressed them between my knees.

  “It’s just, my par—”

  “Are you a girl who makes excuses, or are you a girl who owns up to her mistakes?” She didn’t wait for an answer; she just barreled on. “You sounded unprepared, and that was what cost you first runner-up at least. Then there was everything else that made it clear you weren’t winning material.”

  She proceeded to run through every flaw in my performance, every mistake I’d made, everything that had been wrong with my hair or makeup or clothing, no matter how trivial. On one hand, details mattered, and these were things I could improve on. (I was damn sure I wouldn’t make the same mistakes again.)

  On the other hand, each small offense piled on top of the last one, crushing me under the weight of her words and the magnitude of my failures.

  She didn’t have to say she was deeply disappointed in me. It was in the way her hands gripped the wheel, in the way the muscle in her jaw moved, in the way her nostrils flared.

  It was in everything she said, and everything she didn’t say.

  Second runner-up was not first place. Second-runner up was not the County Miss Pageant title.

  Second runner-up, like everything else up to winning, was a failure.

  And so was I.

  When Mrs. Wentworth finished, she didn’t look at me. She just kept driving, her eyes on the road or occasionally flicking to the rearview or side view mirrors. Now we rode in silence. The reflective markers at the side of the road and the dashed white line in the center steadily flashed by.

  I turned my head ever so slightly, shifted my eyes to see into the back seat. Taryn’s head was turned as she stared resolutely out the window. It was too dark to see her expression in the reflection of the window, just a blur, unmoving as the rest of her.

  That was how it was the rest of the way home.

  The rose gates closed behind the car with a sense of finality.

  There would be no balloons, no cake, no celebration.

  There was only silence.

  Taryn wouldn’t meet my eye as she helped me carry my things inside. We piled everything into the elevator, rode up, made two trips to my room. When I turned to thank her, she was already gone.

  My phone buzzed. A text from Emilia. A picture of her, Madison, and Brittany making kissy face at the camera, flashing thumbs-up and peace signs, with u go girl! So proud of u, pagent princss!

  I could tell from the background that they were at the movies. That seemed so far away. Like another world, one I hardly remembered anymore.

  I missed them, but at the same time, I didn’t think they would understand. They would to a degree, but in the end, they’d just do or say things to make me laugh, to bring me out of my funk, rather than really listen.

  I hung the garment bag in the closet; I’d unpack the dresses tomorrow, see if they needed dry cleaning or repairs. Ditto pretty much everything else.

  I went back downstairs, barefoot, padding across carpet and tile,
to the kitchen. I was starving. I didn’t have the energy to cook, so I ate blueberries and strawberries and fat-free cottage cheese standing up at the deep farmhouse sink. Even though I didn’t eat much, I ate steadily—too fast—and I felt a little sick. I sucked down some water, then grabbed a diet Coke.

  I hesitated, my hand hovering over a second can. Taryn’s door had been closed. I had no idea what was going on with her, and I probably wasn’t good company anyway. Truth be told, I was exhausted. I was going to shower; do eleventy-seven steps of skin care to remove my makeup, exfoliate, tone, and slather on all three different kinds of moisturizer; and go to bed.

  I popped the top of the can and guzzled the effervescent nectar. Bloating be damned. Tomorrow was another day.

  I tided up the kitchen, recycling a plastic berry container and a white plastic ring from some kind of bottle that had been left on the counter. I had a sense that I was delaying something, doing busywork, and I wasn’t sure why. I still felt the need to be extra-neat, as if this still wasn’t my home. Invisible servants or not.

  In my suite, I dropped my jeans and summer sweater on the closet floor along with my panties—I still had to shower and baby-oil off the boob tape—then rummaged through the dressers to find pjs. Soft ones, comfortable ones I could snuggled into like a security blanket.

  At the bottom of the drawer, beneath the silk and Egyptian brushed cotton nightgowns Mrs. Wentworth had bought me, I found a pair I’d forgotten about.

  My breath stuttered, and my heart squeezed as if someone were juicing it like a lemon. The pain was worse than teeth bleaching, because teeth bleaching I’d chosen to do. I couldn’t escape this.

  My mother had apparently shopped ahead for my birthday a few months ago, and Aunt Pat had found the pj set while she was cleaning out my parents’ room. Pale pink T-shirt and brushed cotton loose capri pants. A big cartoon crown splashed across the shirt, and little crowns dotted the pants. There was still a card tucked into the top of the neatly folded shirt. I didn’t have to pull it out to read it; I’d done that on my birthday.