The Beauty Queen Read online

  “The whole contest isn’t cooked enough,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  “Me neither,” I agreed. “My name’s Kit.”

  “Cynthia,” she said. “They’ll never give it to anybody named Cynthia. Too aristocratic.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “What’s your talent?”

  “Baton twirling,” she said.

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “It’s the only talent I have. Besides we decided it would be homey enough to counteract my name.”

  “Do you know how to twirl?”

  “No,” she said. “But I figure the judges don’t know either. I’m planning to fake my way through.”

  “I know the feeling,” I said.

  “I’m a sophomore at Barnard,” she said. “I wouldn’t be here except my father decided it would help business if I entered. If my friends at Barnard hear about it, I’ll have to drop out.”

  “I’m hoping I won’t win,” I said. “I have other things to do.”

  “I know I won’t,” she said. “They never choose baton twirlers. Especially if they go to Barnard and have names like Cynthia.”

  “That must be very comforting,” I said.

  “It’s all I have to hold on to,” she said.

  The conversation made me feel better. In Great Oaks, everybody had wanted to win. Maybe here it was different, and all the girls would be just as happy to lose. I felt a lot more relaxed.

  After lunch, the thirty-five of us did our talent presentations. That way, the judges could cut the number down to ten for the evening event. Most of the talent was terrible. I liked Cynthia’s act though. She had a baton, and she threw it into the air a couple of times. The second time she caught it.

  “Not bad for a beginner,” she said.

  One of the judges snorted. The others were very somber. I realized that they weren’t going to laugh at just anything, especially if it made fun of the talent competition.

  At the end of her act, Cynthia threw the baton in the air, and tried to catch it while she jumped. Instead, she tripped and fell and the baton hit her on the head. She got up, tucked the baton under her arm, and smiled as if it were all part of the act. For all I knew, it was.

  I read my Anne Frank selections. I was good. It annoyed me slightly, since if I’d been really bad that would have ended things right there, but I just couldn’t botch her up. I remembered doing the play, remembered everything the director and I had discussed about her, and it was all there when I did the selections. A couple of the girls applauded when I finished, and I smiled. It had been a long time since I’d felt in control of a situation, but I did right then.

  The talent competition took all afternoon. About half the girls sang, or tried to. A few did ballet, but none of them were any good. One girl did a ventriloquism act, and I knew she was going to make it to the ten finalists. There were six baton twirlers, including Cynthia, and five actresses, including me. I was definitely the best actress. A couple of the singers had been very good, but what they had in talent, they lacked in looks. The best of the singers was positively pudgy. My chief competition, I decided, was a girl who did acrobatics. She was at least five foot nine, with waist-length hair and great cheekbones. I wouldn’t have minded looking like her myself.

  When I realized I was systematically categorizing the competition, I got a little scared. I didn’t want to do well in the contest. Actually, my ambition was to be fourth runner-up. It would make Mom feel better, I decided, knowing I’d been in the running, but there would be no responsibilities. I tried to feel like a fourth runner-up for the rest of the day, but it’s not the easiest thing to grab on to. It was simple to feel like a winner, just as easy to feel like a loser. But a fourth runner-up didn’t feel like much of anything.

  After talent, we had a light supper, during which I complimented Cynthia on her baton twirling.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I worked very hard on it yesterday.”

  “Nothing like giving your all for a contest,” I said.

  “You’ll make it as a finalist,” she said. “Miss Haverstown and I have a bet going whether you’ll win. She says yes, I say no.”

  “I’m on your side,” I said. “I think the acrobat will win.”

  “No,” she said. “Too tall. And much too beautiful. They don’t like them when they’re that classic-looking. Too much like models, not wholesome enough. My money’s on Miss Claridge.”

  “She did one of the dances, right?” I said. “She can’t dance worth beans.”

  “You know that, and I know that, but I’ll give you odds the judges don’t. They’re very impressed with Art around here. And she doesn’t look like a dancer. Her thighs aren’t muscular. They like them when their thighs are thin.”

  “I’m still going with Acrobatics,” I said. “She’s the best-looking one here.”

  “Yeah, if you go for cheekbones,” Cynthia said. “Dimples are more the judges’ speed.”

  “It’s funny,” I said. “I don’t want to win. But I feel terribly competitive.”

  “I know,” Cynthia said. “I feel the same way. Only I don’t have the talent, and you do. Watch, I won’t make it to the finals.”

  “I hope you do,” I said. “I’d feel better knowing you were one.”

  “No way,” she said. “But thanks.”

  After supper, we were given half an hour to rest, which meant lying down on cots, pretending not to talk, and then we were sent to put on our make-up and get into our evening gowns. The evening gowns were a formality, since the judges had already decided who the ten finalists were to be. The make-up was a problem since I didn’t wear any. Cynthia finally got me some green eyeshadow and a little mascara. I didn’t feel any prettier when I had it on, but she pointed out, correctly, that it would bring my eyes out more, and the judges expected it of me. We all admired each others’ dresses. Cynthia’s was a multicolored chiffon.

  “That is a gorgeous dress,” I said.

  “Thanks,” she said. “They never choose girls in multicolored dresses, but I figured if I had to be in the contest, I might at least get a nice dress out of it, so I chose this one.”

  “My mother got me this,” I said. “After a massive fight.”

  “It looks like your mother got it,” she said. “But good. Appropriate. They like dresses like that.”

  Most of the girls were wearing white, or pale pink. I felt almost daring in green.

  “Pastels,” Cynthia said. “Pastels, ruffles, and dimples. Never fails. There are a lot of last year’s prom dresses here. I can spot them a mile off.”

  “What are you majoring in?” I asked.

  “Chemistry,” she said. “But even chem majors can spot last year’s prom dresses.”

  We were then lined up, in alphabetical order, and the piano player who was accompanist for the talent that needed it, as well as professional entertainer for the evening, began playing “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody.” The first girl in the line assumed it was a cue, and started walking on stage, but Ms. Dearing pushed her back. The girl started to cry, and Ms. Dearing shook her and told her to get control of herself. We all felt awful.

  Our master of ceremonies said some stuff about how this year’s Miss Harrison County contestants were the prettiest and most poised he had ever seen, which started a giggling fit backstage. Ms. Dearing went around shushing us. The MC then said some stuff about how smart we were and what a tough job the judges would have. At which point the piano player started playing “Michele,” and Ms. Dearing told the first girl to start walking.

  She gave us each a little push when it was time for us to start across stage. I have a feeling half the girls would never have made it if it hadn’t been for that shove. I was eager to get it over with and walked a half pace too fast, took a deep breath, and slowed myself down.

  The lights were terrible. I’m used to stage lights, but these blinded me. I reassured myself that everybody else on
stage started out blind and walked around, listening to the applause.

  First we walked, and then we stood there, listening to the cheers. The MC made a few more comments about our loveliness and promised the audience a great show as well. The piano player played “What the World Needs Now” and sang, slightly off key. I winced, then smiled broadly, since wincers never win (and winners never wince).

  The judges finished with their lists of finalists, and handed it to the MC. They were in no particular order, he said. I was the fourth name on the list, which I regarded as a good omen, for being fourth runner-up. The acrobat also made it, and Miss Claridge, the bad dancer did, as well. Cynthia didn’t, and neither did the pudgy girl with the good voice. I hadn’t paid that much attention to the other finalists.

  We were all ushered backstage, where the ten finalists changed into their bathing suits. A few of the losers were crying. Cynthia looked relieved.

  “Win it for the gipper,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Enjoy the show.”

  Walking around in my bathing suit wasn’t so bad, since I’d had some practice with it. I had one advantage over everybody else, including Miss Acrobatics. They all had spiked heels on, the kind that went out of style everywhere, but beauty contests, years ago. I was wearing sandals. Even Mom had agreed it wasn’t worth the money for me to buy spike-heeled shoes.

  The audience applauded us all. I think I got a little more applause than some of the girls, but not as much as Miss Acrobatics. It was hard to judge. By then I’d adjusted to the lights and was spending my time trying to smile like a fourth runner-up.

  When we finished we went backstage and changed into our talent outfits, while the pianist sang a medley of Cole Porter songs. I decided he was supposed to sound bad, to make us look better. That was the best excuse I could come up with.

  We couldn’t see the talent from backstage, which was a pity, since I wanted to see how the other girls were. The singers we could hear though, and you could tell they were nervous. Miss Acrobatics got a lot of applause, and so did a batonist. The ventriloquist was very popular. I decided she’d win. And then it was my turn.

  The problem was I could feel like a fourth runner-up in my bathing suit, and in my evening gown, but I just couldn’t with the talent part. I blamed it on Anne Frank and what the part had meant to me when I’d first done it, since it was what proved to me I was an actress. I’d suspected it for years before that, but the director’s encouragement had made it seem real, and I loved Anne for that. I was no fourth runner-up when I read from her diary to the audience. I was a winner and I knew it. I went backstage and told myself that they preferred ventriloquists to actresses.

  The ten of us went out again in our evening gowns and listened to the pianist who, fortunately, this time just played. The judges handed in their list of five finalists.

  It was the ventriloquist, Miss Claridge, Miss Acrobatics, a singer, and me. I was the last one named, and I held on to that for comfort.

  Five folding seats were set up for us. We sat down and congratulated each other. I tried to look unenthusiastic, but I was nervous, and when I’m nervous, from a distance I look excited. So I tried to look blasé instead, but I don’t think that came off too much better.

  The judges then handed the MC five cards, with questions to ask us. They’d told us beforehand that the questions would be a big factor in deciding who the winner would be. I decided to stutter when they asked me mine.

  The first girl was asked who she admired most in the world. She listed her father, the pope, and John Lennon. We agreed that it was an interesting group. She said it was because they all believed in peace.

  The second girl was asked about walking on the moon. She said she couldn’t wait to go herself.

  The third girl was Miss Acrobatics. I had high hopes for her. They asked her what she thought the most noble quality in man was, and she said selfishness. It seems she’d just finished reading Ayn Rand. I closed my eyes in sorrow, knowing she’d blown it. Selfishness was not big with beauty contest judges.

  The ventriloquist was asked what was the most important event in her lifetime. She said the Miss Harrison County Beauty Contest. I had the feeling the judges were looking for an answer like the A-bomb, or J.F.K.’s assassination, but I couldn’t be too sure. In any event, I decided, she hadn’t blown it like Miss Acrobatics.

  “And now Miss Great Oaks,” the MC said. “This year’s Miss Great Oaks is named Kit Carson. She’s five foot seven, and weighs one hundred and sixteen pounds.”

  I stood there, waiting for my question, and smiled.

  “Tell me, Kit, what do you think the role of youth is in today’s society.”

  “Youth?” I asked, and forgot all about stuttering. “I think youth today has an obligation to listen to what their elders say, to learn from their wisdom. I think we also have a responsibility to listen to our conscience and refuse to make the mistakes that so many generations have made before us. The youth of today must learn, but they must also teach.”

  I knew I’d blown it as soon as I sat down. Good-by Miss Fourth Runner-Up. Method acting had taken its toll again. I didn’t even blink when they announced that I’d won.

  Chapter 8

  “You blew it,” Greg said, as we drove home from the contest.

  “What do you mean blew it?” Mom said. “Kit won, silly. I couldn’t have been more proud if it was me on stage.”

  “I wish it had been,” I said. I was feeling very miserable.

  “You looked beautiful,” Marly said.

  “I felt beautiful,” I said. “That’s the killer. I felt like a winner. I didn’t want to, but I did.”

  “It showed,” Mom said. “You looked like a champion, like you’d go all the way. Do the same thing for the state contest.”

  “My God, the state contest,” I said. “I forgot all about it.”

  “How could you?” Mom asked. “That’s what we have to prepare for. You can’t get away with anything any more. You’ll have to buy the right kinds of shoes, and get yourself some make-up. Your hair needs trimming too.”

  “Can I wear the same evening gown?”

  “Of course. You know we can’t afford another one. When you make it to the national contest, then we’ll get you a new one.”

  “This is a nightmare,” I said. “Why didn’t they give it to a ventriloquist?”

  “Ventriloquists never win,” Mom said. “Actresses win. Beautiful actresses with auburn hair, that is.”

  It takes a lot to make me cry. Twelve years of failing, or close to failing, grades never made me shed a single tear. When Dad left, I cried a little, but mostly from relief. And even losing parts I really wanted, which happened twice, caused more embarrassment than pain. I cry only when I feel vulnerable, and I feel vulnerable when I’ve lost control of the situation, and it’s a situation I have to be in control of. When I couldn’t get a grasp on the character of Eliza, and no matter what I did she didn’t live for me, let alone anyone else, I cried. When, briefly, because of something cruel I said, I lost Lynn’s friendship, I cried. And when I won a beauty contest that I had been determined to lose, I forgot about sleep, and the courtesies of sharing a bedroom, and sobbed.

  “Don’t,” Marly said.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because it could be worse,” she said. “Just think about living with Mom if you’d lost. She wouldn’t have known who to blame.”

  “She would have found someone.”

  “Probably me,” Marly said. “The state contest isn’t that far from now. You’re bound to lose then.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I have this awful fated feeling. Maybe it’s silly but I can’t help feeling if I was going to lose, I would have already. And if I win the state contest, I’m really stuck. That’s a job. You can’t even go to college. And I won’t be me any more. I’ll be a beauty contest winner.”

  “No, you won’t,” Marly said. “You’ll never win. You’re just not the beauty
contest type. They’re bound to realize it eventually.”

  “They haven’t yet,” I said. “I was there, giving them my best fourth-runner-up smile, and they picked me to win. And I know the same thing will happen again. Mom has me too well trained. I’ll go to the capitol for the state contest, and they’ll put me on stage with all the competition, and I’ll refuse to lose. I hate losing, Marly. I do it terribly. And I’ll sit there and say I’m damned if I’m going to lose, and then I’ll win, and good-by to peace and quiet and hello to the national contest. And chaperones. They have chaperones in the national contest, and all the money goes to scholarships, and with my luck I’ll win that too. And Mom’ll smile and say how proud she is. She’ll probably start a syndicated column on how to be the mother of a beauty queen.”

  “I think you’re worrying too much,” Marly said. “Call Lynn tomorrow, and she’ll bring you back to reality.”

  So I called Lynn and she said she was no longer speaking to me.

  “I think it’s rotten,” she said. “You were a fool to enter Miss Great Oaks and an even bigger fool to stick with it. And then you had to win. You can’t possibly expect me to treat you with respect.”

  “Respect has nothing to do with it,” I said. “But I could use a little sympathy.”

  “I save all my sympathy for losers,” she said. “Call me when you come to your senses.”

  Mom was very proud. “Did you see the pictures in the Clarion?” she asked, coming home for lunch.

  “I haven’t been out,” I said. I didn’t tell her I was afraid I’d be booed if I did.

  “Here,” she said. “I’m so proud. All the doctors congratulated me. And would you believe it, some of the patients did too. I don’t know how they found out about it, unless it was on the radio, but they all said what a beautiful girl you must be, and when I showed them your picture, they were very impressed.”

  “That must have been a real thrill.”

  “It was,” she said. “You may not understand it, but most of the time I’m nothing to the patients but a convenience, someone who makes the beds and takes their temperatures. Sure, the doctors know I’m a good nurse, but they’re busy men. They don’t have a chance to really notice me. Today I was someone. I was the mother of Miss Harrison County. Maybe it’s foolish, but it was a real thrill.”