Beauty Queens (4 page)

“In the history of the pageant, there’s never not been a Miss Texas in the Top Ten,” Petra whispered.

Adina rolled her eyes. “So? You do need a few more qualifications than that to be a leader.”

“Like what?” Tiara asked.

Taylor stood in a perfect three-quarters stance, arms hanging easily at her sides. “I have been class president three years in a row, homecoming queen, a National Merit Scholar, and a member of the National Honor Society, and I am a proud, card-carrying member of FAF — Femmes and Firearms. I can shoot a thirty-aught-six as well as a nine-millimeter and a Pink Lady paint gun. Last year, I took down my first buck, which I cleaned, filleted, and vacuum sealed, and with my taxidermy skills, I stuffed the head and used the antlers as a supercute jewelry tree, which I plan to market for the Armchair Shopping Network in the spring. That is American ingenuity. It’s what makes this country great, and if elected, I would be proud to serve. Thank you.”

For a moment, the roar of applause drowned out the rough surf. Adina’s stomach clenched. It was just like fifth grade all over again, when she lost hall monitor to Ryan Berry, who couldn’t even spell
hall monitor
but who did a rap routine about lining up in an orderly fashion for his in-class presentation and totally killed.

Taylor flashed Adina a wolfish smile. “All righty, then. Let’s put it to a vote! All y’all who want to elect Adina team leader, raise your hands.”

Three hands were held up: Mary Lou, Jennifer, and Miss Arkansas, who couldn’t lower her hand due to the bandaging.

“All y’all who want to vote for me, Taylor Rene Krystal Hawkins of the Lone Star State, raise your hands.” A sea of fingers waved in the breeze. “Looks like I’m the winner. But you’re first runner-up, Adina. And you know what they say — if anything should happen, you’d assume the responsibility and the privilege. Now. When we get rescued and get to Paradise Cove, America’s gonna be wantin’ to
see a pageant. And I do not intend to let them down. So. Starting tomorrow, we’ll be back to working on our dance numbers and our walking, talent, swimsuit, and evening gown presentations, just like nothing ever happened.”

“What about this?” Miss New Mexico pointed to the tray lodged in her forehead.

Taylor looked to Tiara and Brittani, who shrugged in unison.

“We can’t take it out. Not without surgery. I know my head wounds,” Nicole confirmed. She smiled and gave a small wave. “Hi. Nicole Ade. Miss Colorado, the Centennial State.”

Miss New Mexico broke into a full-blown wail. The girls tried to comfort her, to no avail.

“You know what would be cute on you?” Petra said with new authority. “Bangs. So 1960s chic. You’d hardly notice the, um, the … addition.”

“Love bangs!” Mary Lou said.

“Miss Florida was the only one who had bangs and she’s de — um, she’s no longer participating in the pageant system. So you’d really stand out.”

Miss New Mexico stared, dumbfounded. “Stand out? Stand out! I
have a freaking tray stuck in my forehead!”
She broke into fresh sobs.

Taylor clapped for attention. “Miss New Mexico, let’s not get all down in the bummer basement where the creepy things live. There are people in heathen China who don’t even have airline trays. We have a lot to be grateful for.”

“And a few things to worry about. Look at those clouds.” Nicole nodded toward the darkening sky. “Tropical climate. Trade winds. This place probably has a monsoon season. We should scout out some higher ground just in case of flash floods.”

Taylor beamed. “Excellent advice, Miss Colorado. Y’all hear that? That’s real Miss Teen Dream–thinking.”

“Meteorology was another one of my extracurriculars,” Nicole said.

“Awesome,” Shanti murmured.

“What were your well-roundeds?” Nicole asked, using the pageant terminology for the skills that gave a Miss Teen Dream an edge.

“Oh, nothing much,” Shanti said with practiced humility. “Opera. Botany. Chemistry. Fencing. Cello. Synchronized Tae Kwon Do. Indian dance. And, of course, I can make popadam as my mother and grandmother taught me. Family tradition is important, and my family is lucky enough to celebrate both our Indian heritage and the customs of this great country.”

She smiled right at Nicole, who immediately chewed on her pinkie nail.

“My family traditions are alcoholism and dysfunction,” Jennifer said. “Oh, and anything you can make from government cheese.”

Taylor clapped again for attention. “All right, ladies. This is your new team leader talking. Right now, we are not competitors. We are all one team. Let’s find a place to camp and look for firewood. Tonight, we’ll keep watch in shifts. When we’re rescued, The Corporation will be so proud of us, they’ll probably give us a summer variety show. ‘In the pageant of life, a girl picks up fallen sequins and turns them into a brand-new dress of awesome.’ Ladybird Hope’s
How to Be Perfect in Every Way,
page forty-two. Let’s build us a fire, Teen Dreamers!”

“Gee, that went well,” Adina snarked to Mary Lou as they searched for anything remotely flammable.

“Mmm.”

Adina stopped. “What’s that
mmm
mean?”

“Nothing,” Mary Lou said quickly. “I mean, I don’t want to make you feel bad or anything.”

“Mary Lou, I’ve just survived a plane crash, and now I’m stuck on a hostile island with no food and no way off. Trust me, you’re not going to make me feel any worse.”

“It was talking about how good you are at your school newspaper that turned everybody off.”

“What do you mean?”

Mary Lou picked up a dried frond and added it to the meager pile in her arms. “I don’t know, maybe it’s a Midwestern thing, but where I’m from, you’re not supposed to brag about yourself. That’s what my mom says. She says you should wait for people to recognize your good qualities. And then you should say, like, ‘Oh, no. I’m not really that great at whatever-it-is. I’m just okay.’ And then they’ll say, ‘No, really. You’re great.’ And you say, ‘I’m really not, but thanks anyway for saying so.’ And they’ll say, ‘Yes, you are. You so are!’ And you say, ‘Gee, do you really think so?’ And they’ll say, ‘Totally!’ And then people think you’re good at whatever it is you’re good at, but they don’t think you’re braggy about it ’cause that makes you seem like a real tool. Plus, it’s unladylike.”

Adina stared. “That is quite literally the most ludicrous thing I have ever heard.”

“Thank you. I’m not really that ludicrous, but thanks anyway for saying so. See? That’s how it works.” Mary Lou gave a shy smile. “Um, that was a joke, by the way. I do know what ludicrous means.”

“Thank God.”

Out in the ocean, waves crashed over broken fists of treacherous-looking black rock.

Mary Lou played nonstop with a silver ring on her left ring finger.

“Pretty,” Adina said. “Special?”

“This? Yeah. It’s, um, a purity ring?”

“Oh. The old patriarchal chastity belt. Now in convenient ring form,” Adina snarled.

“It’s not like that,” Mary Lou said, blushing. “It’s a symbol. It shows that you’ve made a pledge to bring your purity into the marriage. It’s the ultimate gift to your husband.”

“Really? Like you can’t just give him a gift card to GameStop or something?”

Mary Lou stopped smiling. “You don’t have to make fun of me.”

“I’m sorry,” Adina said.

“Some girls need protection,” Mary Lou mumbled.

“What?” Adina asked.

“Nothing. Jeez, I hope that thing isn’t active,” Mary Lou said, pointing to the volcano.

“No kidding. That’s all we need. Think we’ve got enough to make a fire?”

“Worth a shot,” Mary Lou answered.

Back on the beach, the girls built a signal fire from sticks, palm leaves, and paper from their morals clause contracts, rescued from their official “Welcome, Miss Teen Dream” folders. Taylor lit it with a book of matches that had survived the crash. Night crouched
around them, a hungry, patient animal. The girls lay in the sand, exhausted. Some cried themselves to sleep.

“You’re on first watch, Miss New Hampshire. Don’t let us down,” Taylor said. She performed a few high kicks, stretched her long limbs, then settled under a tree to get her beauty sleep.

Please fill in the following information and return to Jessie Jane, Miss Teen Dream Pageant administrative assistant, before Monday. Remember, this is a chance for the judges and the audience to get to know YOU. So make it interesting and fun, but please be appropriate. And don’t forget to mention something you love about our sponsor, The Corporation!

• I hate high heels. Walking in high heels for eight hours a day should be forbidden by the Geneva Convention.
  
• I am applying to Brown, Yale, Harvard, and Columbia.
  
• I was voted Most Likely to Figure Out Who Really Killed JFK.
  
• My mom is married to Alan, aka, Stepfather #5. He is a complete tool. No, you have no idea.
  
• My favorite Corporation TV show is the news. If you can call it that.
  
• My platform is Identifying Misogyny in American Culture. It’s all about helping girls ID the objectification of women when they see it. You know, like when girls are asked to parade around in bathing suits and heels and get scored on that.
  
• The thing that scares me most is falling in love with some jerkwad and ending up without an identity at all, just like my mom.
  
• I intend to bring this pageant down.
  
• You will never see this.
  

Alone on the dark beach, Adina had to laugh at her lousy luck. Unlike the others, she’d entered this cheesy pageant as a revolutionary act. She hated the Miss Teen Dream Pageant. Hated everything it stood for. Mostly, she hated how much her mother loved it. Ever since she was four, Adina and her mother had watched Miss Teen Dream. It had seemed to Adina then to be a TV fairy tale: All those pretty girls smiling and waving and showing off their tumbling skills. And the gowns! Such sparkles and movement!

“Those girls will never have trouble getting husbands. They’ll have their pick,” her mother had said dreamily.

Adina’s mom had had her pick, too. She’d gone from one guy to the next, in an act of downward husband mobility, until she’d married Alan the Tool. Alan, who ran self-improvement seminars for business leaders. Alan, who spoke in blowhard aphorisms like “A bird in the hand can still poop in your palm” and “If you want to beat a snake at its game, you have to think like a snake and not like a duck.”

It was both Adina’s mom and Alan who encouraged her to enter the Miss Teen Dream Pageant to show that “just because you’re smart doesn’t mean you can’t also be pretty.” They told her if she placed in Miss New Hampshire, they’d buy her a bass for her all-girl punk band, Drink My Sweat. They figured once she got wrapped up in the pageant work, she’d forget all about the bass and the band and her journalistic aspirations.

Adina had entered … but for her own secret reasons. She would
smile and pose, and when the time was right, she would show everyone what a joke this was — what a joke her mom’s life was. How stupid the girls in her high school were for believing in this beauty and happily-ever-after crap. She would use the money from the publication of her exposé to buy that drum kit herself. Maybe she’d even write a song about the whole experience. “Artificial Girl.” Or “Teen Dream Armageddon.” Yeah. Adina liked the sound of that. She would be a beauty pageant Che Guevara
⁷
.

A thick fogbank had rolled in at dusk, and now, between the intense dark and the fog, it was impossible to see much of anything except for the volcano outlined by the moon. A small tickle ran up her neck. Adina had the feeling she was being watched. It was silly — they hadn’t found any other survivors and they hadn’t seen any other signs of life. Still, a shiver passed over her, and she forced herself to concentrate on the soothing sound of the waves coming in, going out. Soon, her eyelids flickered with fatigue.