Polished Off (6 page)

“Will do,” she promised. “Thanks.”

Stella hugged her and said, “Break a leg,” before Rachel danced out the door.

THE TALENT SHOW BEGAN WITH A FEW REMARKS from Audrey and the introduction of the judges. The two men and a woman had seats at a narrow table shoehorned in front of the stage. Each stood and waved to the audience as he or she was introduced. The channel nine weatherman from Jacksonville, Ted Gaines, had heavy blond hair flopping onto his forehead and big white teeth that probably financed his dentist’s last vacation. Audrey introduced the second judge as Renata Schott, a former Miss South Carolina Blossom and runner-up to Miss American Blossom 1990, who was now a motivational speaker and actress. Almost six feet tall, with a pronounced widow’s peak, black hair, and lovely olive skin, she smiled a hello to the crowd. The third judge was a “prominent St. Elizabeth’s businessman and major sponsor of the pageant.” His attempt at a royal wave looked more like a drowning man signaling for help.

The evening got off to a rousing start with a fifth grader from St. Elizabeth Elementary School belting out the National Anthem. Seated beside Stella and Althea with my mom on the aisle (I had called them when I found out Rachel was competing), I gave Audrey props for knowing how to get the audience involved. Unfortunately, the first contestant was a singer who had considerably less talent than the ten-year-old and suffered by comparison. The audience, composed mostly of parents, friends, and supporters of the contestants, applauded politely. The baton twirler performed next, followed by Morgan with her M16. When the last booms of the “1812 Overture” faded, Althea whispered, “Well, at least knowing how to fieldstrip an M16 is a useful skill, unlike twirling. What does knowing how to toss a baton in the air get you?”

Still wearing the red, green, and black caftan, she might look like she’d wandered in from the Serengeti, but she had the old Althea’s caustic sense of humor.

“Sssh,” Mom cautioned us as the emcee introduced Rachel.

We fell silent, captivated by the sheer sense of joie de vivre Rachel exuded, as much as by the musicality of her whistling. Enthusiastic applause sounded when she finished and Mom beamed like Rachel was her daughter instead of her employee.

“Stella, however did you persuade Rachel to give up that black eyeliner and nail polish?” Mom asked. “She looks just darling with the new makeup.”

Stella looked pleased with the praise. “She really wants to win, I think, and she’s smart enough to realize that looking like Elvira isn’t going to get her the crown. She—” Stella broke off, staring across the half-full auditorium. “What is Darryl doing here? I can’t believe—” She jumped out of her seat and took off down the aisle.

Since the emcee announced a fifteen-minute intermission just then, she didn’t disrupt the show. I watched as she came up to her husband, a wiry man with dark red hair, standing along the left-hand wall, halfway to the stage. Stella put her hand on his arm and he jumped. The crowd, milling in search of restrooms or chatting with friends, blocked them from view.

“What in tarnation is that about?” Althea asked. She, too, had watched Stella’s rendezvous with her husband.

“I don’t know,” I said slowly, “but Stella’s been weepy all day. I’m afraid she and Darryl are having problems.”

“Every married couple does,” Mom said calmly. “They’ll work through it. It won’t help them if their friends and acquaintances are gossiping about them.”

“Mom!” I stared at her, surprised and hurt. “I’m not gossiping. Expressing concern is not the same as gossiping.”

“You’re right,” she said, patting my arm. “I just know sometimes people need privacy to work things through.” Her blue eyes behind the lenses of her rimless glasses looked serious. I wondered if Stella had confided in her. “Do you suppose it would be rude to leave now? I really came just to see Rachel. I’m dead on my feet. You’d’ve thought we were giving away free money, as many people as came to the salon this afternoon.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should’ve been there.”

“What, you think you’re indispensable?” Althea asked. She stood and stretched, wooden bangles on her arms clicking together. She looked rather regal in the African garment. “I helped out and we did just fine. And, no, we can’t leave yet, Vi,” she said to Mom. “We’ve got to scope out the competition so we can strategize with Rachel in the morning.”

My mom made a sound that was half sigh, half laugh and said, “Well, in that case I’d better visit the little girls’ room before they start up again.”

“I’ll go with you,” Althea said.

“And I’m going backstage to collect my stuff so I can bug out of here as soon as the last contestant struts her stuff.”

As Mom and Althea headed up the aisle to the restrooms, I threaded my way toward the stage and the steps leading backstage. It was quieter backstage, but not much. The contestants who had already performed laughed and chatted in small groups while the girls who had yet to display their talents warmed up or stood tensely, psyching themselves up like athletes preparing to storm the field during a championship game. Several parental-looking people, mostly moms but one or two dads, encouraged their daughters with cheery smiles and pep talks. So much for the prohibition against parents. Mrs. Metzger was huddled with Elise in a fold of the curtain just offstage. Her wagging finger and Elise’s slumped shoulders clearly indicated she was haranguing her daughter about something. I didn’t see Audrey or Jodi, but I spotted Marv on the far side of the stage, talking to a stagehand.

As I neared my little room, I noticed the door to Stella’s room was closed. I raised my hand to knock but heard voices. Maybe she and Darryl were talking. I let my hand fall to my side and slipped into my room, quickly organizing my styling paraphernalia and tucking it into my kit. Stella’s door remained closed when I came out, so I hurried through the narrow halls and returned to my seat just as the emcee announced Elise Metzger and her flute.

By the time the flautist finished, Stella still hadn’t returned. Mom, Althea, and I exchanged a look. “Maybe she and Darryl went somewhere to have a conversation,” Mom suggested.

“Maybe,” I acknowledged, craning my neck to peer down the aisles. No sign of Stella.

Brooke Baker took the stage then, launching into a vigorous drum solo that brought the house down. She twirled her drumsticks when she finished and flung them into the audience, setting off a scramble as people lunged to get them. Brooke laughed and ran offstage, waving to the audience.

“That girl’s something else,” Althea said, shaking her head admiringly.

The talent competition finished up with Tabitha shaking her booty in a tiny costume that showed off her splendid figure. In fact, her abdominal muscles were so clearly defined I wondered if she used body makeup to enhance them. I was probably just jealous, I admitted to myself, surreptitiously patting my stomach. No six-pack there. Never very regular about exercise, I’d slacked off even more than usual in the summer’s brutal heat, driving my car places I would normally have walked. I would do a few sets of crunches and squats when I got home, I promised myself.

As the contestants filed back on stage for their closing number, an interruption occurred. “Stop the exploitation of women,” someone called from the back of the auditorium.

Virtually everyone in the audience turned his or her head. The protestors from outside marched single file down both aisles, headed for the stage. They carried their posters high, swiveling them from side to side so people could read their slogans: “Women are people, not objects”; “Beauty is only skin deep”; “Earn a degree, not a crown”; “Pageants promote violence against women”; and my personal favorite, “Get out of your bikini and into a classroom.” I was pretty sure they didn’t mean to encourage nudism in the classroom. Althea stiffened beside me.

The contestants looked stunned, the audience broke into nervous laughter punctuated with angry murmurs, and the emcee looked from right to left, hoping someone in the wings would defuse the situation. No one appeared—where was Audrey?—and Dr. Yarrow led his band onto the stage and calmly plucked the microphone from the emcee’s fingers.

“You can’t—” the emcee gobbled, but Dr. Yarrow overrode him with a calm, “Good evening,” into the microphone. The contestants shuffled their feet uneasily behind him and Morgan sidled off the stage. I hoped she wasn’t going for her M16.

“We’re here tonight to educate you on the evils—yes, evils—associated with beauty pageants.” His mellifluous voice rolled into the auditorium. “They range from fostering poor self-esteem to encouraging eating disorders to increasing violence against women. We—”

“Get off the stage, you freakin’ feminazis!” A man’s voice roared from the audience.

Dr. Yarrow ignored him. I supposed you got pretty good at ignoring hecklers if you taught college.

“Oppression of minorities starts by objectifying them. If a woman is no more than a collection of physical assets—hair, skin, reproductive organs—then she becomes something to possess, not an equal. Beauty pageants—”

Sam Barnes, the photographer, had been unobtrusive during the talent show. Now, however, he moved up the side aisle, camera trained on Dr. Yarrow and his band. He hugged the wall, advancing almost stealthily, a hunter creeping up on a pride of lions that might run if they spotted him. Or rip him to shreds.

“—undermine a woman’s true self and take away her power.” He held the microphone so close to his lips it made popping noises when he spoke.

“Amen!” a new voice declared from the back of the auditorium.

Before Dr. Yarrow could continue, Jodi Keen, looking as uncomfortable as a mouse facing a python, stepped onto the stage, followed by Marv. They advanced toward Dr. Yarrow, only to find their way blocked by the other protestors.

“We’ve called the police,” Jodi called in a voice made thin by nerves. “They’ll be here any minute.”

“Good,” yelled the protestor who told me I was too old to be a contestant. “We’re not afraid of the po-po.” She shook her poster fiercely.

Maybe I was wrong about their grades. Maybe getting arrested in the name of the cause got you an A+.

Marv trotted offstage, eluding Jodi’s hand as she clutched at his arm like a drowning person grabbing at a rope. She stood there looking miserable, clearly undecided about what to do. I didn’t envy her choices. She could rally the contestants to push through the line of protestors, possibly precipitating the kind of brawl that ended with combatants in the hospital or jail and earned unflattering headlines, or she could stand there and listen to Dr. Yarrow and his students diss her work and her contest. I wondered again where Audrey was. Maybe she was conferring with the police. A few people began to make their way to the exits. Others chanted, “Fight, fight!”

Dr. Yarrow fixed the audience with a stern look. “And those of you who come to gawk perpetuate—” His mic went dead. He tapped on it. Nothing happened.

Marv emerged from the wings, looking triumphant. He’d cut the power to the mic. I grinned. He handed Jodi another microphone. “This concludes the talent portion of the Miss Magnolia Blossom competition,” Jodi blurted. “Thank you all for coming.”

The protestors looked at their leader, who shrugged his shoulders fatalistically. He said something to his followers and they nodded. The protestors and the contestants gaggled together on the stage, gradually dispersing.

Althea stood, her head swiveling as she tracked the departure of the protestors. “I’ve got to get home,” she said tersely. “See you in the morning, Vi.” She sidled past us to the aisle and strode toward the doors.

Mom and I looked at each other, bemused. “What’s up with her?” I asked.

“You don’t suppose—” Mom said.

“No way,” I said quickly. “Althea wouldn’t date someone that . . . that militant.”

“You’re right,” Mom said. “She’s pretty much a live and let live kind of person. Sometimes she just gets a bee in her bonnet.” She nodded toward Sam Barnes, who stood center stage, panning the departing audience, while Marv and his crew tidied the stage. “Is this really one of those reality shows?”

I explained about the documentary. “I’ll bet he wishes someone had thrown a punch,” I added. “Good TV.”

“What a thought,” Mom said. “I’m glad everyone had the sense to behave themselves. It’s bad enough that the program got interrupted. Those poor girls work so hard on their routines.” She tucked her purse under her arm. “Ready, Grace?”

“You go ahead,” I said. “I just want to check backstage one more time for Stella.”

“Okay, honey.” Mom reached up to kiss my cheek. “See you in the morning.”