The Pretty App (17 page)

N
othing could’ve prepared me for our arrival at the Westbrook Theater in Hollywood. Dramatic pillars held up a white-brick façade with a fabric banner that announced
THE PRETTY APP LIVE
in sparkling gold letters. The theater itself was so grand—bigger than Harrison High School, bigger than any building at Notre Dame—that it felt like arriving at the Oscars. An actual red carpet extended from the curb to the entrance. Amy gasped in the seat across from me. “Oh my God, oh my God,” she said beneath her breath.

Hundreds of people gathered on the sidewalk. The limo pulled to the curb, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I made out velvet ropes sectioning off a space for us. The last thing I needed was a crowd-anxiety attack.

The limo honked as we parked in front and the crowd cheered. They waved handmade signs like
:
SBC MAKES AMERICA PRETTIER
and
DANNY BEATON PICKS THE PRETTIEST ONE OF ALL
! There were no cameras in the limo, which is probably why Cindy felt okay yawning and sounding practically bored when she said, “This theater is a knockoff of the Palais Garnier in Paris.” She stuck her hand into her silver-sequined dress and adjusted the sticky tape holding her boobs in place.

Mura fidgeted with a bobby pin in her glossy black hair. “It reminds me of the theater where they film
American Idol
,” she said. “I was cut right before the top twenty-four contestants were announced.”

I knew she looked familiar.

“Don’t forget your lyrics tonight,” Sabrina said, smirking. Her dark hair was long and loose. Curls the size of toilet paper rolls bounced over her toned shoulders.

“There’s going to be singing?” Amy asked, looking petrified. Delores’s mouth made a concerned
O
, and Casey looked like she might be sick. None of us had any idea what was happening tonight. We were only told to dress in the evening-wear option of our choosing, and to exit the limo one at a time with at least thirty seconds between each contestant.

“I was being metaphorical, you idiot,” Sabrina said.

“She’s not an idiot,” I said.

“I’m pretty sure you both are,” Cindy said.

“I’m pretty sure you can stick it where—” I started, but just then the limo’s door swung open and flashbulbs popped in my face like something I’d only seen on Hollywood shows like
Entertainment Tonight.

Marsha stood next to the row of photographers and beckoned wildly for me to get out of the limo.

Just pretend you’re a movie star
, I told myself. I took a breath.
Go!

Pop! Pop!
went the cameras as I swung my legs over the side of the car with my knees pressed together like I’d seen Jennifer Lawrence do. I waved to the cameras with a twisty wrist instead of a jiggly one because I’d read somewhere that those photographed better. I jutted one hip forward. I positioned my fingers in a curve over my right hip bone and angled my left shoulder back. (
Us Weekly
was proving to be my most useful subscription.) I smiled for the amount of time I figured was good—twenty seconds maybe?—and then started walking down the red carpet like I knew exactly where I was going.

“Sabrina!” I heard behind me. I knew I should keep walking, but I couldn’t help but turn and stare as Sabrina exited the limo. Cameras flashed. Someone yelled “Over here, Sabrina!” and I figured the woman was cheering for her, but then she screamed: “
Why do you hate farmers?
”

Sabrina didn’t break. She went on smiling like they’d asked her what shampoo she used.

“
America’s heartland is the reason you eat!
” the same shrill voice yelled again.

Sabrina hurried along the red carpet away from the crowd. Amy exited the limo next and the crowd went wild, screaming way louder than they’d done for Sabrina and me.

I turned and made my way to the entrance, climbing
the steps and slipping through an open door into the Westbrook Theater. I stood in the lobby, taking in the pristine white marble and bright red velvet curtains. I moved past the box office into the theater itself, where thousands of seats cascaded toward the stage in neat rows that fanned in a semicircle. The ceiling was domed and painted like I’d only seen in photos of the Sistine Chapel. It was breathtaking. People dressed in black rushed back and forth, barking orders into headsets and saying things like, “Please assure Bradley that this is a peanut-free environment.” I stood still, admiring the perfection of the theater and the swirl of activity. Someone grabbed my arm, and I flinched when I saw a man dressed all in black with a headset like Marsha’s. But then I relaxed when I saw how fabulous he was. Clearly someone who understood the importance of exfoliating meant me no harm. The man wore a black boa around his neck, and his neatly trimmed silver facial hair made his crystal blue eyes and dark lashes even more dramatic. “I’m Francisco,” he said. “And I’m here to make sure you have anything and
everything
you need.” He smiled so mischievously that for a second I thought he meant drugs. But then he said, “I live to be at your service, gorgeous. So just snap your fingers and I got your back. Water. Snacks. Makeup touch-ups.” He whipped out a mini-pack of almonds that read
LESS THAN 100 CALORIES
! and a shiny pink gloss from his pocket. “I always carry lip balm,” he said. “Nothin’ worse than a beauty queen with cracked lips.”

“I’m Blake,” I said, grinning.

“You don’t think I know who you are?” Francisco asked. “America loves you, gorgeous.” He glanced over my shoulder and hushed his voice. “But you better watch out for Amy. Right now she’s your stiffest competition.”

I nodded. He was telling me something I already sensed.

“Let’s get you to the green room,” he said, flicking the loose end of the boa over his shoulder.

Francisco ushered me to a room that wasn’t green. The beige walls were covered with framed, signed headshots from stars like George Clooney, Taye Diggs, Olivia Wilde, and Hayden Panettiere. Bowls of M&M’s and Tostitos sat next to a row of apples. Comfy-looking tan couches lined the room. Francisco stood next to me as the other contestants filtered in. A few times he whispered things like, “saggy lower lids,” and “closet kleptomaniac,” as a new contestant entered, and I knew he was doing it to chill me out, but it wasn’t working. My nerves were starting to race as the reality of what I was doing sank in. I was about to be on a live show in front of millions of Americans. I was about to compete in a beauty pageant with eleven other girls who were more beautiful than me. My phone was buzzing with texts from Audrey, Joanna, Jolene, Xander, and almost everyone else I knew:

We r so proud of you!

Everyone’s watching!

Give it your best shot—you can totally win!

Lindsay texted me saying that evening wear with visible bra lines was quite possibly the end of civilization, and to check mine.

Even our priest had texted:
Let go and let God. From Father Doyle.

I was grateful for the support, but all of the excitement wasn’t calming me down. And every time the phone buzzed I wanted it to be Leo. I couldn’t stop thinking about whether or not he’d watch the show tonight. Why had he told me that everything he felt for me was real if he was just going to drop me like a stone?

Marsha entered once we were all inside the green room. “The general public are taking their seats now,” she said. The way she said
general public
made them sound like bedbugs. “We’ll be live in T minus ten minutes.”

The small room had filled quickly with contestants and handlers, and the tight quarters weren’t helping my nerves. Plus, there were no cameras filming, which meant I didn’t need to act okay. I tried to take a few deep breaths.

“You feeling all right, Blake?” Cindy asked with fake concern.

Sabrina chomped mint gum. “Yeah, Blake, you okay?” She could barely contain her snarky giggle.

“You should spit that gum out,” I said sweetly. “It causes gas in the intestinal tract, which leads to bloating and farting. You don’t want to smell like a toilet, do you, Sabrina?”

I smirked. I still had it.

Sabrina glared as Francisco maneuvered me into a corner near the snacks. Mura and Casey had their own versions of Francisco at their sides, chatting away and answering their questions. “So you really don’t know what we’ll be doing tonight?” Casey asked a woman in a black T-shirt and
leggings. “I really don’t, sweetie,” the woman said. “Our job is just to make sure y’all are where you’re supposed to be. Last year the network ran a show and one of the contestants had a panic attack and hid beneath a catering truck. Smelled like exhaust the whole time,” she said, shaking her head.

Casey nodded, wide-eyed. Mura said, “You have to have nerves of steel for this business. I’ve been singing and doing pageants since I won the Minnesota Dairy Princess title at age four.” She chewed the inside of her lip. “It makes my parents so happy.”

My phone buzzed, and I almost didn’t think of Leo. I saw it was from Audrey, and clicked on a video attachment. Audrey had taped herself jumping up and down and singing the theme song from
Friends
. I started laughing as she sing-shouted: “
I’ll be there for you! ’Cause you’re there for me too-ooo-oo!”

Marsha’s voice broke through Audrey’s. “Please put your personal belongings in the wicker basket, Blake,” she said.

“Sure,” I mumbled. I locked my phone and tossed it in with the rest of them. Marsha’s purple-red hair was clipped up in silver mini-barrettes. She was talking back and forth with Rich Gibbons over the headset, frowning at whatever he was saying. Finally she put her hand over the receiver part. “Ladies, we’re about to go over your entrance,” she said. “Then we’ll mic you and escort you to the stage.”

“
This is it!
” Francisco whispered. “Do you have to pee or anything? I can make a case for the ladies’ room if you need it.”

I shook my head. I was so nervous I could barely feel the lower half of my body.

Marsha wheeled a table into the room with a three-dimensional scale drawing of the theater. A dotted line demonstrated where we’d walk downstage to meet the judges and answer questions. “There’s an obvious red carpet for you to walk on,” Marsha said. “Not even an idiot could mess this up.”

Once Marsha was done telling us how to position ourselves, our handlers helped us snake the microphone wires under our dresses and secure the amps to our backs. I clipped my mic to the patent leather collar on my dress, glad I’d picked black as Cindy complained about how obvious hers looked against the silver sequins of her dress. Amy’s hands were shaking so hard she couldn’t clip her mic, so I helped her snap it into place on the strap of her dress. When I turned over the fabric, I could tell by the stitching that the dress was handmade. “Did you make this?” I asked softly. I didn’t know Amy that well, but something told me she wouldn’t want everyone to know. She nodded, and her face made a mixed expression: Her smile told me she was proud, but the pink that rose to her cheeks said she was a little embarrassed, too.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, and she smiled wider.

Marsha lined us up in alphabetical order, and we left the green room and paraded down a long, narrow hallway lined with more framed headshots. The hallway seemed to get skinnier as we walked toward the stage, like it was closing
in on us. The lights dimmed, and Marsha put a finger over her mouth and went: “
Shhhhh!
” even though none of us were talking. Everyone except Sabrina, Maddie, and Mura looked like they wanted to run. Even Cindy looked a little green as we stepped into the wings of the theater. The red velvet curtains shielded us from the stage, but in the inches below the curtains I could make out bright spotlights circling wildly on the stage floor. Pia Alvarez’s voice echoed through the theater: “Good evening! And welcome to
The Pretty App Live
!” she said, and then the theme song they’d been using online and in promos blared. It was a mashup of Danny Beaton lyrics and an upbeat melody like the kind you hear on commercials for cleaning products, the ones that show a mom looking elated to be mopping her floor.

“
The Pretty App Live
promises to go where no beauty pageant has ever gone before,” Pia’s lilting voice announced. “Over the course of our three-day live television event, you—
America
—will use your own Pretty App to decide which one of our twelve beauties is most deserving of our crown, a crown that means one year of selfless dedication as a United Nations Citizen Ambassador and a commitment to prettifying the nation through service and education, through kindness and dedication, through passion and hard work.” Pia paused, and the music swelled again. “Let’s meet our contestants!” she screamed over the music, and the audience went wild. The noise was deafening. Marsha shoved Delores closer to the curtain. Then she nudged me onto a piece of yellow tape and shouted in my face, “
Stay on your mark until I say so!
”

When the audience finally quieted down, Pia said, “Our first contestant is from Jersey City, New Jersey. Please welcome Delores Abernathy!”

“Delores, you’re a go!” Marsha screamed. And then she flicked Delores on the shoulder. Delores turned and shot her a filthy look, but Marsha didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy grabbing me from my mark and manhandling me toward the spot where Delores had just been standing. The curtain closed, and I could hear the crowd clapping and cheering. A video came on—I couldn’t see it, but I could tell from the soundtrack of Delores’ voice:
“I’m Delores Abernathy, and if you vote me as Prettiest I won’t let you down. My track record of community service is unbeatable. I volunteer at a nursing home where I read
Cosmopolitan
magazine to little old ladies. That’s just me! Delores Abernathy!”

I definitely hadn’t made any kind of application video like Delores’s. I stared at the back of the red velvet curtain and felt my legs go wobbly. My stilettos chattered on the hard stage, and for the first time in my life I wished I were wearing sensible shoes.