Page 24 of The Accidental Beauty Queen
I’m not entirely sure which.
“Oh my.” The judge’s eyes brim with tears, and she places a slender hand on her heart. “What a lovely story.”
She jots something down in the white three-ring binder in front of her, and I get the distinct feeling that’s a good thing.
I’m nailing this.
“Time.”
All the contestants stand, and we each rotate to the next table.
Judge number two looks vaguely familiar. When Beyoncé calls time again and I’m allowed to sit, I finally recognize the judge as the host of a syndicated morning talk show. I’m pretty sure she’s a former Miss America.
“Good evening, Miss Texas.” Her gaze is impassive. She glances down at the binder in front of her—identical to the one the other judge had—and back up at me. “Tell me about your animal-rescue platform.”
Aha. I know this, too.
I parrot all the information Ginny made me memorize about the homeless pet population and then launch into a vivid description of Buttercup, “my very own rescue dog.” It might sound like I’m pouring it on a little thick when I mention how her eyes seem to point in two different directions, but it’s true.
Miraculously, the judge cracks a smile.
I barely have time to answer another question before our three minutes is up. Again, I move to the next table feeling triumphant. This is going so much better than I expected. I can’t wait to get back to the room and give Ginny the good news.
Judge number three—a fashion designer who specializes in pageant gowns—catches me a little off guard when she asks me to tell her something surprising about myself. I take a gamble and tell her that I peed in my pants at my very first pageant. She laughs so loud that heads turn in our direction.
Three down, three to go, I chant to myself when it’s time to switch tables again. The next judge repeats the question about how I got involved in pageantry, and again I share the story about my mother. By the time I finish, she’s reaching for a Kleenex. While she dabs her eyes, I can’t help but glance back at Miss Nevada.
She’s slipping her arms over her head backward, like a contortionist or a Cirque du Soleil performer, I’m pretty sure in response to the “tell me something surprising about yourself” question. The fashion designer judge is staring at her in horror. My heart sinks a little bit on Lisa’s behalf.
Keep your eye on the prize. You’re almost finished.
I refocus on the person sitting across from me and gush about how walking shelter dogs once a week has changed my life, leaving out the part about Buttercup throwing herself on the ground and faking a seizure.
“Time.”
The next interview goes just as well. The judge is a man this time—a former contestant onThe BacheloretteandDancing with the Stars. If memory serves, his cha-cha was abysmal. Plus, to be honest, I’m a little creeped out by the fact that he’s a man. A guy judging women in swimsuits seems a little pervy.
Right?
But he’s an animal lover, and he melts into a puddle of goo when I tell him about Buttercup and my volunteer work walking dogs at the shelter.
Only one more judge to go.
I don’t walk to the next table. Ifloat. My feet barely touch the ground. How could I have been so nervous? I’m breezing through these interviews. There hasn’t been a single lull in any of the five conversations I’ve had thus far. Each one felt like it ended right after it had begun.
In the seconds before Beyoncé calls time again, I’m so busy mentally high-fiving myself that everything seems to blur into a misty, glittering dream. I can’t believe I’m actually pulling this off, and I have to admit that it’s not quite as mortifying as I thought it would be.
But then the judge at the table in front of me looks up, and once again, the room comes into sharp focus.
My knees wobble. I’m no longer floating. I’m barely standing upright. Because the man looking up at me—the one who has a little gold badge pinned to his lapel with the wordJudgeengraved on it—isn’t a stranger.
It’shim.
The man from the stairwell. Hamlet’s dad.
This isn’t a dream at all. It’s a nightmare.
“Time.”
