Page 20 of The Accidental Beauty Queen
Then she grabs a large brush and comes at me with bronzer, except she calls it contouring pigment and says it’s for minimizing my “problem areas,” which are apparently more plentiful than I’d imagined. “The contest has six judges, and each of them will interview you one-on-one for three minutes.”
“Three minutes?” I roll my eyes. “That’s it?”
Even I can carry on a conversation for three minutes without sticking my foot in my mouth. Piece of cake.
Ugh, now I want cake again.
“It’s tougher than you think. The main thing is to keep talking. I mean, don’t ramble, but keep the conversation going. A lull in a three-minute interview means you’re boring.” She gives me a meaningful look. Clearly she thinks I’m more likely to be boring than ramble like a fool. “Miss American Treasure makes all sorts of personal appearances. She has to be able to chat with people from all walks of life.”
“Right.” I close my eyes again as she goes over my face with a large powder puff. When I open them, I say, “But I’m not actually trying to become Miss American Treasure, remember?”
She lets out a snort. “Of course you’re not. That would be insane.”
Yes, it would. Very, very insane.
I would never actually want to participate in any of this—interacting with strangers who aren’t children isn’t my thing. Most adult humans make me anxious.
I adore working in a quiet library, helping kids connect with the books that will eventually change their lives. There’s nothing I love more than seeing a child’s face light up in anticipation, waiting for me to turn from one page to the next. That’s when I know I’ve found it—the book they’ve been waiting for. I don’t need to look like a beauty queen or an Instagram model to do my job. My students hardly notice what I look like, unless it’s Halloween and I’m in my signature Mary Poppins costume.
Still, being on the receiving end of Ginny’s incredulous snort doesn’t feel great.
I sigh. “Just tell me how it’s going to work so I know what to expect.”
“It works like a round robin. The contestants are divided into groups of six. At the pre-arranged time, you’ll line up with the other five girls in your group just outside the ballroom downstairs where the interviews are taking place.” She dips yet another brush into a pot of shimmery silver eye shadow. “One of the title holders from a previous year will be there to help. If you get lost, look for someone in a crown.”
As if that narrows things down.
“She’ll escort your group into the ballroom when it’s your turn. The six judges will be seated at six different tables spaced out around the room. Each of you will walk to one of the tables and stand in front of the chair opposite the judge.”
This is all far more complicated than I’d anticipated. “We don’t sit down?”
“No,” Ginny says sharply. “You stand, so the judge can see how poised and confident you are.”
Oh God.
“The title holder in charge of your group will say ‘Time.’ Then, andonlythen, do you sit down. After three minutes has passed, she’ll say ‘Time’s up,’ and you’ll move to the next judge’s table and do the exact same thing all over again.” She shrugs and taps a dab of luminescent white powder on the inside corners of my eyes. My face feels like it has ten pounds of product on it. “Easy peasy.”
“Easy peasy,” I echo.
But as the minutes pass, my last shred of confidence begins to wane. I put my contact lenses in because Ginny absolutely forbids me to wear my glasses and the next thing I know, she’s meticulously applying two rows of strip lashes to each of my upper eyelids. The final touch.
Are we really doing this? Can we pull it off?
CanIpull it off?
“Okay.” Ginny puts down the eyelash glue. “We’re finished.”
I swallow. “We are?”
I desperately want to turn around and face the mirror, but I’m afraid. This was a crazy idea. No amount of effort could make me into a pageant girl. I’m alibrarian. And what we’re doing feels more like something from a plot in one of the books I love so much than it does real life.
Even more troubling, I know how those books usually end for characters who lie to get what they want.
“Close your eyes,” Ginny says.
I obey and she spins the chair around.
“Open,” she whispers.
