Page 21 of The Accidental Beauty Queen
There’s a catch in her voice, and it sends a little shiver down my spine. I open my eyes, look in the mirror, and the world tilts sideways.
It’s not me I’m seeing. Those aren’t my perfectly arched brows and bee-stung lips. The beautiful girl looking back at me with the dramatic lashes and waves of tumbling hair—miles and miles of it—definitely isn’t me. She’s my sister. She’s Ginny.
It’s...
Disorienting. And more than a little unsettling.
Ginny places her hands on my shoulders and gives them a squeeze. For the first time since she shook me awake this morning, she smiles. “You look incredible.”
I look likeyou.
I swallow. Hard. And I remind myself there are worse things in the world than looking like my beauty queen twin. Especially in this instance.
After all, that’s the whole point of this crazy charade.
6
Half an hour later, I’m lined up with the other five contestants in my group outside the hotel ballroom where the interviews are being held. The temptation to sag against the wall is great. I barely made it downstairs in Ginny’s nude patent leather pageant shoes, which could double as torture devices. Or stilts.
I can’t help but wonder if some of the time she devoted to my face would have been better spent letting me practice walking in these outlandish stilettos. But every time this thought pops into my head, I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the elaborately framed mirrors hanging on the hotel’s silk-covered walls and I reconsider.
The transformation is astounding. The fact that I’m not wearing my glasses might have something to do with how dreamy and beautiful my reflection looks, but not entirely. It’s a wonder eleven hours was sufficient.
So I give these heels my all. It’s a Herculean effort. I’ve been in the shoes less than fifteen minutes total, and I can already feel blisters forming on my pinky toes, my heels, and—is this even possible?—the balls of my feet. Plus, the Spanx contraption that Ginny made me slither into before she zipped me into the retro swing-style dress I’ve got on makes it almost impossible to breathe.
On the plus side, my waist has never looked so tiny. But I’m mildly concerned I might have cracked a rib.
While I concentrate on taking shallow breaths so I don’t burst out of the bodice of my dress, a voice drifts over my shoulder. “Hi there. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Miss Nevada.”
I freeze.
It’s Lisa Ng. Veterinarian Barbie!
Also—most inconvenient—the only pageant contestant I’ve met and conversed with as my regular, unadorned self.
My heart flutters against my rib cage like a butterfly trapped in a net. What if she recognizes me?
I paste a pageant-worthy smile on my face and turn around. “Howdy, I’m Miss Texas, Ginny Gorman.”
Inwardly, I’m cringing in horror. Where did thehowdycome from? Who even am I right now?
“I’m Lisa.” Miss Nevada’s gaze meets mine. For a second, my inability to breathe has nothing to do with the Spanx. I’m just standing there, waiting for her to call me out on the fact that I’m an imposter or ask me why I’ve been traipsing all over the hotel with Buttercup for the past twenty-four hours without wearing my sash.
But then her glossy red lips curve into a welcoming smile, and I realize she doesn’t recognize me. “Are you ready for your interview? I’ve been practicing since early this morning.”
I swallow. Other than reciting various statistics regarding homeless pets while Ginny helped me get dressed, I haven’t practiced at all. But the fact that Miss Nevada doesn’t seem to have a clue as to my real identity gives my confidence a much needed boost.
I smile so brightly my cheeks hurt. “I think I’m ready, but is anyone ever truly prepared for these things? You know how it is.”
“Do I ever.” She laughs. “This is my third time in a national pageant. What about you?”
Her third time? She’s stunning. And she’s obviously smart, not to mention the whole saving-animals-for-a-living thing. How has she not been crowned Miss Universe or something by now?
I shrug. “Third or fourth. I’m beginning to lose count.”
I have no clue if this is accurate information. At any given moment, Ginny’s either in a pageant or she’s preparing for one. How am I supposed to keep track of what she’s got scheduled in her rhinestone-encrusted bullet journal?
But thank God that due to her obsession with following in our mother’s glittering footsteps, I know her history with the Miss American Treasure pageant like the back of my hand. All the other pageants are a blur. Surely this isn’t going to come up in the interview?
