Page 30 of The Accidental Beauty Queen
“Ew, no.” Ginny pulls a face. “This isn’t 1930.”
There are a dozen ways I could dispute her comment, starting with Farrah Fawcett’s famous red one-piece from the seventies, but why bother? There’s not a maillot in sight. Just tiny bits of fabric that look more like lingerie than anything I’d wear to the beach.
“Um, does this top actually have a push-up bra inside it?” I recoil.
I can’t believe I let a brief moment of sisterly bonding convince me to keep going in the pageant.
“Just try it on. You’ll look amazing. Trust me.” Ginny crosses her arms and glares at me.
The good news is that her face looks a tiny bit better today. The swelling has gone down a smidge, and she’s not quite as blotchy as she was the night before. It’s almost enough to convince me there’s an actual light at the end of this rhinestone-encrusted tunnel.
But not soon enough.
I slither into the bikini and emerge from the bathroom, afraid to face the mirror.
“You look great,” Ginny says.
I cast a wary glance over my shoulder at my reflection, but then Ginny orders me to stop. “Don’t. This isn’t the one. You look great, but we can do better.” She rummages around in her bag and pulls out another, more minuscule option. “Try this.”
“Ginny, I...”
“Do it!” she shrieks, and Buttercup shimmies her way under my bed.
“Fine.” I snatch the suit from her hands. What’s another quarter inch of skin when I already feel practically naked?
On my way back into the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the vanity mirror, and I have to admit, I look pretty good. Not Victoria’s Secret–model good, but decent enough that I won’t necessarily embarrass myself.
Unless I fall on my face, which is a definite possibility. Apparently I have to wear the nude patent leather platform stilettos again. Maybe Ginny’s wrong. Maybe this is, in fact, 1930.
“I can’t believe the swimsuit competition is still a thing.” I emerge from the bathroom again, bypass the mirror altogether, and give voice to the rant that’s been building in my head all morning. “Isn’t it a little antiquated? Not to mention sexist?”
Ginny sighs. “If it makes you feel any better, most major pageants focus on body positivity now. You’ll see women of all shapes and sizes out there on the runway. How you look in the swimsuit doesn’t matter nearly as much as how much confidence you exude when you strut your stuff.”
My stomach turns. I’ve never strutted a day in my life. “Is that true?”
“Yes. I promise. You could look like aSports Illustratedswimsuit model, but if you dash off the stage as quickly as you can and avoid eye contact with all the judges, your score will be miniscule.”
I narrow my gaze at her. “As minuscule as this bikini?”
She bursts out laughing. At least one of us is enjoying this experience. “Turn around and look at yourself, would you?”
Eyes closed, I take a few deep breaths and try to forget that until today, I’ve never even worn a bikini. I’m not sure I still own a bathing suit at all. A T-shirt and shorts work just fine for reading by the pool. Which, come to think of it, is exactly what I’m supposed to be doing during this vacation.
I sneak a peek at my to-be-read pile on the nightstand—which I lovingly refer to as my TBR stack—half expecting to see dust gathering on the book jackets. Poor neglected things.
“Charlotte, you’re going to have to face your reflection sooner or later,” Ginny says quietly.
Fine.
Reluctantly, I turn my attention toward the mirror and take a good hard look.
She’s right. It’s not bad. If I ignore my head, I can almost believe I’m looking at Ginny’s body instead of mine. But, oh yeah, my face looks exactly like hers too now. I keep forgetting.
“Well?” my twin prompts.
“I haven’t felt this naked since the day we were born,” I say flatly.
She rolls her eyes. “Dramatic much? Honestly, this bikini isn’t overly revealing. The bottoms are high-waisted and the top is substantial enough to fit an actual bra underneath it. It’s a pageant swimsuit. Bathing suits that people wear to the beach or even on cruises expose a lot more skin.”
