Page 43 of The Accidental Beauty Queen
So did I. “Do you want me to take you back to the urgent-care clinic?”
“There’s no time. The talent prelims start at three o’clock.” She pulls a face. “And, well...”
I finish for her. “I have no talent.”
Ginny holds up her hands. “You said it. Not me.”
“There’s got to be something I can do. I’m not auditioning for the Metropolitan Opera. It’s a beauty pageant.”
Ginny clears her throat. “Scholarship competition.”
I hold up a hand. “Don’t start. Please”
Not when I somehow have to learn ventriloquism or how to dance the hula or sing a Bible hymn while signing it in ASL in a mere handful of hours.
I gasp, struck with sudden inspiration. “What about a dramatic reading?”
I’ve been reading since I was four years old. It’s my thing. I wouldn’t even need to prepare. Off the top of my head, I can recite half a dozen monologues, fromRomeo and JuliettoMacbethtoHamlet.
I swallow.
The thought ofHamletsends my heart tumbling. I’ve been doing my best to push Gray Beckham and his altruistic charms from my mind altogether. It’s been hard. So. Very. Hard.
But I can’t deal with that humiliating situation at the moment. There are more pressing matters at hand. Besides, I’ve been taking Buttercup outside as often as I possibly can without causing suspicion, and I haven’t seen Gray or his cute little dog at all. It’s as if they’ve packed up and moved out of the Huntington altogether.
Or more likely, Gray is going to great lengths to avoid me.
“A dramatic reading? You’re joking, right?” Ginny cringes. The gesture is so exaggerated that she looks more like an emoji than an actual person.
“Why do I get the feeling you think that’s a bad idea?”
“Because it is. Contestants only do dramatic readings when they’re not capable of doing anything else. As far as talent goes, it’s a last resort.” She eyes me up and down. “Dead last.”
Her comment doesn’t even bother me. It’s amazing how accustomed I’ve become to being insulted, all for the sake of a crown.
“What were you planning on doing for talent?”
Ginny has toyed with contemporary dance, traditional flamenco, and classical flute, among other talents. Unlike me, Ginny is blessed in the charisma department. She can get away with pretty much anything onstage.
“I was going to twirl,” she says.
This is unexpected. To my knowledge, her long list of competitive talent numbers has never included baton. “I didn’t realize you knew how to do that.”
“I’ve been taking lessons for the past six months.” Her gaze flits to the picture of our mother, still propped up in a place of honor on Ginny’s nightstand. “It’s what Mom did when she won.”
“That’s nice. It’s really sweet, sis.” I take a deep breath. “Teach me your routine.”
She lifts a brow. “Did you not hear what I just said? I’ve been taking lessons for six months.Six. That’s half a year.”
“I’m familiar with the concept of a calendar.” I sigh. “But as you’ve so bluntly pointed out, I can’t do anything else. We’ve got hours. Why don’t you at least try and teach me? Who knows? Maybe I’ll catch on freakishly quick.”
Maybe if I think of it as an extra-large wand I’ll be okay. Not to brag, but I was pretty good with the interactive plastic wand I bought in Diagon Alley at Harry Potter World. I was casting spells all over the place with that thing.
I nod toward Mom’s photograph. “It’s in the genes. I could be a prodigy. We’ll never know unless we try.”
Spoiler alert: I’m not a baton-twirling prodigy.
Ginny starts out by teaching me how to do a basic horizontal figure eight.
