Page 4 of The Accidental Beauty Queen
Because even though my sister has always been the pretty one, the beauty queen—the Jane Bennet to my Elizabeth, the Meg March to my Jo—she’s also my twin.
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Ginny and I weren’t always such polar opposites. There was a time when we were inseparable. We were the sort of identical twins who dressed alike, wore our hair the same way, and completed each other’s sentences. We were twins in the vein of Mary-Kate and Ashley, minus the millions of dollars and a hit television show.
Somewhere in the attic of Dad and Susan’s two-story colonial in Dallas, Texas, there are volumes of photo albums documenting this period of my life.
Ourlives, I should say.
There was no me back then, just as there was no Ginny. There was justus. Me and her. The twins.
On the rare occasion I actually flip through one of those albums, I can never identify myself in any of the pictures. Ginny and I are interchangeable in our matching rompers, matching socks, and matching patent leather shoes. Our haircuts are the same, as are our smiles.
As are our memories.
Was it Ginny who fell off a pony in the kiddie area at the rodeo, or was it me? Which one of us lost a tooth first? Who colored the picture of the house and the smiling family of stick figures that still hangs in a frame above the staircase in our childhood home?
I used to try to sort those early years out, to untangle the web. Then I realized it was hopeless. Being a twin means knowing you’re always part of a bigger whole. We were one once, and now we’ve been split in two.
The day after our fifth birthday, our mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. That’s when it all stopped—the matching outfits, the photos, the carefully curated albums. Seven months later, she was gone.
I think that’s when the split became permanent. Our father had enough on his plate raising twin girls on his own while trying to get tenure at the same time. Making sure we were fed and dressed in clean clothes every morning was a victory in itself. Matching outfits and hair ribbons were out of the question. For the first time, people could tell Ginny and me apart. Somewhere deep down, so could we.
Despite all our similarities, my sister and I handled the loss of our mother in completely different ways. I attached myself to our father—our sole remaining parent—morphing into the quintessential daddy’s girl. Other than Ginny, he was all I had left. My love of books is firmly rooted in my childhood and my devotion to my dad, a university English professor.
Ginny loves him too, obviously. She always has. But growing up, sheachedfor our mom. That’s what all this pageant business is really about. Our beauty queen mother left a big, beauty queen–shaped hole inside Ginny, and she’s been trying to fill it for the past twenty-four years.
I remind myself of this fact when I take up my duties as official pageant dog walker. Buttercup despises me. That much is obvious when she collapses to the ground and tries to writhe out of her collar in order to get away from me the minute the door to our room clicks shut behind us. It’s a full-on spectacle, made all the more humiliating by the fact that it’s taking place in front of a hallway full of glamazons.
“Stop it,” I hiss.
Buttercup flips onto her back and paws at the air. For a second, I wonder if she’s having a seizure. But there’s a mischievous glint in her googly eyes that assures me she’s fine. She’s just in the throes of a canine temper tantrum, not a medical emergency.
“Oh my, is your sweet little dog all right?”
I look up. Miss Nevada is teetering toward me on a pair of those mile-high platform stilettos.
More beauty queen interaction issonot what I need right now. I let out a strangled laugh. “She’s fine. She’s just a little shy.”
God, I sound like Ginny.
Miss Nevada isn’t buying it. “Are you sure? I could take a look at her if you like. I’m a veterinarian.”
Seriously? She looks like a petite, Asian-American Barbie doll. No way can I picture her elbow-deep in a pregnant cow. Maybe she’s not that kind of vet, though. Still, I’m a little thrown.
“Really?” I say, unable to hide my surprise.
She nods. “First in my class at Cornell.”
“That’s really impressive.” My smile falters. I’m beginning to worry about Ginny’s shot at the crown. She’s an Instagram model. Meanwhile, Miss Nevada is the Lucy Liu of veterinary medicine.
Not that any of this matters. It’s nothing but a plastic tiara covered in cheap rhinestones. Ginny needs to move on and do something real with her life. Something like vet school, or at the very least a dog-training class. Then maybe Buttercup would learn some basic social skills.
“Thanks.” Miss Nevada looks me up and down. I can tell she’s wondering what I’m doing here, as I’m obviously not a pageant contestant. My face grows hot for some reason, but thankfully she bends to inspect Buttercup, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’d much rather the dog be the center of attention than me.
Miss Nevada gives Buttercup a once-over as she continues to squirm and grunt. I’m somewhat reassured by this development. Buttercup’s disdain apparently has nothing to do with me personally. She doesn’t like anyone but Ginny.
“You’re right. She seems fine.” Miss Nevada stands again. She can’t be any more than five feet three, but thanks to her heels, I have to lift my gaze to look her in the eye. “Asyou said, she’s just... shy.”
