Diary of an Ugly Duckling (43 page)

better go take my place. It’s going to be an interest-

ing afternoon.”

It was hot under the lights as they walked slowly

through the stages of the Big Reveal, then again, at

live TV speed, timing it down to the last second to

be sure the program could be aired in its entirety in

sixty minutes.

As Audra strutted her way through her paces in

gown and swimsuit, she felt the heavy makeup

melting on her body, staining the expensive cloth-

ing. Her mother smeared on more as Audra dashed

from one piece of clothing to the next, but at the

end of the rehearsal every outfit looked white-

streaked and stained. In the chaos of the effort of

getting the contestants here and there, no one said

anything, and Audra breathed easier. They’d get the

streaks out of the fabrics somehow, and later—when

the cameras were rolling—it would be different.

Out front where the audience sat, waiting politely

for their signal to applaud, things probably seemed

calm and organized . . .

But backstage was pandemonium, to such a de-

gree that Audra realized they almost needn’t have

worried so much.

As it was, Audra made her appearance in the wide

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makeup room with the other women, making sure

she’d been seen as present and ready . . . then disap-

peared to the little utility closet Edith had bribed a

janitor into letting them use. It had a tiny little sink

and an even smaller mirror, but it was more than

enough for Audra to wash off the pancake makeup,

strip off the gloves, and sit quietly, while Edith con-

tinued the laborious process of removing the exten-

sions sewn tightly into Audra’s hair.

“We should have started this before last night,” she

told Audra in an evil, stressed-out whisper. “I’m

never going to—”

“We couldn’t and you know it,” Audra replied.

“If you’d just worn that wig—”

“That wig looks like a wig. They’d have figured it

out in a heartbeat.”

“Well, we don’t got time to fight about it. Help

me.” Audra lifted her hands to join Edith’s in releas-

ing the extensions from the tight braids that wound

around Audra’s head. “We have to get them all out.”

“I’ll go with them half in and half out if I have to.”

“You won’t have to,” Edith hissed. “And fix your

face a little bit. You may be two toned, but doesn’t

mean you can’t wear a little mascara and lip gloss.

Pretty up a little—”

She stopped short, realizing what she’d said. Si-

lence reigned in the tiny closet as Audra processed

the words.
Pretty Up . . . Pretty Up . . .

Then Audra laughed. Edith blinked at her a mo-

ment, as if stunned by the sound, then, shaking her

head at herself, joined in, so that anyone walking by

at that moment might have wondered just what kind

of party was going on behind the little closed door.

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

367

* * *

stopped short, staring at her in open-mouthed

amazement. “Oh my God! What happened to you?

You can’t go out there like that.”

“I just heard someone say ten seconds, so I guess

I’m going out there like this,” Audra told her and

hurried on to her spot behind the curtain. In a matter

of seconds, a spotlight would hit, the curtain would

open and Audra would show herself to the world.

“I think we’ve got a problem,” the stage man-

ager was already muttering into her headset. “I’ve

found Audra Marks, but—”

“Five seconds!” someone hissed.

“What do you want me to do?” wailed the dis-

tressed stage manager, but Audra tuned her out. Her

heart was fluttering a mile a minute, but Audra

talked to it, reminding it of their larger purpose.

Shamiyah said I was a messenger for millions of African-

American women . . . and here’s my message. This is my

message right here . . .

The spotlight paused for nothing, not for dis-

tressed stage managers or nervous contestants about

to make their “all natural” debut. The light hit the

curtain and Audra no longer had a choice: She had

to walk the walk.

And walk it she did—down the catwalk like she

was to the runway born, hearing the gasps of sur-

prise from the audience at her mottled, brown-beige

skin, her cornrowed, extensionless head, her rounded,

rubbing-together thighs. She struck her pose, paused

for the judges, and then strode, head up, toward the

host for her question.

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Karyn Langhorne

“Audra, what happened?” he asked, opening and

closing his mouth in stunned surprise, and Audra

knew it wasn’t the prepared question written on the

little card in his pocket.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she replied in

Bette Davis’s most sweetly guilty voice.

“What happened to your skin—your hair—” the

man stuttered, sounding utterly horrified. Audra

glanced past him into the wings and saw Shamiyah,

her eyes wide in shocked dismay.

“Oh that,” she answered calmly. “I stopped doing

the lightening and the long hair was too hot. I don’t

like living on salads . . . I missed real food. So I de-

cided to accept myself as beautiful, the way I am

right now . . . whether America thinks so or not.”

And she made a little bow and strode past him,

making her exit right on cue, right on time as a smat-

tering of applause reached her ears.

“That’s my baby!” she heard Art shout from

somewhere in the darkness of the audience. “That’s

my girl!”

“Go Audra!” Penny’s voice joined his. “Go!”

“You missed Mickey at Disneyland, Auntie A!

Can we go home now?”

Winning and losing, Audra realized almost im-

mediately, were matters of perception, as much as

beauty and ugliness.

Shamiyah and Camilla were furious at first, hol-

lering in her face about how she’d jeopardized the

show and the reputations of all involved, threaten-

ing legal actions in forty different flavors . . . but that

couldn’t erase the feeling of absolute freedom that

soared in Audra’s heart the second she stepped

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

369

from the lights of the stage into the cool of the

wings.

“I’ve got to go put on my bathing suit,” she told

them simply, and then swung her rounding hips at

them as she returned to the dressing room to

change.

And when America didn’t pick her as their num-

ber one, Audra couldn’t help feeling light as a

feather. Tonight she was an absolute loser . . . but the

happiest one on Earth.

“You did it, girl! You really did it!” Edith swung

herself around her daughter’s neck, hugging and

jumping. “I can’t believe you went out there and—”

“I’m proud of you, Audie,” Laine rubbed her

shoulders. “And I’m glad you’re my cousin. Girl,

that took a lot of nerve.”

Art picked her up and swung her around and

Penny surprised her with a bouquet of flowers. “I

think what you did was great,” she murmured shyly.

“Really great.”

“Me, too,” Kiana said. “But is your skin going to

stay that way?”

Audra shrugged. “We’ll just have to see.”

“Now what?” Art asked.

“Let’s go home—”

“Not so fast!” Shamiyah hustled up to her, a big

smile pasted across her face. “Everyone’s talking

about your look!” She gestured to the cell phone. “I

just got off the phone with the publicity people.

Every show in the country wants an interview with

you.”

“Sorry Shamiyah,” Audra shook her head. “I’m

through.”

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Karyn Langhorne

Shamiyah stared at her like she’d just said she in-

tended to commit suicide.

“What do you mean, you’re through?” she de-

manded. “You can’t be through! How many times

do we have to go over this. We own you until—”

“Until the end of ‘the Big Reveal, if not selected as

winner,’ ” Audra told her, quoting the language ex-

actly. “I wasn’t selected . . . and I’m through.” Au-

dra shrugged. “You can check with your lawyers if

you want. I checked with mine.”

The young producer blinked at her. An expression

like anger crossed her face, then disappeared. “Come

on, Audra,” she said, starting out on a new tact. “This

would mean a lot to me . . . to my career. You can’t

just—”

“Yes, Shamiyah. Yes, I can. Consider it no more

than what you deserve.” She nodded to her family.

“Let’s go.”

“But what am I supposed to do about all these re-

quests for interviews?”

There was a charged moment, as everyone waited

for Audra’s response. Audra put her hands on her

hips, feeling every moment a grand diva—right down

to her evening gown. She leaned close to Shamiyah, a

smile quirking her lips.

“Frankly my dear, Shamiyah, I don’t give a damn,”

she muttered, and swept out of the studio.

There was a car waiting near the studio, and a sol-

dier in desert khakis stood beside it, peering toward

the building like she was lost.

Kiana knew her first.

“Mommy!” she cried, breaking free of Audra’s

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

371

hand and beginning to run. “Mommy! Mommy,

you’re home!”

Audra looked up just as Petra swept her little girl

into her arms. A second later, her husband Michael

emerged from the car and took his turn, swinging

their little daughter into his arms.

Petra swept off her cap. She’d cut her hair short

again, so that it was almost as short as Audra’s, and

her skin was tanned to brown from the desert sun.

“Ma . . . Audra,” she said in a choked voice. “I’m

home.”

Audra didn’t remember who ran to whom, she

just remembered the three of them hugging and

kissing and jumping, and talking all at once.

“You look beautiful,” Petra whispered in her ear.

“Just beautiful.”

“You, too,” Audra replied.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Edith muttered.

And Audra was quick to agree. She tossed back

her head and laughed like a diva, arm in arm with

the people who loved her, making the exit of a life-

time into the California sunset.

Acknowledgments

Idon’t know about you, but I’ve always found

something to hate about the way I look: I’m too

fat, my skin looks funny, and I’m having a bad hair

day that’s lasted for twenty years. My hips are too

big, my boobs are too small, my waist is too short.

My eyes are too close together and my nose is too

flat; I have this funny little ridge around my lips and

absolutely no eyebrows whatsoever. Since I was

about 14 years old, I’ve always found something to

hate.

Then, last year, I came across a stack of photos

taken when I was in college twenty years ago. I was

so cute! True, at the time those photos were taken, I

thought my hips were too big and my boobs were

too small, and my eyes were too close together, etc.

But looking at that girl now, twenty years and forty

pounds later, I think she’s adorable. Only I wish

she’d known it.

The funny thing is, twenty years older and forty

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Karyn Langhorne

pounds heavier, I’m more content with myself now

than I was at 21. And that’s what
Diary of an Ugly

Duckling
is all about: learning to love yourself, not

for
what
you are on the outside, but
who
you are on

the inside.

I get weird ideas like
Diary of an Ugly Duckling
all

the time . . . but they don’t become books without the

help and guidance of many, many people. I want to

mention a few now.

First, let me thank Paula Langguth Ryan and her

Art of Abundance coaching. Paula is a “life coach”

with whom I’ve worked on and off for the past three

years. She is super at helping you “uncover” your

true self and she has given me some great “life exer-

cises” over the years. I encourage everyone to visit

her Web site at www.artofabundance.com. She’s the

best.

I’d also like to thank my mother, Evelyn S. Lang-

horne. She is nothing like the mother in this story!

She’s a lovely woman—inside and out—and one of

my best friends and role models. Thanks, Mom!

As far as researching and developing this story, I

have to thank Dr. Jan R. Adams. Other than appear-

ing on several television shows dealing with plastic

surgery, he wrote a book I found extremely helpful,

Everything Women of Color Should Know About Cos-

metic Surgery
. Any sister thinking about having a

“lift” should find a copy.

Without Esi Sogah and Selina McLemore, my edi-

tors, the story you’re about to read would have

made far less sense. I’m forever grateful to both of

these talented ladies for their guidance—and to my

thoughtful and dedicated agent, James C. Vines,