Falling Star (54 page)

Seriously bad luck for her, I won’t quibble
about that, but it just goes to show that what’s unfortunate for
one beauty queen can really open up doors for another ...

Don’t let me get ahead of myself. Allow me
to set the scene.

Oahu. Early September. A balmy evening.
(Aren’t they all in Honolulu?) The Royal Hibiscus Hotel, an oasis
of splendor on an island whose entire land mass is pretty
oasis-like as far as this Midwesterner is concerned.

The pageant finale, complete with live
audience and television crews beaming the proceedings to millions
of homes across the nation. Fifty-one contestants primped, pinned
and poured into evening gowns with more sequins per square inch
than a
Dancing With the Stars
contender. All of us wearing
massive quantities of glittering jewelry, most of it faux, and
sashes displaying the names of our home states. Our hair is held in
place by so much hairspray that the CFCs we spewed into the
atmosphere getting ready probably caused a measurable retrenchment
of the ozone layer over the middle Pacific. On a stage as wide as
my suburban block back home, we’re arrayed on tiers like brides on
the wedding cakes we stuffed into our husbands’ mouths in years
past, since this particular pageant is geared toward married women,
who, as we all know, rule.

In another fifteen minutes, though, one of
us will rule more than the rest. We’re down to the short strokes
now, past the parade of states and the swimsuit, talent, and
evening gown competitions. We’re not far from that exhilarating
moment when the host announces the winner.

But before he does, it’ll get truly tough.
Because a handful of us will be named to the Top Five and they will
have to open their mouths to do more than just smile. They’ll
actually have to
speak
.

The interviews have been known to trip up
the best of us.

Host Mario Suave, who is more beautiful than
anyone else on stage and knows it, parts his luscious Latin lips.
“For the last two weeks, as these stunning ladies have graced this
gorgeous island, we here at the Ms. America pageant have been
searching for that one special woman who embodies the best
qualities of the American wife. Beauty, charm, kindness, poise, and
determination!”

Mario pauses to let the crowd holler and
clap. He basks in the glow, then waves his buff, tuxedoed arm to
indicate us lesser luminaries, trapped on our tiers. “And these
ladies behind me have risen to the challenge. Do you know why?” He
leans forward and cups his hand to his ear, as if expecting a
brilliant answer to burst from the crowd.

“I’ll tell you why!” he shouts a second
later. He straightens and points his finger at the audience.
“Because the last four letters in American spell I CAN!”

The crowd goes wild. Clearly there is no
observation too corny for a beauty pageant. This I’ve known all the
years I’ve competed, which is basically my entire life.

To my left I hear a barely contained wince.
I glance at Ms. Arizona, the brunette and statuesque Misty Delgado,
who that very afternoon became the
infamous
Misty Delgado of
YouTube fame. Or should I say, notoriety.

“Cut the crap, Mario,” she mutters. To her
credit, her smile hasn’t wavered. She is hissing through teeth a
Disney heroine would envy. “Name the top five. These effing
stilettos are killing me.”

Mario seems to pick up the cue. “With no
further ado, I will now name the outstanding married ladies who
will be our top five finalists. One of them—” Pause for effect.
“—will take home the crown of Ms. America.”

With that portentous segue, a drum roll
begins. Mario flourishes a white index card. The crowd holds its
breath. We queens do, too. “Ms. Wyoming, Sherry Phillips!”

Redheaded, very pretty, a threat from head
to toe. She sashays down to stage level. I relax briefly, then
tense again for the second card.

“Ms. Rhode Island, Liz Beth Wong!”

Darn! Extremely perky Asian girl. And again,
not me.

“Ms. North Carolina, Trixie Barnett!”

Her I have to be happy for. She’s a real
gem. But
shoot
! Only two more names.

“Ms. California, Tiffany Amber!”

Argh! I nearly stomp my foot. Awful
creature. Her type rhymes with witch. Tall, blonde, flawless, fake.
Absolutely drop-dead gorgeous.

Oops. Forget I said that.

“Ms. Ohio, Happy Pennington!”

I don’t recognize it at first. Then Misty
pinches my thigh, with more vigor than is strictly necessary.

I squeal. Me! I can’t believe it. One of the
top five! The last one to make it in! My hands fly to my face in
that
I can’t believe it!
gesture that’s as natural to
successful pageant contenders as taping our boobs for extra lift
and separation.

I get a hold of myself and begin the
treacherous descent from my tier, clutching the arms of my fellow
contestants for support so I won’t topple to certain, ignominious
defeat. I encounter barely veiled glares as I progress but by that
point am too delirious with rhinestone ambition to much care.

By the way, don’t ask about the origin of my
first name. Not now, anyway. My mother came up with it, and believe
me, there’s a story there.

I keep a smile plastered to my face, never
forgetting the cardinal rule of pageantry: Sparkle! Sparkle!
Sparkle! I wink playfully at Mario, who flashes his dimples in
return, then cross the stage to assume the position, my eyes
trained on the judges in the first row. Of course, what with the
glare of the stage lights, I can’t actually see them, but still I
nod in their direction with what I hope passes as confidence. No
one measuring my heart rate would be fooled.

Ms. North Carolina trips over to grab my
hand in what after two weeks of acquaintance I know to be a genuine
display of happiness for me. Earlier that evening she won Ms.
Congeniality and I guarantee you that vote wasn’t rigged. Some
beauty queens might be vipers in spandex and silicone but this one
is truly nice. I squeeze her hand back, she giggles in shared glee,
then returns to her mark a few feet away.

I take a deep breath and try not to think
what winning this thing would mean to me. Of course I’ve claimed a
few crowns—after all, I had to win Ohio to get here—but I’ve limped
away defeated far more often than I’ve taken that thrilling victory
walk down the runway. And I’ve never come close to winning a
national competition before.

I already know where I want the prize money
to go. Straight from the Ms. America coffers to my daughter’s
college fund. With a little something left over for my husband.
Then we could all advance our lives from this.

Oh boy, how excited Jason must be for me
right now. And my mom …

For a moment I’m forced to squeeze my eyes
shut. I can’t imagine what this would mean to her. All those
rinky-dink pageants she put me through … Of course, to her they
were swank events that could catapult her daughter to a
socioeconomic level she herself could never achieve. Not so
different from what I want for Rachel, is it? Ironic, let me assure
you. And let’s not forget, if I did manage to grab a national
crown, it might make up a little, just a little, for Pop
leaving.

I know they’re out there in the audience
right now, Mom and Jason, sitting next to each other in forced
comradeship. No doubt Pop is home watching on the tube and cheering
me on. Rachel? Not so much. I’m sure she’s on-line bemoaning how
her mom is embarrassing her.

Mario’s voice cuts through my thoughts. And
none too soon, for I realize that we top five are about to make our
way to the isolation booth. It’s been wheeled onstage by two of the
buffer male dancers, who are holding onto the thing so it doesn’t
slip around as we step inside. Great: another way to fall over.

En route Mario waylays Ms. Wyoming, who’ll
be first to do the final interview. The rest of us slither inside
the booth. Buff Dancer #1 closes the door. Profound silence
descends.

“Wow.” That in a tone of awe from Liz Beth.
She’s one of a half-dozen Asian girls in the competition. “This
thing is, like, really sound-proof.”

“Did you, like, just fall off the turnip
truck? Or in your case should I say the bok choy truck?”

My head snaps right in Ms. California’s
direction.

“Of course it’s sound-proof,” Ms. California
Tiffany Amber goes on, wiping invisible lint from her glittery
silver gown. “Otherwise why would they stick us in here? You’d
better smarten up for your interview question, Rhode Island, or
you’re toast.”

Liz Beth wilts. The walls of the isolation
booth seem to close in a few more inches. I swear it’s a hundred
fifty degrees in there. I lick my lips, my mouth like sandpaper. I
smell nervousness all around me and believe me, it’s not
pretty.

All of a sudden Trixie from North Carolina
laughs. “Well, y’all, I’m just glad they don’t do headphones
anymore.” She’s a girl-next-door type and invariably cheery.
“Remember that? Making the girls listen to that cheesy elevator
music so they didn’t hear the question instead of putting them in
one of these isolation contraptions?”

“It was hell on hair,” Tiffany says as she
smooths her perfect blond coif. “But that would hardly matter for
you.”

Trixie’s eyes widen as her hand flies to her
chin-length copper-red hair. “Is there … is there something …”

The booth door opens. Buff Dancer #2 motions
out Liz Beth, who by now looks as freaked out as a nun at a peep
show. Tiffany chortles as she leaves.

A second later I clear my throat. “Don’t
listen to Tiffany, Trixie.” I reach out to rub her arm. “Your hair
looks terrific.”

“As if,” Tiffany opines. “Anyway,
Congeniality never wins.”

“Stop being a bitch, Tiffany.” My voice is
getting stronger by the second. “Trixie, there’s always a first
time. And I think the judges are really high on you.”

“Really?”

The door opens again and this time Trixie’s
in the firing line. I give her a thumb’s up right before she steps
out.

“Smart, Ohio.” Tiffany shakes her head,
disgust twisting her perfectly symmetrical features. “Make the
competition feel fabulous.”

“Maybe we don’t all need to cut everybody
else down to feel good about ourselves.”

“Right. Tell that to yourself when you
lose.”

I’m concocting a pithy riposte when Tiffany
shuts me up by lifting her gown to reveal a lipstick and compact
taped to her right thigh.

She rips off the tape. “Never thought of
this, did you?” She sneers. “I do it every time. For a last-minute
touchup to guarantee I’m even more exquisite for my close-up.”

“Too bad it won’t be close enough to reveal
your rotten soul,” I mutter. Then the door opens and this time I
find Buff Dancer #1 signaling me.

“Don’t trip on those clodhoppers of yours,”
she singsongs as I take his arm.

I hoist a pound or two of fuchsia satin gown
in my free hand and throw back my shoulders. Jousting with Tiffany
has made me a zillion times fiercer than when I stepped into the
isolation booth. Now I want to blow that blonde barracuda into
oblivion.

We head toward Mario. I’m blinded by the
stage lights as I remember the timeless advice of Miss America 1972
Lauren Schaefer—of Bexley, Ohio, mind you—who said that when you
walk in your evening gown, you should glide as if you were on
rollers being pulled by a string. With applause ringing in my ears,
I float across the stage, my smile beatific. I’m no Tiffany Amber
in the looks department, I will confess, but I am slender and
brunette and the appearance gods have been kind. Buff Dancer #1
deposits me at Mario’s side. The audience settles. I take a
sustaining breath.

Mario glances at his index card. I guess he
can’t remember the question he’s just asked three times. “Ms. Ohio,
if a genie offered you one special power, what would you like it to
be?”

I laugh. “Oh, that’s easy.” To my mind rises
other pageant winners’ advice:
Use a dash of humor!
“I’d
like to be able to guess the winning lottery number before it’s
announced!”

Laughter and clapping burst from the
crowd.

I giggle and go on. “But seriously, folks.
As a wife and mother, the special power I’d most like to have is
the ability to do ten different things at the same time. Then maybe
I’d finally catch up with all the To Do’s on my list!”

Both of Mario’s dimples flash. Now I know
for sure I done good. He motions me to go stand beside my fellow
Top Fivers, then grins at the camera and says, “Very cleverly
answered by Ms. Ohio, Happy Pennington. Now for our final
contestant, Ms. California, Tiffany Amber!”

Cheers and applause rise to the rafters.
Apparently Tiffany has scads of people fooled. As for me, I feel
like booing.

Buff Dancer #2 opens the door to the
isolation booth, then steps back. I steel myself for Her Supreme
Bitchiness to flounce across the stage.

Instead Tiffany pitches forward and crash
lands face first onto the stage floor. Twitching ensues. In fact,
what with the silver gown, she looks like a marlin gasping for
breath on the deck of a fishing boat. Then, after one particularly
impressive series of flops, she shudders and goes still.

The crowd’s cheers give way to an
audience-wide intake of breath. The orchestra screeches to an
awkward halt. Mario calls for a cut to commercial. I can’t often
describe myself as flabbergasted but I sure can now. All we
contestants are as frozen as marionettes who’ve lost their
puppeteer. Except for North Carolina, who grabs my arm. “Good
Lord!” Trixie squeals in my ear. “What in the world’s happened to
that girl?”

Buff Dancer #2 attempts to find out. He
hurries over to Tiffany, still lying face down, then bends toward
her and shakes her shoulder. He starts to turn her over. A second
later horror crosses his face and he lets her go, tripping backward
as if he can’t get away fast enough.