Pageant Queen

Three… two… one

The countdown feels like a ticking time bomb, and when it goes off, it’ll either explode confetti or blow up her entire world. Her fingers are crossed behind her back, only one hand because she can be superstitious. Her eyes are closed tightly––so tight bursts of light cloud her vision, but she ignores them. All she can think about is the countdown. More specifically, the result at the end.

The energy in the room is palpable. Girls to her left and right are practically buzzing with anticipation. Some hold hands, others cross themselves and say a prayer. The entire room holds its breath as the announcer lifts the microphone to his lips. If the feedback from the mic doesn’t ruin her mood, the next words that come out of his mouth will.

“Millie Powell,” he says. 

The sound of the M makes her stomach drop, but alas, her name is not Millie. It’s Mia. 

It’s weird. Confetti does go off––tons of it, actually. It sprinkles over the girls on stage, creating new patterns on their floor-length dresses. It weaves through their perfect hair and sticks to their false lashes. People laugh and try to catch the colorful paper as it rains from the ceiling. But all Mia sees is grey. She’d rather have the explosion. 

Kaboom! Pow! Pop! 

The crowd’s cheers force Mia out of a dazed state. She smiles along with them––or so she thinks because her face now feels heavy under the pounds and pounds of makeup. All of the girls go to hug the winner, including Mia whose arms are too limp. So weak, she considers going in for another. Maybe that way she can prove herself a little better. Because to her, she is completely unfazed by the announcement. She’s happy for Millie. Really. 

Backstage, the girls congregate like a waddle of penguins. Their high heels dig into the skins of their feet leaving excruciating blisters to be popped in the morning. Mia doesn’t limp. The pain doesn’t bother her, just like the announcement of the winner. That’s just who she is. She goes on with life without a care because why dwell on it? 

Why dwell on it? She’s asked herself this a million times. 

On the way out of the auditorium, after the audience has gone home and several of the girls have left for the diner down the street, Hattie approaches Mia. It’s not like her to leave on her own, especially this late at night. A pageant girl is least safe out after dark. Any girl is, really. After rehearsals, she’s always made it her mission to be seen with her group of so-called friends. But tonight, after her big loss––or perhaps it’s Millie’s big win––she’s declined the offer to go out. “I guess I’m a bit tired,” was the first excuse to fall from her mouth followed by the dryest laugh anyone’s ever heard. 

 “You know what?” Hattie Fitz says as they fall into step with one another. Heels click against the floor and echo throughout the room. “You can at least be a bit nicer.”

“Oh?” Mia says. She thinks she is being nice. At least, she tries. 

“Whatever happens to you, you act like it never happened at all.”

Mia knows this is true. It’s better than being overly emotional. Better than leaving the pageant with mascara dripping down her face, dark red lipstick smudged off, and barefoot. There were a few of those women tonight, but not Mia. Never Mia. She refuses to be seen like that.

Hattie carries on, “Least you can do is smile for Millie. She would’ve smiled for you.”

“I did smile.”

“A real smile.”

“Whatever,” Mia says. “I’m happy for her, alright?” And with that, she walks faster out into the night. Too fast for Hattie to catch up. The dark engulfs her until she’s fully alone with nothing but flickering street lamps to guide her way. 

I did smile. It’s all she can think about now. Had her lips not stretched upward as she asked them to? That sounds impossible considering it’s her body, her mind. Surely they lifted in the same way everyone else did. A real smile, too. A genuine, pearly white smile to congratulate the winner. But, did she ever really congratulate Millie? She can’t remember.

The walk home isn’t far, but it’s far enough to be cautious. It’s nights like these that she wishes she had a car. Walking from place to place or spending cash on rideshares has been her get-around for more than two years now. It’s become familiar to her. Tonight, nothing feels familiar. Because it should’ve been her. She had rehearsed her thank you speech for months before the contest. Years, really, since she’s been looking forward to that pageant ever since she turned eighteen and was able to apply. Now she’s twenty-two.

“Nice dress,” a deep voice says, startling her from her thoughts.

Mia knows not to interact with strangers––especially men––on her walks home. If she’s lucky, they usually leave her alone. If she’s not, they’ll fight until they get what they want. That only happened once before when she moved to the city. 

“You not gonna answer me?” he calls, and she swears he can hear hock a loogie nearby. She can’t tell if the voice is closer or further, but it’s definitely louder. He demands, “You better answer me.”

No answer. Don’t interact. Keep walking.

A heavy hand lands on her shoulder, yanking her hard enough so she loses balance and ends up on the ground. In the morning, she will find a massive bruise trailing up her lower back. For now, she ignores the pain––or maybe she truly is numb to it.

In one swift motion, she hoists herself up, never making eye contact with the man. All she can see of him is a long, gray scraggly beard and hair to match. She won’t meet his eyes, and even if she did, she wouldn’t be able to tell what color they are in the dark. Her gaze does briefly meet with his mouth. Lips so chapped and three missing teeth, she almost feels bad for the man. Almost. But definitely not after his hand grabs the fabric on the bottom of her silky red dress while she tries to make a silent getaway. 

Rrriiiip. 

That was the dress she had saved up for. Every dream she had of herself wearing it gone in seconds. She won’t even look down to see the damage, only feels the breeze brush against her bare leg. There’s an acidic taste rising from her belly up her throat, but she refuses to give it any sort of attention. If she does, the man wins. So she carries on with her stoic expression through the night down to her apartment building. 

No one else harasses her on the walk home. That doesn’t take away the fact her favorite dress is ruined and her tailbone is throbbing. 

It also doesn’t take away the fact that her apartment building is locked with no one at the front desk to open the door. You ask, “But doesn’t Mia have a key?” Yes, she does. In the right pocket of her favorite red gown. The same side that was torn off not even ten minutes ago. Perhaps it’s still there, but most likely, the man has decided to take the fabric with him without noticing the key card. He will try to sell the fabric for cash and fail, but he will find the card eventually. Or maybe he will leave the expensive silk on the dirty ground. 

For the first time in over two years, Mia lets herself fall. 

She falls to the floor of her apartment's steps. It’s past midnight. Families are in bed asleep, and her pageant friends are at a diner several blocks away. Her butt hurts and her feet ache from walking so long. One accidental bump against the blisters forming on her heels comes the most horrific pain, shooting from the backs of her feet up her legs. 

It stings. The man in the dark stings. The earlier confrontation stings. The loss stings.

Everything hurts so bad.

And in the middle of the night outside of her apartment, she can feel the tears form. Those sting, too, burning her eyes. She tries to wipe them away and tries to pretend that it doesn’t matter. Don’t dwell on it, don’t dwell on it, don’t dwell on it.

She dwells on it.

And she cries.

And she sobs.

And for the first time in so, so long, she feels.

And then, she remembers the key card wasn’t in her pocket at all. It’s in her bra. So she wipes away the tears, stands up, and swipes the card to get in. The minute the lock turns green, she breaks down again. This time, in laughter.