“Fun though it is to think of little Lexie all done up like a doll, this doesn’t sound like something no one else knows about,” Jett points out. “Stick to the assignment, Lady M.”
“I’m getting to that part,” I insist. My hands twist nervously on my lap. This isn’t exactly a “take it to the grave” kind of secret, but Jett’s listening so intently, like what I’m about to say is of the utmost importance to him, that it’s just a little unnerving.
I wonder if he learned that in acting class?
“So, the truth is, the pageants were really my mum’s thing, not mine,” I tell him, resisting the urge to start chewing my nail again. “I mean, sure, I liked the attention I got when I won something. But Mum liked it even more, so I mostly just went along with it to keep her happy. She was great when she was happy. Fun, affectionate…”
I trail off, remembering the times when Mum was happy with me. How she’d get out the old rusty convertible she used to keep in the garage — the one she said used to belonged to my Dad — and we’d go for a ride in it, with the top down, and the heater going full blast. How it would feel like the sun coming out after a rainstorm — and how quickly it could go back in again.
“And when she wasn’t happy?”
I look up at Jett in surprise, wondering if I said all of that out loud by mistake. His eyes are still fixed on mine, and there’s an understanding in them I’m sure I must be imagining until I remember the things he’s told me about his father.
Maybe not.
“When she wasn’t happy, it was very different,” I say slowly. “Very different. And it got to the point where I just couldn’t deal with it anymore. The mood swings. The anger. It felt like her happiness was totally dependent on my ability to win some stupid beauty pageant, and I just… I started to hate having that responsibility all the time. I started toreallyhate it.”
“How old were you?” Jett asks softly.
I think for a second.
“About ten? Eleven maybe? I don’t think I’d started high school yet, so definitely not more than that. I’d have a pageant every weekend, basically — or a rehearsal for one. And every Friday night, I’d get sick to my stomach, thinking about what would happen if I didn’t win it. If I wasn’t good enough for her. It literally started to make me ill. Like, throwing up in the car on the way there — that kind of thing.”
“She didn’t… hit you, did she?”
Jett’s mouth has settled into a straight line. This is probably not the fun conversation he was expecting this to be.
“No, nothing like that,” I assure him hurriedly. “She never physically hurt me. She’d just sort ofwithdrawfrom me. And when you’re ten years old, that really hurts, you know?”
“That hurts at any age,” Jett says shortly. “Your mom sounds like a narcissist.”
I nod wordlessly. You don’t need to be a psychiatrist to see it, but it’s strange — and oddly reassuring — to hear someone say it out loud. It makes me feel less like it’s all my own fault; which, deep down, I’ve always suspected it is.
“So, what did you do? How did you put a stop to the pageant stuff?”
I straighten my shoulders, allowing myself to relax as I finally get to the main part of my story.
“I cut my hair,” I tell him, grinning. “Totally butchered it. I looked like Worzel Gummidge — that’s like a weird scarecrow guy — by the time I was done. And I did it the night before a pageant, so there was no time to get it fixed, either.”
Jett’s eyes widen in shock.
“Shiiiit,” he says, sounding impressed. “I have no idea what Worzel Whateveryousaid is, but that’s a boss move right there. What did your mom say, though?”
“Oh, she was furious, obviously.” I gloss over this part as casually as I can, not wanting to think about the fallout from that particular little stunt of mine. “But I told her I’d just been trying to make myself look prettier, and she believed me. She wasn’t happy.”Understatement of the century.“I wasn’t either, to be honest. I loved my long hair, and even after the hairdresser tried to neaten it up, I still looked horrific. But I never had to enter another pageant after that, and that was good enough for me.”
“The hair must have grown back, though?”
“Oh yeah, it did. But it took a while, and Mum had this wild idea that only girls with princess hair could be pretty, so she didn’t see the point in pursuing the pageant thing after that. I think she kind of wrote me off, really.”
I flick my hair out of my eyes, as if I’m completely unaffected by this. I don’t think Jett’s convinced, though, somehow. He takes a few moments to speak, but when he does, his voice is gentle, as if he’s worried I might break.
“So you basically sabotaged yourself because of your mother,” he says softly. “I can’t imagine many girls doing something like that.”
“Just call me Rapunzel,” I say, as nonchalantly as I can manage. “That’s me.”
“Seriously, though.” Jett’s not going to let this drop. “Most of the women I meet are so invested in their appearance that they’d probably rather die than do something to ruin it. Not that you’d have ruined it,” he adds quickly. “I mean, I’m sure you still looked lovely and—”
“I looked like a scarecrow,” I say, laughing. “And Ididwant to die over it at first, so don’t give me too much credit here. It was a moment of madness. I regretted it as soon as I made the first cut, but it was too late by that point. I had to see it through.”
