“All righty then, let’s turn you into royalty.” Aunt DeeDee clasped her hands and practically bounced with excitement. “Getting pageant-ready is a bit like ripping off a Band-Aid…” She paused and closed one eye. “Or perhaps getting a Pap smear. Grit your teeth through the discomfort, and soon you’ll be all done, pulling up your panties, and getting on with your life.”
I was horrified by the imagery, but when I caught the reflection of my gaunt grimace in the oven door, I realized that she had a massive job to do.
“Listen, sugar, beauty is pain. But don’t worry: it won’t kill you.”
Unless it did.
Aunt DeeDee turned to the big bag she’d brought inside and pulled some kind of wand-shaped torture-device from it.
“What is that?” I asked, eyeing the metal and plastic contraption.
“It’s a microdermabrasion kit.”
“You just happened to bring that with you?”
“Let’s just say that I knew how this conversation would go.” She took out bottles of goop and placed them in a Tetris-like row across the kitchen counter. “How long since you had a facial?”
I shook my head at her.
“Since you did a face mask?”
More shaking of the head.
“Oh dear.” She sighed. “I guess tonight’s the night.”
Over the next twenty minutes I watched her set up several stations. There was a rainbow of nail polish, a steaming bowl of wax, an orange container of highlights, and more creams and metal wands than I’d ever imagined.
Aunt DeeDee ushered me toward the couch and continued her commands, dropping glops of hot wax on my calves as soon as I was lying before her. As I watched her move around the living room, I had no trouble believing my aunt had been Miss 1990 back in the day. Her erect posture, her long legs, and her perfectly symmetrical face practically guaranteed it.
She attached strips of paper to my legs. “Now, take a deep breath.”
I did as commanded, but I couldn’t help howling as she ripped the hair out at the roots.
“Oh, sweetheart, this is nothing. Wait till I get to your nether regions.”
Tears sprang to my eyes, and I brushed them away.
After a few more minutes of waxing and yelping, Aunt DeeDee rubbed oil into my red legs before splattering on talcum powder for good measure. Then, she took off a plastic glove and rubbed the frown out of my brow. “Listen, hon, your fees are paid, and I’ve ordered all of your gowns and costumes in colors that will bring out the green in your eyes and help restore that peaches-and-cream complexion. All you need to do is show up, smile pretty, and follow the schedule. I helped your mother arrange everything.” Aunt DeeDee cleared her throat. She tapped her pointer finger on her chin and studied me. “Now, dear, what do you know about the pageant?”
My eyebrows stayed knitted this time. “I know that the entire show is a tool of the patriarchy and dependent entirely upon the toxic male gaze.”
“With an answer like that, you’re a shoo-in for the grand prize,” Aunt DeeDee tisked. “Please don’t forget that your feminist aunt, namelyme, helps run that ‘tool of the patriarchy,’ and you know I carried signs alongside you at the Women’s March a few years ago.”
I eyed her, reluctant to concede the point. She’d passed out cookies and worn a sign that said,Treat Us the Same as the Menfolk. Not exactly activism at its finest. Still, she’d shown up for me.
“Sometimes it’s easier to infiltrate something that’s outdatedin order to change things.” Aunt DeeDee ran a hand down the front of her perfectly ironed skirt. “Listen, I was almost your age when I won first place. I’d been through an awful breakup, and my own mother thought it might be a good experience for me. And it was. The winnings gave me enough money to buy my own little apartment in town and to start my clothing line. The prestige gave me recognition and a way to network. This show can give you the push—and the resources—you need to keep our family home, to go back to school, to start your own practice, to do”—she waved a hand in the air as if dreaming big—“whatever you want to do. That’s about the most feminist thing you can do.”
I turned on my side, resting my head in my hand. “You don’t even know if I can win.”
“With a little help from me, you’re golden.” Aunt DeeDee straightened her shoulders. “Good. Now then, there are three things you absolutely need to know: First, the judges watch you all four days, not just on the night of the grand finale. They’re assessing the Four Cs: confidence, comportment, conversation, and costumes.”
“Costumes?”
“Attire and talent, but that doesn’t start with a C.”
“If I think all of this isCrap, may I be excused?”
“Funny, as always,” Aunt DeeDee said without laughing. “Secondly, since this year is the centennial, there are more prizes”—she gave me a pointed look—“which means moremoneythan any other year. First place is three hundred thousand dollars. Second place is two hundred thousand dollars.Third place is a hundred thousand dollars and a tractor, which is a bit odd, I realize, but a donation’s a donation. And then there’s the Miss Rosie prize, which is based on likability and popularity and comes with—” Aunt DeeDee noticed my expression, which Lacy called my Resting Horse Face because it was long and blank. “Maybe…” Aunt DeeDee wrinkled her nose. “Maybe we should skip Miss Rosie and aim to place, yeah?”
