When Mrs. Musgrove leaves to join the rest of her family, I’m relieved to find my niece and nephew crabby, overheated, and hungry. The perfect excuse for us all to head home from the parade before I have to put on yet another fake smile.
10
REASONS TO SMILE
MISSSWEETGEORGIAPEACHwas in the local parade, wearing her tiara and sash. I was eleven, looking up at her from my spot on the curb with a mix of awe and ambition, my cherry lollipop dangling from my mouth.
Mom must’ve clocked my expression, because she bumped my shoulder with hers. “That could be you, Nikki-Belle.”
I saw the way her eyes twinkled, and my own lit up.
As soon as we got home, we started researching local pageants.
Once she signed me up for my first one, we drilled my dance routine for weeks. We practiced changing out of my costumes as quickly as possible without toppling over in my heels or mussing up my hair and makeup. Mom asked me endless practice questions about my greatest accomplishment (raising the funds to make a butterflygarden for the elementary school), my role model (my mom), and what’s important to me (my family).
The week before the competition, Mom had me do my walk in front of the whole family, which had been simultaneously mortifying and helpful. If I could nail my walk while Cooper made pretend throw-up noises and Linney and Pete tossed a baseball back and forth, there wasn’t much that would knock me off balance when I was on the pageant stage.
It was still dark the morning of the pageant when Mom came to wake me, but I was already up. My stomach roiled with a mixture of excitement and nerves, and I mentally raced through all the things I needed to remember—how to hold my arms, how to spin at the end of my walk, the steps of my dance routine. We carefully piled all my supplies into Mom’s red Volvo and headed east, the sky gradually lightening as we drove.
After we pulled into the parking lot of the Marietta Ramada, we followed a crowd of tanned girls into the lobby. Girls were everywhere, in various states of makeup and hair, but everyone seemed to know what they were doing and where they needed to go. I stood awkwardly, holding the garment bag with my evening dress above my head to make sure that the dress didn’t drag along the floor and pick up any wrinkles.
“You head in and find a spot, hon. I’ll go get us checked in.” Mom disappeared toward a table that looked semiofficial, and I spun on my heel, searching for where to go. Most of the girls seemed to be headed down the hallway in one direction, so I followed the crowd through a set of double doors into a banquet room that had been transformed into a massive dressing room. The large space was crammed with portable lights and mirrors, every table littered with makeup kits and bobby pins, brushes and hand mirrors andprecariously placed curling irons plugged into walls. A fog of hairspray and the lingering smell of slightly charred hair hovered over the room, which echoed with the noisy chatter of what had to be more than a hundred youth contestants.
I scanned the room, nervousness starting to freeze up my chest, when I spotted a girl who I recognized from school, and felt a sudden wave of relief. We didn’t know each other that well, but I knew her name: Mary Moore Musgrove. I tossed her a shy smile and hung my dress on one of the clothing racks not far from hers.
Mom came back with a number to pin to me and a schedule of events. For the next half hour, I sat in a chair while Mom did my hair and makeup. But with each twist of hair and swipe of blush, the anxiety that had ebbed just a little at seeing a familiar face started building again. All of the girls around me looked so sure of themselves. Why did I think I belonged here? I’d gotten so caught up in spending time with Mom and the fun of practicing for the pageant that I hadn’t spent any time really imagining what the pageant itself would be like. I’d just wanted to look and feel sparkly and special and otherworldly, like the girl I’d seen in the parade. I hadn’t really thought about what it would feel like to have all these people staring at me—and to have to compete.
After Mom dotted on the final bit of lip gloss and sprayed finishing spray all over my face to keep the makeup from slipping, she helped me into my dance costume. As she zipped up the back of my leotard, her eyes met mine in the mirror. “You look perfect, honey. I’m so glad we get to do this.”
“Me too,” I said, meaning it. Despite my nerves, it had been worth it to get so much time with Mom those past few weeks. She’d undergone a simple surgery earlier that year, and her recovery had gone well, but it’d still put her out of commission for a while, andeven my typically smiling mother had been on edge because of it. I had only absorbed some of the details, but there had been a lot of reassuring phrases likecaught it earlyandfull remissionandtreatment successful. What I knew was that she was all better now—and finally, we were getting to spend time together again.
“I’m going to go find a seat. Break a leg, sweetie!”
“Okay.” I wanted to beg her to stay with me, but I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I pressed down the feelings and forced a smile. “I’ll see you out there!” I packed as much cheerfulness into my voice as I could. Mom gave me one last hug, careful not to muss my hair, and then disappeared into the crowd.
“What’s your talent?” The voice came from behind me. I spun around in my costume, the white fringe along my arms catching on the sapphire sequins that covered the bulk of the leotard. It was the girl from school. Mary Moore.
I swallowed down my anxiety and tried to pin my smile back into place. “Dance.”
“Hmm,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “I do tumbling.”
“Oh, that sounds really cool.” And it did.Toocool. So much cooler than me. How talented would I look doing a few pirouettes next to a girl who was doing back handsprings?
Her lips pressed into a thin smile. “I changed my whole routine to be aSweet Home Alabamaremix. My mom found out the lead judge is from Birmingham a few days ago, so I’ve been practicing like crazy with the new music.”
“Wow, jeez. That must’ve been so much work.”
Mary Moore just shrugged. I fidgeted with the fringe along my forearm. Should I have known who the judges were? Neither Mom nor I had thought to try to find out. I’d spent so much time tailoring my answers to what I knew my mom would like, but I hadn’t spentthe time to think about how I should tailor it to the people actually judging.
“Your hair looks really good.” Her words sounded almost accusatory.
“Um, thank you.” My hand rose involuntarily to the curls around my face, but I dropped my hand as I realized what I was doing. Mom had been clear that I shouldn’t touch my hair and risk messing it up. Without thinking, I added, “I can do yours this way, if you
want?”
Mary Moore just looked at me. “You’d really do that for me?” She sounded genuinely moved, and slightly confused, by the gesture. There was also a hint of distrust in her voice. I realized she might not think that I’d do as good a job as Mom had done on me.
“I’ve watched my mom do it a ton of times,” I hurried to add, hoping to assuage her fears. “And she made me practice it on myself just in case I had a hair emergency. I promise I won’t mess it up.”
