DURING THE SWIMSUIT COMPETITION,we all watched from backstage. We had to—you had to be ready for your cue. But it doubled as an excuse to ogle the competition… and potentially even psych them out.
When it was Penelope’s turn, I noticed something was…off. She was struggling to walk normally. She squirmed as if she wanted to wriggle out of her skin. From the curtains along the edge of the stage, I watched as she brushed at her butt with one hand. It seemed to give her a second or two of relief, but after a few moments, she started squirming again.Oh no.
I glanced over my shoulder to see if Mary Moore was also watching this disaster unfold. Of course, she was, but she turned her gaze to me and widened her eyes across the darkness.
The girls backstage with me began to snicker, now… it was obvious what was happening. Penelope had gotten an itch.Bad.It happened sometimes—a costume that just irritated the skin beyond tolerance, or a hairpin jabbed too sharply into the skull. A tampon string that you were suddenly deathly worried might have somehow snuck out around the seam of your high-cut bikini bottoms. It could be maddening not to be able to fix it onstage. Still, you pushed through. You had to. Anyone who’d done this for a while had the toughness to wait it out until they were out of view of the judges. I’d seen a girl walk across the stage in two broken heels. You figured it out, you held it together, and you kept a smile on your face the whole time.
But—to everyone’s shock—Penelope did not hold it together. There was a collective backstage gasp as we all watched her, in real time, succumb to theurge. Right there on the stage, with everyone watching, she literally scratched her ass. The girls around me erupted into cackles—and I’m sorry to say, I joined them. How could I not? It was shocking, borderline absurd.
I couldn’t look away, none of us could, even as Penelope’s cheeks turned a red so bright, you could see it from off stage. I felt absolutely horrible for her.
Because there was no way she’d come back fromthat.
And sure enough, I was right. Later that afternoon, I stood onstage between Virginia and Mary Moore as the winners of the competition were announced. Penelope stood at the end of the row, her smile firmly back in its place as they called forward the runners-up. But it was too little too late. Ava was named second runner-up, while Mary Moore was the first runner-up. The beat before the winner was named, the same feeling I always got settled over me: not anticipation that I’d be named the winner, but anxiety that I hadn’t prepared well enough. The worry that I might not place at all. I had the brief and irrational thought that Penelope would somehow be crowned the winner despite her swimsuit debacle.
But then, the judges announced: “And the winner of the Miss Outstanding Teen of Northwest Georgia is… Nicole Bennet.”
It was relief—not triumph—that rushed through me as I took my bouquet and they placed the crown on my head.
BACKSTAGE, ASIZIPPEDup my garment bag, I glanced over at Mary Moore. A slight smile tugged up the corners of her lips. “Congratulations,” she said to me. “You totally deserved it.”
Again, another comment that could’ve been a compliment, or its opposite. You never could quite be sure.
“I saw you helping Penelope with her butt spray earlier,” I said, my voice flat and straightforward.
Mary Moore just shrugged. “She helped me with mine. I had to return the favor.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“Oh my goodness.” Her mouth curled down in mock concern.“Could I have grabbed the hairspray instead? Do you think it might have made her… itchy?”
To her credit, she didn’t break into cruel laughter—but I could see the way amusement sparkled in her eyes.
I sighed. “Mary Moore. Seriously?”
“What? Oh, come on, it’s not thatdeep. And I love you, babygirl. You know I have your back, just like you have mine.”
I stared at her, speechless. Would I have won without Mary Moore’s intervention? And what would it have cost me to come in second, anyway? I already had a spot at USC and all the academic scholarships I needed.
But all I could think about were her words:Just like you have mine. Was that true—would I have been capable of doing something just as bad? I wanted to believe I wouldn’t stoop that low. I tried to ease the feeling of guilt by thinking about the fact that Penelope, as gorgeous and talented as she was, would be just fine in the end. Mortified in that moment, sure, but ultimately, she’d go on to win plenty of these things.
I wasn’t surprised, either, when a couple years into USC, I came home for winter break and learned that Mary Moore and Penelope had become “the best of friends.” That was just how it was.
Winning by any means necessary certainly didn’t feelgreat. But it was still a hell of a lot better than losing.
And besides, I figured maybe Mary Moore was right. Maybe it just wasn’t that deep.
At least I had my crown.
15
Nikki:T-7 days. The Good: LovedBy fans haven’t caught wind of C&C yet.
The Bad: I ran into Mary Moore yesterday and accidentally let slip about the wedding, so our little bubble of privacy is probably gonna pop soon. The Ugly: Mom made me sample twenty-five different canapé recipes last night.
Sybil:That’s not ugly, that’s literally the dream. Free tiny food = true love.
Willow:Ooh. Tell me everything. Moistness levels? Crumb structure? You know I care about these things. Document it all for science.
