“Say. . . . PAGEANT QUEEN!”
We all adjust our postures. “PAGEANT QUEEN!”
“Yes,” I say through equally smiling teeth. “I’m sure he couldn’t possibly have anything better to do than watch you pose.”
“Say . . . PAGEANT QUEEN!”
We put our hands on our hips, trying not to take each other out with our elbows. “PAGEANT QUEEN!”
“He would be practicing,” Kendra says. “If you hadn’t broken his arm.”
“NOW, A FUN ONE!” the photographer yells.
We all drape ourselves into fun positions as forced as Mr. Hamilton’s enthusiasm on test days. We shuffle and reconfigure ourselves. Friends cluster even closer and throw their arms around each other. Nervous first-time entrants pull to the sides and stand together.
Cereza’s words bite at me.
Elegance and grace and poise.
I remember everything Cereza told me, and I grit my teeth as I gently place an arm over Kendra’s shoulder.
I am ready for her to recoil, for another “Eww.”
Instead, she throws her arm around me.
It’s so familiar, so friendly, my neck in the crook of her shoulder, that I wonder if we’re going to declare a ceasefire, even if it’s just for the length of this pageant.
Then her arm tightens.
Then it’s almost a chokehold.
Kendra grins toward the photographer the whole time.
I try not to squirm.
“You like that?” Kendra asks. “I almost forgot about you and your little lesbo friend.”
“Lesbo? Really?” I choke out from under her bony arm. “That’s what you do with anyone different from you? You just call them names?” I try to tilt one shoulder back like Uva taught me for posing, wondering if it might work to free myself from what feels like a skinny-girl wrestling grip. And wondering how Cole feels about having a sister who would probably make ruthless fun of him in the halls at school if he weren’t her own brother.
Kendra shifts in a way that makes her elbowing me in the ribs seem accidental.
“Get off me, Kendra.” I try to wriggle out of her hold.
“But we’re smiling now,” she says.
“Get off me.” I reach into my bra, rip out one of the Hot Tamale halves that is wedged onto the tip of my boob, and throw it at Kendra’s face.
She reels back, enough that the other contestants reel back in response. “Did you just throw your nipple at me?”
“Say . . . PAGEANT QUEEN!”
The unison response of “Pageant Queen” is more tentative this time.
Kendra lunges at me.
I shift my weight to dodge.
But on my borrowed high heels, I wobble.
I wobble toward the fountain.
And in that moment a familiar figure comes through the door of the Bradley Dealership.
Bruja Lupe is beaming, looking flushed like she hurried here from her last appointment, glancing around for her little pageant contestant.
Then she finds me, and her expression shifts to horror.
The arc of Kendra’s lunge continues. And without the resistance of my standing body to take the force of hers, Kendra goes with me.
Into the fountain.
Chicky
THE SILVER CORVETTE, loathsome as it is, is angled just right so that if I appear to be admiring it I can see the reflection of Junior Cortes and his date in one of the side mirrors.
By my third root beer float, I’ve almost convinced myself this is all an elaborate setup, and the five thousand milligrams of sugar coursing through my bloodstream agrees with me enthusiastically.
See, it’s like this: the Hair Pony (as I’ve taken to calling her in my head) is one of Kendra’s friends trying to infiltrate our pageant camp and sabotage Lita’s chances by . . . seducing Junior to get to us. That makes sense, right? There’s no way he could actually like her.
She giggles. He smiles. She reaches out and pushes a glossy strand of hair off his forehead where it’s escaped his bun. I can’t read lips from this far away, but I’m pretty sure he’s not telling her that touching a person of color’s hair without permission contributes to the idea that their bodies only exist for the entertainment and consumption of the oppressor.
That consent is dignity, and dignity is humanity.
Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.
Is it weird that I want to high-five this mirror for agreeing with me?
He takes her empty soda, and before he heads back to fill it up she touches his arm too. Like it belongs to her. Suddenly, I feel like I might throw up.
I have to switch to the other mirror, but when Junior approaches the beverage table I really almost do it. Go over there. Tell him that girl with her perky ponytail and her bright yellow strapless dress and her pink lip gloss might be shiny, but that I’m . . .
And that’s where I get stuck. Because yes, seeing them together makes me want to paint the very shiny floor of the Bradley Dealership with a half-gallon of partially digested root beer float, but I don’t have an alternative. I can’t give him any more than I’ve already given him. I’m not ready. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.
And I shouldn’t feel like I have to.
So it’s a stalemate. I watch in the side mirror as he fills up her soda. And I watch as Lita walks by him on the way to greet another contestant and stops to squeeze a lime into it—which I hope the Hair Pony will hate, by the way—and I wish it were me squeezing that stupid lime. I wish I was still Junior’s best friend.
Or Lita’s.
Or anyone’s.
“Places for photos, please! All contestants over here by the fountain!”
Lita walks (only a little unsteadily) away from Junior, who watches her go for a long moment. He looks sad, or confused or something, and I know I should be watching Lita, too, but I can’t stop watching him. Wondering why he doesn’t go back to his date.
“It’s a fine machine, isn’t it?”
Mr. Bradley is next to me. When did that happen? I tear my eyes resentfully from Junior.
“I’ve driven this one myself. Six hundred and fifty horses of pure American muscle.”
“I prefer Mustangs,” I say, picking the first car I can think of, my voice as chilly as I can make it with all these Junior feelings still swirling around.
“The Mustang has a tendency to go out of fashion,” Mr. Bradley says, his voice all smooth and sleazy like every bad movie car salesman. “But the Corvette is timeless. A classic. It’s not going anywhere.”
“The Mustang has character.” I try to channel Berto last summer as he debated cars with my mom in the yard. “The Mustang has a stubborn charm.” I look up at Mr. Bradley. “The Mustang might not look as flashy as the Corvette, or be as expensive, but it’s not going anywhere either.”
“You’re a little spitfire,” he says, chuckling. “But it won’t do you a bit of good if you don’t get a handle on that bad attitude of yours.” He looks my outfit up and down. “You could put on a dress, sweetheart. Smile more. Date athletes instead of hospitalizing them. Maybe if you did, that little taco shack wouldn’t be empty tonight.”
There’s half a root beer float left in my glass, and I’m about to throw it in this slimeball’s face, consequences be damned, when I hear it. When everyone hears it.