Beauty Queens (41 page)

“For what, mate?”

She shrugged. “For being you.” She took the stairs two at a time to the lower deck and raced through the opulent yacht, marveling at its wonders. She passed a gold-plated bathroom and one room dedicated to Elvis jumpsuits.

“Whoa,” she said, opening the last door. The bedroom had been wallpapered with pictures of Ladybird Hope. In a corner was a

Ladybird Hope doll
⁴⁷
in a glass case on a pedestal. “‘Kay. Not creepy. Not at all.”

On a desk in the center of the room was a large, framed picture of Ladybird Hope sitting on MoMo’s lap in a Ladybird Hope Factory that was clearly not in America, featuring young girls working the looms. The laptop was open, and there on the desktop was a file marked
Yacht Systems.

“Easy peasy,” she said and waited for the video to load. It was not about yachts. Not even remotely. MoMo B. ChaCha and Ladybird Hope sat in a heart-shaped bubble bath hot tub, rifles in their hands, champagne glasses nearby.

Ladybird, you are a hunka hunka burnin’ love. When will you and The Corporation give me my weapons, my little dove?

Now, don’t get your peacock feathers all in a ruffle, MoMo. We have to be careful. Nobody can know we’re doing this.

Remember, we’ve got sanctions against you.

I know. And it makes MoMo sad. Oh, pretty gazelle!

The Peacock took the swift animal down with one shot. Mary Lou flinched. “Meat is murder,” she whispered. “Bastards.”

Nice shot, Peacock! Bag it and tag it.

Oh, Ladybird. All this killing and talk of weapons has made The Peacock amorous. A little less conversation and a little more action, please.

Ladybird and MoMo kissed and Ladybird ruffled the dictator’s hair.

You let Ladybird and The Corporation set up shop in the ROC, you get your weapons. I’ll arrange everything.

Oh, Ladybird. Love me tender.

Mary Lou’s eyes widened. Her mouth hung open. About three seconds too late, she hit stop. “Ew. That was like watching your parents have sex. Your creepy, dysfunctional parents.” She grabbed the laptop and ran back to the bridge.

“You’ll never believe what I … what’s that?” The yacht’s radar blipped and beeped. A large green dot could be seen moving in their direction.

At the helm, Tane frowned. “Gotta be another ship.”

Mary Lou squinted out at the fog, but it was too thick to see anything. “Do you think it’s friendly?”

As if in answer, the other ship fired.

Thump-thump-thump-thump!
The trees reverberated with the joyful cry of a Hindi love song from Shanti’s
Greatest Bollywood Hits
CD. The curtain that had been hung between two poles parted. Decked out in a glittering blue sari, Shanti stood front and center, lip-synching to the Indian love song. Behind her, the girls’ bangled arms fanned out like Kali’s. The music changed to a percussive rhythm. The girls peeled off and formed a line across the stage. They reached behind them for the plane seat cushions, which they tossed to one another like juggling pins while Petra ducked under, scooting to the front. Like a Bollywood flight attendant, she used two fingers on each hand to indicate the location of the exits — forward, back, over the wings. Her execution was flawless.

The girls jerked left, then right, simulating the plane crash in dance. They broke apart, and several of the girls slipped behind the curtains as if being sucked from the plane. They waited until they were sure the guards’ attention was on the stage, then they sneaked behind the Jeep and into the jungle to make their way to the ship.

Under the lights, Jennifer sidewinded across the stage, letting Sosie mock-throw a jar of Lady ’Stache Off at her. Jennifer “exploded” and rolled offstage while Sosie blew on the jar as if it were a gun — eliciting chuckles again — and placed the jar in the sand at the end of the runway. She executed three perfect backflips to applause and joined Jen backstage. Jen jerked her head toward the jungle and the two of them scuttled into the cover of leaves. They climbed the nearest
tree and searched for the vine that would carry them to the next tree in a contagion that would take them nearly to the compound.

As Shanti lip-synched nervously, the girls backed toward the curtains, trying to follow her lead in the dance. Petra produced the flare gun from her cleavage, and it was passed from hand to hand until it came to rest with Adina, who dropped into a firing pose. She aimed at the jar of Lady ’Stache Off, but the flare gun jammed in the island humidity. The girls glanced at her in panic, then resumed their smiles. Quickly, Shanti grabbed the gun and tossed it to Petra.

“WTF?” Petra said through clenched teeth as they performed a pop-and-lock imitation of fighting a tsunami.

“Fire!” Adina whispered.

Petra took a shot, but the trigger was still stuck. “Damn,” she said and tossed the gun to Nicole. Back and forth the flare gun flew, the girls never breaking stride. The song was coming to an end, and the girls felt real panic. Unless they could create a distraction, how could they escape? Finally, the last note was played. The gun came to rest in Tiara’s hand. She pressed the trigger all the way. A fireball arced through the crowd and ignited a palm tree.

“Operation Peacock is go.” Agent Jones spoke into his hidden mic and the troop of black shirts disguised as Republic of ChaCha rebels burst from the jungle bearing machine guns, shouting and shooting into the air. In the audience, the Corporation employees screamed and dove for cover under their seats. Some ran for the beach and the disguised black shirts shot them down. Shanti made a dive for the flare gun, but one of the black shirts kicked it out of the way.

The Peacock stood on the sidelines, a dazed look on his face. “What is the meaning of this?” he finally shouted, but the cameras did not swing in his direction. They were focused tightly on the performance area.

“Death to the capitalist symbols!” a fake rebel shouted.

The fake rebels raised their guns. The girls formed a huddle. If they were going out, they were going out together.

“In the name of the Republic of ChaCha, we —”

The curtains parted with a sudden arrival.

“What the hell is that?” one of the black shirts said.

Miss Miss rattled down the runway on squeaky wheels, but she was no longer clad in just a sash. No, Miss Miss had come to compete in a slinky pink evening gown that stretched across her misshapen body. Her coconut-shell face had been heavily made up with blue eye shadow, rouge, and red lipstick. A chipped rhinestone crown topped her busted wig-of-many-hairpieces. On her right, her twig arm had been turned upward, as if in a wave. The momentum, which had propelled her onto the runway, faded away. Miss Miss tottered slightly on her wheels and at last came to a stop near the end of the runway, where she sat, waiting, like some ancient idol. For a moment, everyone was utterly spellbound. Even the ocean quieted to a gentle purr.

The hiss of walkie-talkie static punctured the stillness. Taylor’s voice rang out. “Miss Teen Dream is a light in the darkness. Patriot Daughters can and Patriot Daughters do!”

“Do you hear that?” Agent Jones’s voice could just be heard coming through the earpiece of a fake rebel.

“The girl?” the black shirt answered.

“No! Under that. Like a whine or a beep.”

It was hard to tell with Taylor doing a monologue of crazy, but Adina noticed it, too — a faint, steady beep, like a tiny alarm clock.

“Find out where that’s coming from!” Agent Jones demanded via the earpiece.

“What’s going on?” Petra whispered.

“Not sure yet,” Adina whispered back.

“In the pageant of life, a girl fixes the sequins. Fixes. Fixes. So much to fix.” Under the walkie-talkie static, Taylor’s voice was almost little-girlish. “I can’t be what you want me to be.”

“Where is she?” Nicole whispered.

Adina shook her head. She didn’t see Taylor anywhere, and she was afraid of drawing too much attention. Right now, the black shirts were distracted. Distracted was a good thing. Some of them
had fanned out to look for Taylor and the source of the beeping. On the sidelines, Agent Jones looked angry and tense as he barked terse orders. The girls needed to use this momentary chaos to their advantage, but how?

“I will represent to the best of my ability the … the … now, come on, Miss Texas!” Taylor giggled. “The, um, dreams of the ultimate sparkle and circle-turn and wave!”

Adina surveyed the scene desperately, looking for a possible exit strategy. She glanced past Miss Miss, then came back again. At first, she could scarcely make out the message. She had to block the light to get a better look. But there was no mistaking it, and a small
ha
bubbled up inside Adina.

The note had been scrawled in red lipstick on the back of Miss Miss’s sash where only the girls could see it. It was just one word:
Run.

“Oh, Taylor, you beautiful, beautiful bitch.” Adina motioned to the others, shouting. “Teen Dreamers! Fall back! Fall back!”

The girls bolted, scattershot, toward the jungle.

“It’s a whole new world of pretty.
…” Taylor sang over the walkie-talkie.

“Hey!” One of the black shirts trained his gun on the girls just as another black shirt approached Miss Miss.

“I think that beep’s coming from inside… .”

“Thank you. Thank you. I love you all,” Taylor said.

At that same instant, the watch inside Miss Miss beeped from one to zero, and the most busted-ass beauty queen ever exploded in a spectacular fireball.

Adina’s ears rang and she was covered in a shower of dirt, scorched sticks, and sequins. Chaos. It was chaos. The beach was on fire. Staccato gunfire punctuated clauses of shouting. Black shirts fought with MoMo’s real guards. The remaining Corporation employees screamed and ran, panicked, along the beach. A cameraman asked if he should be getting this, and a black shirt answered by bashing in his camera.

Through the smoke, Adina caught a glimpse of Taylor. She swung down from the tree where she had been hiding and stood at the edge of the jungle, mesmerized. Tendrils of light screamed down from the sky. The white stars of it were reflected in the glassy blue of her eyes. “Pretty …” Taylor said in awe just before the explosives took out a section of trees and sent Adina flying back on her butt. Agent Jones peered into the smoke and pointed to the girls. He signaled his black shirts.

“Time to go, Miss Texas!” Adina warned.

Like a switch had been thrown, Taylor turned and ran. Adina scrambled to her feet and followed the faded glitter of Taylor’s gown into the jungle.

Shanti and Nicole had dodged left in the melee. Now they were running deep into the jungle with a phalanx of black shirts behind them.

“Are they still there?” Shanti called. Her lungs burned and her legs were cut from switches.

In answer, a bullet blasted a chunk from a nearby tree and the girls sped up, twisting and turning through the green.

“I can’t …” Shanti said. “Can’t run …”

“We have to keep moving.”

“You go.”

“Not without you.” Nicole looked around for something — a weapon, a hole, a hiding spot. Through the trees, she saw one of the totems. “Just a little farther, Bollywood.”

They found their way to the ruined temple and slipped between the columns, hiding. The moon wasn’t cooperating; bright and full, it might as well have been a spotlight. Their breath came out in small rips. The men and their guns had arrived. If the girls ran, they’d be easy targets. Their only hope was to remain hidden, and that wasn’t much hope at all. Nicole reached out for Shanti’s hand. Shanti closed her eyes tightly. Her lips moved in silent appeal to whatever ancestral spirits might still live on in this place.

“I think I see something,” one of the black shirts said, and Nicole, too, closed her eyes.

Shanti and Nicole pressed their hands together tightly. A wind soft as a warm breath blew across their faces. It left them and turned fierce, stripping leaves from trees and pulling the dirt from ancient earthen walls. Like an angry fist, it pushed the black shirts from the temple, forcing them back into the jungle. They shouted as sharp grit attacked their eyes and mouths relentlessly. The wind howled with such force that Shanti and Nicole could almost hear something human in its cries. The agents were forced to retreat, chased by the sirocco. Once they were gone, the wind died down. Shanti and Nicole were alone. They did not know what had caused the sudden windstorm.