Prettiest Doll (20 page)

I reached the center of the stage, and Mrs. Crosby said, “Well, now, Olivia.” She smiled as she looked out at the audience. “Your question is, ‘Who do you admire most, and why?' ” Standing next to her, I thought she seemed to be made of porcelain or clay: something that would break if you dropped it. She was too thin for a grown lady. The silver stripe in her hair made me think that her forehead should have had lines in it.

I thought for a moment. Then I said, “The person I admire most is my friend Dan, because he gets teased all the time for something he can't help. And even though he hates being teased, he doesn't let that make him stop being who he really is.”

I could see Miss Denise wincing. She would have said that I was making it too complicated, that I should have kept things simple and just said my mom.

“This Daniel sounds like quite a young man,” Mrs. Crosby said. “Is he a classmate of yours?”

“No. Just a friend. He has to do something hard that he doesn't really want to do. But he's going to do it anyway, for his mama, and maybe a little bit for himself.” I'd said too much. I'd gotten too serious. I was making Mrs. Crosby nervous. I knew she wanted the next girl to come out. But I kept talking. “He taught me that part of growing up is knowing when to stand up for yourself. And that, sometimes, backing down is the right thing to do, the better path to walk.”

Mrs. Crosby didn't know what to do with that. “Thank you, Olivia Jane Tatum!” she said into her microphone. I knew she was just praying that that would get me to shut up and give the next girl a turn.

Before I turned to make my way backstage, I saw one of the judges lean over her scorecard and make a check mark. When she looked up again, she smiled at me and winked.

“How'd you do?” Donna said when I'd gotten back out into the hallway.

“Okay. Not so great, maybe. I don't know.” My heart was thudding.

“It's hard to tell sometimes.” She patted my glove. “Don't worry, honey. You just get yourself back down here at eleven for Talent, okay?”

Mama and Miss Denise were heading toward me. “Who's this Dan?” Mama was asking as Miss Denise said, “It's okay, it's okay. It's just Interview. We got lots of time. Don't nobody panic.”

I let them fuss for a minute, primping my curls, smoothing my skirt. Mama asked Miss Denise was I better than the others, and Miss Denise said it didn't matter, I was prettier than any of the other gol-darned girls.

I didn't say anything. I thought how just talking about him—saying his name—made it seem like he was in the room with me.

 

I wore my green satin dress for Talent. “It's cute,” Miss Denise said as she and Mama rode the elevator down with me, Miss Denise taking advantage of the privacy to floss her teeth. “They'll see you got cute legs.” She wrapped the used floss around her fingers and stuffed it in her purse.

Outside the stage door, I let Donna tell me what everyone else was doing: Amber was tap dancing, Candace Hebert was twirling a baton, Whitney Sullivan was doing a cheerleading routine with cartwheels and splits. A few girls were singing. Marla Timmons had sung “My Heart Will Go On” like an opera singer. I'd heard her sing it before. It gave me goose bumps.

“You all set?” Donna asked me as McKenzie French left the stage after doing gymnastics to “Cowboy Casanova.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said, but my teeth were chattering.

“Let's welcome back Olivia Jane Tatum!” Mrs. Crosby said from the stage. I felt Donna's push on my back and walked out into the bright lights and the clapping that sounded like wild animals scrabbling in an attic. I smiled from habit. I reached the center of the stage and beamed at each judge, but only because I was so used to doing it that I did it automatically, without thinking.

I was vibrating with fear.

 

Oh! You beautiful doll,
You great big beautiful doll!
Let me put my arms about you,
I could never live without you;

 

Oh! You beautiful doll,
You great big beautiful doll!

 

I was terrible. I could tell. But somehow, it was all right, better than if I'd tried to prop myself up with lessons from Mrs. Drucker, who wouldn't have made a difference in just a week or two. That would have been something I did for Mama and Miss Denise. This was just for me, to show myself I could.

It was weird not to mind being bad at something, for once.

 

If you ever leave me, how my heart will ache,
I want to hug you but I fear you'd break.

 

Oh, oh, oh, oh,
Oh, you beautiful doll!
Oh, oh, oh, oh,
Oh, you beautiful doll!

 

If I was going to spend time working at getting good at something, it wasn't going to be singing. Chess, maybe, or public speaking. Mrs. Fogelson would sponsor a public-speaking club, I was pretty sure. The pretty girls and the jocks would laugh. It was okay. I could be in my own box.

The judges were writing things down, whispering to each other. Mrs. Crosby, standing off to the side, bit her lower lip and looked out at the audience, smiling a little, as though she was saying she was sorry and not to worry, it would be over soon.

The applause was thin; Miss Denise's “You go, Olivia Jane!” was too loud and made the clapping sound even quieter.

I smiled and bowed, happiness and maybe just a little relief flooding through me like a river.

 

Beauty was at two o'clock. The babies were first, held up by their mamas for the judges to see. I stood at the back of the conference room with all the girls from the preteen and teen divisions to watch. It was always my favorite part of any pageant. The babies were so cute in their little suits, and the mamas so proud and each sure her own particular baby would win.

The Pee Wees were next. Pushed out onstage by their mamas, who got to stand backstage with them. Some of the girls cried; one stamped her foot and sat down on the stage, pouting. The people in the audience laughed, knowing it was always a risk, that a little girl might just throw a fit for the whole dang world to see. The girl sitting down let her mama pull her up to standing, but when she stamped her foot again, her mama led her off. The other mamas clapped politely and said things to each other about how hard it is to miss a nap. But I could tell they were faking their niceness. They were really thinking,
My daughter's so much better. My daughter's going to win.

The Little Misses were between five and seven, so their mamas stood in the back of the room, reminding them what they were supposed to be doing. They pointed at their own teeth-baring smiles and mouthed “Look at the judges!” without actually talking. The girls smiled and turned, and one of them—so happy to be the center of everyone's attention—even waved as she walked offstage. Their faces were all pretty, all a little bit the same: a painted-on blankness, smiles that had been learned, nothing to do with happiness. Eyes propped open, unblinking.

We—the teens—were next. Lining up outside the door, I smiled, thinking of what everyone would do if I just sat down on the stage and refused to move. Of course, I wouldn't really do it. But in the old days, I wouldn't even have let myself think about it: it would have been like standing too close to the edge of the Grand Canyon and feeling as though you might forget yourself and jump. Now I didn't care. Now I thought,
I could if I wanted.

“Your singing sucked,” Amber Dickerson whispered. She was just ahead of me, in her cotton candy dress, leaning backwards to whisper so Donna couldn't hear.

“I know,” I said.

“My coach said they might make a new rule, that you're not allowed to sing unless you get pageant-director approval first. All because of you,” Amber said.

“It's okay,” I said.

“They'll probably call it the Olivia Jane Tatum Rule.”

“Maybe they will,” I said. And when she looked shocked, I added, “Now, why don't you just shut your dang mouth and
go?
”

It took her a moment to realize that she'd almost missed her cue. I could tell from the way she began to walk that I'd addled her, that she wasn't thinking about walking. Which, I knew from Miss Denise, is half the battle, the most important thing.

But when it was my turn, I didn't need to think, or take a breath, or anything. I felt as though I had no legs or arms, no separate parts that had to be told where to go and what to do. It was different from all the other times, when my smile felt painted on and all that was in my head was winning. Now I floated in my snow-white skirt, inches above the stage and the rickety catwalk, gliding, winged, a tulle-draped angel. I turned like swirling stars in space. I smiled, not even worrying how much gum I showed. And I knew, from the way the judges were smiling back, that it was in my eyes, and that they could see it, that they knew the difference.

 

Later, standing with the other preteens onstage, waiting while Mrs. Crosby fumbled with her microphone, I looked out into the audience, searching for Mama. She was sitting next to Miss Denise, straining to hear, clutching her hands in her lap. “Smile! ” she mouthed, and then, “You're so beautiful.”

Amber got second runner-up; Candace Hebert got first, a surprise: she usually got fourth or fifth. Her mama and daddy stood up and clapped as Mrs. Crosby handed Candace her trophy. I clapped, too, happy for her, thinking she had worked so hard and so long, glad she had been recognized. The best thing was, finally, to be seen.

There was a moment of silence, drawn out by Mrs. Crosby, after “And the Prettiest Doll is...” I thought it would be one of those moments when everything changes—where you are one way on one side and another way on the other—but it wasn't. It was just a moment.

Even so, I realized a lot of things in that second of silence: that I had won, that I didn't need a crown to tell me what I already knew.

That Mama would be crushed when I told her I was through with pageants for good, that she would yell and cry and sulk and it wouldn't change my mind.

That somehow she would get used to being proud of me for other things. Maybe public speaking. Maybe something I didn't even know I was good at yet.

That my daddy was watching it all from somewhere. That he was proud enough to burst. That if he were around, he would be telling me I had a smile that could light up Heaven.

And that I'd tell Dan tonight and he'd ask me how the singing went. And when I said terrible, he would sigh and say,
its too bad you couldnt challenge those judges to a game of chess because thatd show them.
And then he would say,
i cant believe you did that stupid thing.
And maybe it would piss me off and maybe it wouldn't, but I'd tell him either way.

G
INA
W
ILLNER-PARDO
is the author of 15 books, including
Jason and the Losers
and
Figuring Out Frances,
which won the Bank Street College of Education Josette Frank Award. She lives with her family in the San Francisco Bay Area.