Pretty Ugly: A Novel (26 page)
Ray was surprised by how much this hurt his feelings. “Oh.”
“You just work so hard,” she said. “I didn’t want you to have to deal with anything else…” Her voice trailed off. They both knew it was a lie.
“Okay, well … thanks, then, I guess.” His mouth was suddenly dry as toast.
“I think I was just embarrassed.”
“Why? Looks like you got some good shots in there.”
She smiled. “You should see the whole thing. It’s going to be on TV next month, anyway.” Her voice brightened with forced playfulness. “I didn’t want to ruin the surprise for you.”
“I appreciate that.” He adopted a similarly playful tone and smiled. “I’ll set my DVR.” There was another long silence. “Are you okay?”
“I will be.”
“You sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Okay. You know, I know we’re both busy, but you can still tell me things,” he said, meaning it.
“I know.”
“Especially when you kick some lady in the crotch on TV.”
Miranda laughed. “She was no lady, believe me.”
He smiled. He missed his wife. “It might sound weird, considering, but … I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, but I’d hold off on that until you see the whole episode.”
Ray laughed through his nose. “Not just for that. You’re just … you’re handling everything really well.”
Miranda started tearing up and nodded. “Thanks. You, too.”
“Yeah, well … we’ll see about that. I’ll call you when I’m on my way home.”
Ray hung up and noticed four new messages from Courtney. The clock on the wall said he had five more hours left in his shift.
“Fuck,” he whispered as he rubbed his tired eyes. His low blood pressure was making him dizzy. He made a quick pass through the ER and grabbed a half-empty glucose bag awaiting incineration. Then making his way to a private room in the ICU, he locked the door, inserted the IV in the back of his hand, and drifted off to sleep as his head filled with hopeful dreams of his wife beating the hell out of his girlfriend.
The Kentuckiana Fresh Faces Extravaganza (Henderson, Kentucky) was part pageant, part trade show, and all madness. Once synonymous with integrity and class, Fresh Faces had bowed to corporate influence and become the most commercialized of all the Southern pageants. Titles were inappropriate and/or meaningless: Pretty Pixie, Miss Tween Hottie (mockingly referred to as “the CILF”), Princess Breathtaking, Junior Princess Breathtaking, and Queen State Farm Ultimate Goddess sponsored by tristate insurance baron and pageant enthusiast T. C. Taylor. The monetary awards barely covered the entrance fees, and attendees had to pay for parking. What kept people coming back was the Fresh Faces ultimate prize known simply as “the Cup.” Measuring eight feet four inches, and boasting a volume of eighteen gallons, the Cup was the largest pageant trophy in the continental United States. Its immense size prevented it from standing upright in most homes, and transporting it was such a colossal burden it was the only major award everyone hoped their enemies would win.
Since Fresh Faces was a mere thirty minutes away, Miranda decided to take Brixton on a reconnaissance mission to see what kind of greeting she could expect at the Chattanooga Christmas Angels Pageant and Winter Spectacular.
Despite her Internet infamy, Miranda had met with very little resistance from the organizers of the Chattanooga pageant. In fact, pageant director Lori Bartlett-Rice had personally sent Miranda a gushing e-mail congratulating her on her bravery and predicting that Brixton “would go down in history with the likes of Rosa Parks and Sally Ride. We are proud that you chose the CCAPWS for Brixton’s debut, as we strive for inclusion in all things beautiful.”
While the e-mail was a welcome relief, it was the reaction of the other mothers that concerned Miranda the most. Their opinions meant nothing to her personally, but these women were hunters, and a lame doe is easier to kill than a healthy one. However, once Miranda entered the convention center, her anxiety dissipated like the twenty-seven different brands of CFC-free hair spray being hawked by various vendors. She and Brixton were treated with something resembling reverence.
Barbara Lamontagne, whose daughter Emilynn held the record for most second Runner-up titles (forty-three), flitted around Brixton like a hummingbird.
“You know, Miranda, you’re gonna love this one just as much as you love the other ones. More probably, ’cause you’ll be spending so much more time with this one.”
Frances Munn burst into tears upon seeing Brixton, and even Vanessa Casebier, who was the most incessantly negative person Miranda had ever met, commented, “Well, I hear they are very affectionate creatures. Good luck to you, Miranda.”
Not a single parent voiced any negativity about Brixton competing, at least not to Miranda’s face. Several vendors, however, wanted nothing to do with the child, their primary concern being that people would associate their products with handicapped children.
“We’re trying to promote glamour, and lightheartedness, and beauty, and hope,” explained Doris Nesley, owner of Doris’ Wig-Wom. Est. 1942. “And I’m not sure your daughter is … in line with our image.”
Francil Robinson, an elderly dressmaker who over the years had made dozens of Bailey’s dresses, was visibly shaken when Miranda suggested she make something for Brixton.
“Miranda, dear, children like Brixton don’t need fancy dresses, just a considerable amount of prayer.”
One veteran coach, a fifty-four-year-old man who went by the single name of Carroll, offered his two cents. “Why don’t you just tell people you adopted a Chinese baby? Orientals have that full face and those … peculiar eyes. People’d probably believe she was foreign until she was about three or four. And by then everybody’d be used to her and no one’d care.”
“It just seems so unfair,” Miranda said to Ray in bed that night. “If Brixton’s going to win, she’s gonna have to compete with the other girls on their level, but she’s starting from such a different place. I need some way to make sure the judges treat Brixton like the other girls.”
He was in the middle of responding to Courtney’s text
IS A PONY A BABY HORSE
and gladly turned off his phone.
“You mean like an affirmative action thing?” he asked.
“What? No, not at all.” Like most thinking people she knew, Miranda did not believe in affirmative action. “I’m not talking about giving something to someone who doesn’t deserve it. I’m talking about making sure that someone born at a disadvantage is guaranteed the same opportunities as people born with everything.”
“That’s what affirmative action is,” he said.
“No, Ray, it’s not,” she said, exasperated by his ignorance. “Affirmative action is when they give minorities scholarships and stuff they don’t deserve just because they’re minorities. That’s not what I’m talking about at all.”
Ray rolled over and tried to ignore the influence his girlfriend was having on his wife. “I don’t know, honey. But I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You always do.”
At six thirty the next morning, Miranda shot up in bed and ran to the kitchen. The answer to her problem—like many answers to her many problems—had come to her in a dream. In it, Brixton was older, fourteen or so, and was being presented with the Miss Teen USA crown from Bailey who was the reigning Miss USA. They were standing on the deck of a cruise ship that was docked in the middle of the Las Vegas strip, but it was a dream, so Miranda chose to ignore the unrealistic parts. Flashbulbs went off like strobe lights, and soon Brixton’s smiling picture was everywhere: T-shirts, billboards, buses. It was a great picture; flawless, in fact. And that’s when Miranda woke up. For better or worse, Miranda had never been afraid to make bold choices regarding Bailey’s photographs, and in her mind the most logical way to level the playing field was to do the same with Brixton.
Miranda scheduled an “emergency” sitting with Glamour Time Photography Studio, the people behind Bailey’s “sexy” photos, and took the four best shots to Derek Lang, a genial thirty-five-year-old photo retoucher who was Miranda’s go-to guy.
Since teaching himself Photoshop while bedridden with mononucleosis, Derek had become a master at shaving extra pounds off of unhappy brides and cleaning up yearbook photos of pizza-faced teenagers. He took a look at Brixton’s photos and made a few simple suggestions.
“Well, I can clean up that little rash around her mouth and maybe give her a bit more hair. That shouldn’t be a problem. Otherwise, I don’t think there’s much work to be done. She’s really cute, and the photographer did a great job.”
“He did, he really did. And thank you.” Miranda paused. “But … I was wondering … is there some way you could do some other work on the pictures? Something a little more … advanced?”
“What do you mean?”
Derek’s assistant, Mitch, a perpetually stoned twenty-three-year-old in a Bad Religion T-shirt, shuffled over to join the discussion.
Miranda chose her words carefully. “Well, Brixton is going to be competing with a lot of other girls who don’t have the same … physical disadvantages that she does. And what I need is photographs that elevate her to the same level as the other girls. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Um. I don’t think I do, no.”
Miranda cleared her throat. “These pageants are very competitive, as I’m sure you can imagine, and if Brixton is going to compete with the so-called normal girls, her appearance needs to be more in line with what the judges consider a more traditional idea of beauty.” She paused, hoping he understood, but he didn’t. “So, she can’t look so …
unlike
the other girls if she’s going to have a chance. Do you understand?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.”
Mitch stared at the pictures through his half-lidded eyes and said, “I think she wants you to Photoshop the retarded off the girl’s face.”
Miranda’s spine stiffened. Although she couldn’t deny that’s what she was asking, she didn’t appreciate it coming from some random pothead.
“I wouldn’t use
that
word,” Miranda scolded, “but, yes, if there is some way you could make her look more like a traditional pageant contestant, then that is what I would like. Can you do that?”
Derek shrugged. “Sure. I can make her look like an eighty-year-old Jewish man if you want.”
Miranda smiled at his joke.
“Come by on Friday. I’ll have something for you to look at.”
She nodded, said “Thank you,” and glared at Mitch as she left the shop.
Three days later, Miranda returned and audibly gasped when she saw what Derek had done with the photos. Brixton’s eyes had been separated a bit and colored a deep ocean blue. Her face had been thinned, and a smart blond pixie cut sat naturally atop her head. Only a hint of the Downs remained, giving Brixton a unique but mature look. Brushing her fingers across her daughter’s digitally altered face, Miranda felt tears welling up in her eyes.
“She looks just like Gwyneth Paltrow.”
If nothing else, Brixton had a real shot at Most Photogenic.
* * *
Despite their own personal dramas and Joan’s constant scheming, Courtney and Miranda still managed to spend a great deal of time together. Soon Miranda came to look at Courtney as an apprentice and took her responsibility to teach the girl the ins and outs of pageanting very seriously. Not that Courtney was remotely interested in learning. It all kind of seemed like a big waste of time and money. More than a few times Courtney had to bite her tongue as Miranda mindlessly plopped down her credit card to pay for some seemingly unnecessary item (backup hairpiece, infant-sized garment bag, miniature prop tennis racket) that could have made a dent in Courtney’s tax bill. After driving to three different stores to locate a pair of infant heels, Courtney started to understand why Ray was always complaining about money.
Their budding friendship notwithstanding, Courtney’s conscience was clear. The two weren’t friends before she’d started sleeping with Ray—and she certainly hadn’t slept with him since meeting Miranda—so why should it be awkward? As a matter of fact, long stretches of time passed when Courtney didn’t even think about the fact that she was carrying her new friend’s husband’s baby, and when she did, she had almost no hard feelings whatsoever. Quite the contrary, Courtney felt tremendous empathy for Miranda. If anyone knew what an enormous pain in the ass Ray was, it would certainly be his wife of eleven years.
“He works so much.” Miranda sighed as they stood in line to pick up two pounds of chopped mutton from Moonlite BBQ. “And when he
is
home, he’s so tired and needy it’s like I’ve got another child to take care of.”
“Tell me about it.” Courtney caught herself, then said out loud, “I can see that about him.”
Miranda laughed. “I love him, though. And I know he loves me, too.”
Puke.
“But … he does drive me crazy,” Miranda said almost to herself. “Sometimes he’ll just go off in his own little world and you don’t know what he’s thinking. And he won’t tell you if you ask, so you just have to wait until he feels like talking again. It’s probably my least favorite thing about him.”
Courtney nodded and got a gumball from the machine as Miranda paid for their dinner.
Walking back to the minivan, the sweet smell of barbeque pork wafting across the parking lot, Courtney couldn’t stop thinking about what Miranda had said. Ray didn’t sound like a very good husband or father, which should have concerned her, but it didn’t. Courtney was certain that when Ray left his family and moved in with her, he would change. He would stop working so much, and when he walked through the door every night at six o’clock, he would be the engaged and loving husband and father she needed him to be. She would make sure of that.
A song came on the radio that reminded Miranda of her senior prom and the awkward hand job she’d given Jody Parks in the back row of his dad’s Ford Aerostar. She switched off the radio and gently placed her hand on Courtney’s belly, shaking the girl out of her inexplicable recurring fantasy of being a cross-country flight attendant.
“Have you talked to the father recently?”