To Catch the Moon (53 page)

Mario’s voice cuts through my thoughts. And
none too soon, for I realize that we top five are about to make our
way to the isolation booth. It’s been wheeled onstage by two of the
buffer male dancers, who are holding onto the thing so it doesn’t
slip around as we step inside. Great: another way to fall over.

En route Mario waylays Ms. Wyoming, who’ll be
first to do the final interview. The rest of us slither inside the
booth. Buff Dancer #1 closes the door. Profound silence
descends.

“Wow.” That in a tone of awe from Liz Beth.
She’s one of a half-dozen Asian girls in the competition. “This
thing is, like, really sound-proof.”

“Did you, like, just fall off the turnip
truck? Or in your case should I say the bok choy truck?”

My head snaps right in Ms. California’s
direction.

“Of course it’s sound-proof,” Ms. California
Tiffany Amber goes on, wiping invisible lint from her glittery
silver gown. “Otherwise why would they stick us in here? You’d
better smarten up for your interview question, Rhode Island, or
you’re toast.”

Liz Beth wilts. The walls of the isolation
booth seem to close in a few more inches. I swear it’s a hundred
fifty degrees in there. I lick my lips, my mouth like sandpaper. I
smell nervousness all around me and believe me, it’s not
pretty.

All of a sudden Trixie from North Carolina
laughs. “Well, y’all, I’m just glad they don’t do headphones
anymore.” She’s a girl-next-door type and invariably cheery.
“Remember that? Making the girls listen to that cheesy elevator
music so they didn’t hear the question instead of putting them in
one of these isolation contraptions?”

“It was hell on hair,” Tiffany says as she
smooths her perfect blond coif. “But that would hardly matter for
you.”

Trixie’s eyes widen as her hand flies to her
chin-length copper-red hair. “Is there … is there something …”

The booth door opens. Buff Dancer #2 motions
out Liz Beth, who by now looks as freaked out as a nun at a peep
show. Tiffany chortles as she leaves.

A second later I clear my throat. “Don’t
listen to Tiffany, Trixie.” I reach out to rub her arm. “Your hair
looks terrific.”

“As if,” Tiffany opines. “Anyway,
Congeniality never wins.”

“Stop being a bitch, Tiffany.” My voice is
getting stronger by the second. “Trixie, there’s always a first
time. And I think the judges are really high on you.”

“Really?”

The door opens again and this time Trixie’s
in the firing line. I give her a thumb’s up right before she steps
out.

“Smart, Ohio.” Tiffany shakes her head,
disgust twisting her perfectly symmetrical features. “Make the
competition feel fabulous.”

“Maybe we don’t all need to cut everybody
else down to feel good about ourselves.”

“Right. Tell that to yourself when you
lose.”

I’m concocting a pithy riposte when Tiffany
shuts me up by lifting her gown to reveal a lipstick and compact
taped to her right thigh.

She rips off the tape. “Never thought of
this, did you?” She sneers. “I do it every time. For a last-minute
touchup to guarantee I’m even more exquisite for my close-up.”

“Too bad it won’t be close enough to reveal
your rotten soul,” I mutter. Then the door opens and this time I
find Buff Dancer #1 signaling me.

“Don’t trip on those clodhoppers of yours,”
she singsongs as I take his arm.

I hoist a pound or two of fuchsia satin gown
in my free hand and throw back my shoulders. Jousting with Tiffany
has made me a zillion times fiercer than when I stepped into the
isolation booth. Now I want to blow that blonde barracuda into
oblivion.

We head toward Mario. I’m blinded by the
stage lights as I remember the timeless advice of Miss America 1972
Lauren Schaefer—of Bexley, Ohio, mind you—who said that when you
walk in your evening gown, you should glide as if you were on
rollers being pulled by a string. With applause ringing in my ears,
I float across the stage, my smile beatific. I’m no Tiffany Amber
in the looks department, I will confess, but I am slender and
brunette and the appearance gods have been kind. Buff Dancer #1
deposits me at Mario’s side. The audience settles. I take a
sustaining breath.

Mario glances at his index card. I guess he
can’t remember the question he’s just asked three times. “Ms. Ohio,
if a genie offered you one special power, what would you like it to
be?”

I laugh. “Oh, that’s easy.” To my mind rises
other pageant winners’ advice:
Use a dash of humor!
“I’d
like to be able to guess the winning lottery number before it’s
announced!”

Laughter and clapping burst from the
crowd.

I giggle and go on. “But seriously, folks. As
a wife and mother, the special power I’d most like to have is the
ability to do ten different things at the same time. Then maybe I’d
finally catch up with all the To Do’s on my list!”

Both of Mario’s dimples flash. Now I know for
sure I done good. He motions me to go stand beside my fellow Top
Fivers, then grins at the camera and says, “Very cleverly answered
by Ms. Ohio, Happy Pennington. Now for our final contestant, Ms.
California, Tiffany Amber!”

Cheers and applause rise to the rafters.
Apparently Tiffany has scads of people fooled. As for me, I feel
like booing.

Buff Dancer #2 opens the door to the
isolation booth, then steps back. I steel myself for Her Supreme
Bitchiness to flounce across the stage.

Instead Tiffany pitches forward and crash
lands face first onto the stage floor. Twitching ensues. In fact,
what with the silver gown, she looks like a marlin gasping for
breath on the deck of a fishing boat. Then, after one particularly
impressive series of flops, she shudders and goes still.

The crowd’s cheers give way to an
audience-wide intake of breath. The orchestra screeches to an
awkward halt. Mario calls for a cut to commercial. I can’t often
describe myself as flabbergasted but I sure can now. All we
contestants are as frozen as marionettes who’ve lost their
puppeteer. Except for North Carolina, who grabs my arm. “Good
Lord!” Trixie squeals in my ear. “What in the world’s happened to
that girl?”

Buff Dancer #2 attempts to find out. He
hurries over to Tiffany, still lying face down, then bends toward
her and shakes her shoulder. He starts to turn her over. A second
later horror crosses his face and he lets her go, tripping backward
as if he can’t get away fast enough.

By this point the air is electric. All the
judges and half the audience are out of their seats. Uniformed
security guards are making their way onto the stage. The crowd is
beyond murmuring; we’ve heard a scream or two. Mario races over to
Tiffany, kneels beside her, and takes her limp arm by the
wrist.

A second later he raises his head toward one
of the guards and with his free hand covers the microphone on his
tuxedo lapel. I don’t so much hear him say it as I watch his lips
form the words. “She’s dead.”

Ms America and the Offing on
Oahu
is available from all major retailers of
e-books.

Now available from Diana Dempsey

Falling Star

To Catch the Moon

Too Close to the Sun

Chasing Venus

Ms America and the Offing on Oahu

Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas

Ms America and the Mayhem in Miami