Beautiful to the Bone (The Enuis Trilogy #1) (32 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Past the sign on Lake Bemidji boasting “Headwaters of the Mississippi,” and across the bridge separating it from Lake Irving, Nymore had been assimilated into Bemidji proper. The Hotel Hell area of tree-toppers, catty-mans, rail-setters, and truckers was gone. As well, Lyle’s “inspiration connection,” leveled clean, and in its place the Stanford Center, a state-of-the-art convention monolith, a curved modern-day coliseum surrounded by acres of empty asphalt parking. In the old days, at least, there were places to hide. No more.

Far to the left of the obligatory building, a small cluster of cars reflected the sun, which drew me closer, though I’d hoped Gordon would call any minute, postponing the Miss USA interviews. But of course he would not. And what good would it have done? Eventually I would’ve needed to meet the other judges.

Anyway,
here
at Miss USA was a tribute and testament to beauty. I pulled down the car’s visor and checked the small mirror: a New York casual dark green blazer, playing down my shape as much as possible, taupe slacks, and my shades. Never enough camouflage.

But I came prepared. Besides assigning a Fischer–Saller scale letter to each of the hair colors —only two genes have been firmly established— and a number to each of the fifteen genes associated with eye color, I’d taken the statistics of every Miss USA winner since 1952 and crunched the numbers to give me the composite ideal:

Age: 21.5 years

Height: 5’8”

Weight: 118.5 lbs.

Measurements: 34-23-34*

Hair: Deep Brunette

Eyes: Green**

Born: April

(Everything but their astrological sign and their shade of skin, though most were Caucasian)

*Other research suggested her waist should measure twelve inches smaller than her bust and hips. Close enough.

**Eye color varies depending on the lighting conditions, especially for lighter-colored eyes. I’d adjust for the room as best I could

And of course there were trends since 1952 that the composite didn’t reflect. I was still most interested in the face and wanted to see if the standard held, and if not, how symmetry, eye and hair color played out, and why.

I followed the cardboard signs past the security guard who didn’t check my ID despite the signage:

“Miss USA candidates and judges ONLY.

Identification required.”

The whole building reverberated as if empty. It felt that way every step across the mammoth exhibition hall on which my sister Carly would have played hockey —had the hall existed back then —to “Lake View 7,” a small rectangular room blasted in silver light with a panorama of high weeds, untended gravel berms, and the lake. It was sparsely set with nine folding chairs in a semi-circle around one solitary chair for the candidate, She Who Would Be Beauty. Against the wall I noted clipboards, pens, paper cups, and two coffee urns making ticking noises.

One last wish: that I was dipping into one of my small, cool lakes rather than exposing myself to nine other sets of eyes and sharing the enormous responsibility of changing a young woman’s life forever.

I’d done my best to arrive just as the interviews were to begin — 10 AM — so I could slip into the rear of the room without fanfare. Unfortunately no one sat in the hot seat and a number of the judges milled around. Over the shoulder of a tall man in a sport jacket and two well-dressed women, I spotted Gordon, dressed casually, smiling, and holding a brushed aluminum bullet mug.

“Eunis!” he said with a welcoming wave to join. “Come in, meet the other judges.”

One woman, perhaps mid sixties with fine platinum hair and a hematite necklace, turned to acknowledge me with a pleasant smile. Very country club, as I had expected. No reaction; she was nice. Perhaps Gordon had forewarned the judges.

The couple in conversation lagged. I drew near to the group, every atom in me urging escape, hearing the man’s voice more clearly —deep and assured, chuckling, familiar, alarming. With the other woman, he opened the circle to me. He towered above.

Victor King! I was stunned.

Gordon, showing his best manners, introduced the two women first, though the sound of rushing water obliterated their names. I shook their hands, dazed and unable to meet their eyes. A mistake, I knew. I was a judge, after all.

“Eunis, you know Victor, don’t you?” Gordon asked innocently. “He graduated ahead of you a couple of years. Star football, star hockey; well, star everything. He’s still here in Bemidji with his beautiful wife, Michelle, herself quite an athlete, and he’s our newly-elected mayor, head of the city council.”

“Melissa,” corrected Victor.

A tunnel of gray genetic matter circled me, wanting to suck me away, but I was on land, I couldn’t move.

“I’m not sure we’ve ever met.” Victor extended his hand, taking mine before I could pull it away, and tightened around it —impossible to tell whether he misjudged his own strength or if he was threatening me, but it hurt.

“Aah,” said Gordon, putting down his mug and flowing quickly to the door. “Our first young lady and our last judge, thank goodness. Please, please judges, be sure you have a clipboard and a pen. Additional comments and observations can be written on the back of any sheet. Please take your seats.”

“Vic! Sisel. I’m so sorry. The kids were just . . . well, you understand, sorry,” offered the newest judge, a well-groomed man flushed with stress. Middle-aged with the face of a mature lamb, his eyes and cheeks drooped and the first signs of a gut pushed at his sport jacket.

“Sit, sit, please,” instructed Gordon, and the twenty-something Japanese woman who had been talking to Victor took his arm and walked him to the center of the semi-circle, leaving chairs to the right and left of them. Gordon went to the first candidate as the other judges went to the chairs.

I stood immobilized until Gordon noticed and shooed me to my seat. I realized that, to avoid sitting next to Victor, I’d have to slide in to the outside chair. I did so, cutting so close to the lamb-faced judge that he nearly sat on my lap before pulling away, annoyed.

I stared straight ahead. When the young candidate walked nervously to the center of all eyes and then recovered, seating herself demurely, she was an adorable young woman, with rounded cheeks like my sister Carly, but without the attitude.

“Here,” whispered Gordon putting the clipboard and pen in my lap. “You’ll need these.”

By the time I’d composed myself Gordon had introduced the judges, then offered direction and a level of intimidation when he mentioned to the candidate that Minnesota hadn’t had a Miss USA winner since Barbara Peterson was crowned in 1976.

“Edina, Minnesota,” offered Sisel Overgaard, the pleasant platinum-haired judge.

“Bob Barker and Helen O’Connell,” added lamb-face, now identified as Sandy, though he was probably eight at the time. The Japanese woman, striking, herself with requisite fashion model cheekbones, peeked admiringly at Victor. “They were the hosts in seventy-six,” Sandy clarified.

“At any rate,” continued Gordon, short-circuiting the coffee-klatch atmosphere, “you have sworn that you are between the ages of eighteen and twenty-seven. Is that right, Erin?”

Erin looked barely eighteen. “Yes,” said the strawberry blonde. She flashed a practiced smile at every judge. Her freckles glowed. Eyes blue, face symmetrical.

“And you’ve never competed before, not in any state?”

“No.”

“You are not now, or have ever been, married?”

“No, sir.” Again that smile.

“And I’m sorry to ask, but it’s required: you are not pregnant, nor have ever given birth to a child?”

I would never have considered that as affecting beauty.

“Not yet, but I hope to someday.” Erin made sure she achieved eye contact with every judge, even me, though she couldn’t fully engage me with my gray shades on. But she tried.

“Finally,” said Gordon checking off his list, “I’m sure a beautiful young woman like you has a boyfriend, maybe many, but if you should ascend past these preliminaries to state champion and then to Miss USA, you understand that you are required to remain single throughout the process and throughout your reign.”

The reign of a monarch —it raised a burning sensation in me. Outside a wind had kicked up, bouncing light off the young scrub pines.

“I will happily remain single for that privilege.” By now Erin was quite unruffled.

“Terrific.” Gordon checked off his last directive. Again he read from his clipboard: “This is the first of three equally important areas of the competition: the judges’ panel, where we will interview you and the other competitors. Swimsuit and evening gown competition tomorrow.”

Erin took a deep breath and smiled while whisking away a pesky coil of honey-colored hair that had fallen over her broad perfect forehead.

“The lucky young woman who will be selected by our judges as the new Minnesota title holder will embark on a magical year of appearances, parades, prizes, and awards, culminating in an all-expense paid trip to the national Miss USA competition,” he stopped, “er…pageant, where she will compete with the other forty-nine state title holders. The winners of this division then advance to compete live on the national Miss USA telecast.”

Gordon paused for a breath. “It says here that our program is designed to be an excellent vehicle for advancing your career and personal goals.” He added a long exhale. “Oh, and congratulations making it beyond the selection committee.”

That solicited an acknowledging flutter of her eyelids. All the while I tried to reorganize my thoughts, which included my own intricate numbering system, cross-referencing my research on facial balance and other factors. Perhaps her cheekbones failed her. I felt guilty.

“So, Erin, are you ready for the questions from our panel of judges?”

Erin straightened her neck and flashed the brightest biggest smile yet. “I certainly am.” She placed her hands, practiced, in her lap.

Victor jumped in first. “Of course you’re quite beautiful, Erin, but this competition is about inner beauty too.” Out of the corner of my shades I saw Gordon close his eyes. Victor studied Erin’s perfect ankles and calves. Legs, I had read, could ‘make or break’ a contestant, especially in the swimsuit category.

“So what,” he continued, “do you think is the most important characteristic a young woman can bring to her relationship with a man — a young man.” This made even Jacqui, the Japanese woman, widen her eyes, but she kept them trained on Erin.

“Truth,” said Erin.

“Truth?” said Victor.

“What I mean is honesty.” She was visibly upset with her answer.

Sandy, Sisel Overgaard, and another woman far to my right took notes.

“Ahh, honesty,” said Victor.

“And I should add,” said Erin sitting erect, regaining form, “that it pertains equally to any relationship, man or woman, young or old.”

Jacqui logged that comment. As for me, I became obsessed with an unexplained stain on the sleeve of my blazer and a pressure building in my chest.

“Of course,” said Victor. “Of course. But can’t too much honesty create .  .  . problems?”

Erin thought a moment. “Well, I suppose it can. There may be times when discretion is the better part of valor. But if someone asks me a direct question I’m likely to give them the answer, unless the answer is unnecessarily hurtful. In that case, I might attenuate my answer. It can be a challenge.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Victor. “You obviously like challenges too.” It was an invitation. And then he delivered the requisite public protection for himself. “Well done.”

Erin smiled.

“Eunis, do you have a follow-up question?” asked Victor, startling me.

Erin and the other judges turned my way.

“Well, aah, not a follow-up . . . but Erin, being beautiful . . . how would you deal with sexual harassment, or worse, the threat of sexual violence?”

Before Erin could answer, Gordon inserted himself. “I just think —”

“Would you let it go?” I continued. “Or would you be concerned that the perpetrator might continue his or her ways if left unchecked?”

“I’m, I’m not sure.” Erin shifted uncomfortably. “But I think being pro-active can prevent such situations.” She faced the other judges. “I like to set limits.”

“Very good,” injected Gordon, swiftly passing the next question to Sisel who accommodated with something domesticated that evaporated from my consciousness.

The morning continued on like that, civil and largely in keeping with manners, as one candidate after another revolved through. They were all quite attractive and I applied my facial balance scale to them, quantifying hair, eye, and skin quality and color. I checked lips, brows, even facial posture. The more I codified, the more it felt unfair, even to the girl who forgot to spit out her gum and had to swallow it.

Around 3 PM I began watching the sun splinter on the lake and started drifting like Huck Finn down the Mississippi. Honestly, as beautiful as they were, none were as beautiful as Atara, as much as I hated to admit it.