Beauty Queens (10 page)

She looked back at Nicole — friendly, easygoing Nicole — with envy and unease. She knew the Top Five would not hold both a black and a brown contestant. No matter what they claimed, the pageants were not multicultural-friendly. It was funny to Shanti how
her white classmates could distinguish between several white faces but would get confused when confronted with, say, two Asians, frequently mistaking one for the other as if looking at a spot-the-difference kids’ magazine puzzle and feeling stumped.

To win Miss Teen Dream, Shanti knew she would have to work twice as hard as the other girls. That’s why she’d hired Mrs. Mirabov, whose record was superb and whose drive matched her own. It was Mrs. Mirabov who’d evaluated Shanti through narrowed, steel-gray eyes and made her pronouncement: “Your problem, Comrade Singh, is a lack of likeability. No one wants to be your friend. You are efficient and ambitious, which is good for KGB agent; not so much for teen beauty queen. We must humanize you.”

Shanti had flinched slightly at Mrs. Mirabov’s assessment, as if she’d told Shanti that her personality made her look fat. “Tell me what you can do,” Mrs. Mirabov demanded. And Shanti dutifully recited all her talents. “No, no, no. Not what you can do like trained dog. What you love. What you have special passion for?”

Shanti had stared blankly, feeling a sense of panic as if she were in a dream in which she had forgotten to study for a test. There was one thing Shanti loved, but it was not the sort of achievement that wowed judges. It was a secret passion, and that’s what it would remain: secret.

“No,” Shanti had answered. “Nothing.”

“Well, then. We will have to try on personalities until we find one that fits.”

They tried everything: telling jokes, country and western songs, a ventriloquist act with a lovable fuzzy sidekick, photo ops with terminally ill children. But Shanti wasn’t natural with the kids, whose wary expressions seemed to suggest she’d actually given them cancer. Finally, during a painful roller boogie version of “The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere” that was supposed to make Shanti appear “quirky, but cute and patriotic,” Mrs. Mirabov had moaned in Russian and begged her to stop. After a long pause, she raised her perfectly coiffed gray head. There was a new gleam in those eyes.
“You know, Comrade Singh, there is one thing I learned during my defection: Everybody loves a happy assimilation story.”

An American underdog was born.

Shanti delighted the judges with the
Parents, what-can-you-do?
anecdote about her dad putting out the life-size, blow-up lawn Santa on the Fourth of July. She charmed them with heartwarming tales of making popadam in her grandmother’s kitchen while simultaneously introducing the old woman to the joys of hip-hop. At regionals, she dazzled the crowd during her Bollywood dance routine. Her likeability scores came back in the high nines. Representing the marriage of old-world traditions with the apple-pie aspirations of the new country, she took crown after crown. It made everyone feel warm and hopeful, and they moved Shanti forward as if reaffirming their beliefs in all they stood for. It was great for everyone. It just wasn’t true. And Shanti wondered if her actual talent was fraud.

Shanti stopped to catch her breath. She had never been so tired. More than anything, she wanted to stop and rest. That was what her grandmother used to say to her all the time. “You work too hard. You should relax and enjoy your life. Maybe play Ragnaroknroll
¹⁹
, like your nani. I made an avatar of myself — I’m Super-Kali-Fragilicious! I just laid waste to the Dungeon Master of Carpathia. It was fun.”

“I can’t go another step,” Nicole said, panting.

Shanti was relieved that somebody else had said it first. The rains had stopped. They’d reached a wide plain sheltered by tall rock walls. In the distance, the rock yielded to more jungle.

“All right,” Shanti said. “We’ll rest.”

The girls stretched out on the carpet of green and fell asleep.

When Shanti woke again, the island sky had sneaked toward dusk, and she noticed that Tiara was missing. Quickly, she shook
the others awake, and they searched the surrounding area, shouting Tiara’s name. An almost ecstatic moan led them to a large bush adorned with a haphazard assortment of red, star-shaped fruit. Tiara was sprawled beside it, her mouth and hands stained with red juice.

“Tiara, did you eat this fruit?” Nicole asked, frightened.

“Uh-huh. Don’t tell my mom. She’ll make me go for a run.”

“How many did you eat?”

“I don’t know. Four or twelve.”

“Which one was it — four or twelve?”

“I don’t know. I’m not good at math. They’re really yummy. They taste kinda like gummi bears, but with dirt on them.”

Shanti whispered to the others, “Those could be poisonous.”

“Tiara, do you feel okay?” Nicole asked.

“I feel … full,” Tiara said, tasting the word, which seemed as delicious as the fruit. “I can’t remember the last time I felt full. It’s awesome.”

“It’s getting dark. We should get going,” Shanti said.

“So tired,” Tiara muttered. Her eyelids fluttered.

“I think we should wait to see if Tiara’s okay,” Nicole whispered.

“It’s her fault she ate that fruit, not mine.”

“Harsh much? I thought you were all about family and togetherness.”

Shanti’s cheeks colored. “No one in my family would do something that stupid.”

“She was hungry! Look, we’ll just watch her for a while. If she’s fine, then we know that fruit is safe to eat. We might have found a food source, okay?”

“It beats cannibalism,” Petra said. “Plus, do you really want to be walking through the jungle at night? At least this place seems open.”

“Remember that big zit I had on my chin this morning? It’s all gone,” Tiara said, rubbing her thumb over her chin. Tiara’s skin was, in fact, perfectly clear and dewy.

“Wow. It looks like you just had a rock dust facial,” Petra said.

“Are those good?” Nicole asked. “I’ve always wanted to try one.”

Shanti examined Tiara’s face and looked more closely at the small fruit. She wished she had her botany book. “I’ll bet these have special properties that cause cell turnover in your skin — I did a science project on free radicals. I’ll bet I could turn this into my own skincare line and be Fortune 500 before I’m twenty-five. I’d call them Shanti Berries™.”

“You can if there are any left.” Petra grabbed a handful and gobbled them down.

“What are you doing?” Nicole asked.

“Tiara ate those hours ago and she’s fine
and
her skin looks great. If I’m going to die, I’d rather go out with a full stomach and amazing skin.” Petra smacked her lips, tasting. “Oh wow. These really
are
good!”

“Told you,” Tiara said sleepily.

“Okay. Here goes nothing.” Nicole crossed herself and bit into one, squirting juice. “Mmm. Oh wow.”

Shanti was weak from hunger, but she didn’t like going into situations in which she was not one hundred percent in charge. The fruit was an unknown. What if it were poisonous? She knew what Mrs. Mirabov would say: “Comrade Singh, you must train yourself to be without. Being beauty queen is like being marine, only harder. Marines do not fight in four-inch heels.” Still, the fruit was so inviting, and Tiara seemed fine. In the end, her hunger was stronger. She allowed herself three small pieces of fruit, marveling at their sweetness.

The sun’s light retreated. Sated and tired, the girls stretched out in the soft grass and watched the pale rind of moon grow more pronounced.

It began as a slight tingling in her fingers, and then Shanti was aware that her vision was more acute and that the edges of the jungle were unfolding, showing her more and more, like one of those accordion birthday cards.

“Anybody else feel … strange?” she asked, trying to keep the panic at bay.

Petra sang another old Boyz Will B Boyz tune to herself and mimed dance steps. Nicole giggled. Tiara stared up at the sky. From the corner of her eye, Shanti caught a colorful bird skating above the bushes. It looked at her and trilled one word:
fraud.

“Oh my God.”

“What’s the matter, Bollywood?” Nicole asked, and laughed at the nickname.

“Don’t call me Bollywood,” Shanti snapped, but it only made Nicole giggle more. “What’s happening? I don’t understand — Tiara was fine after she ate that fruit. You didn’t see or hear anything strange, right?”

Tiara’s fingers tried to grab hold of an invisible ladder. “No. Well, the trees were singing funny camp songs to me and I think I saw a big rabbit surfing through the air. But that was all.”

“Oh my God!” Shanti cried, her words floating out in front of her in strings of black type.

“You sound funny, Bollywood. Like a Valley girl.” Nicole giggled anew.

Shanti clapped a hand over her mouth and fought to regain her composure. Carefully, she lifted her fingers, which no longer felt like her fingers but like butterflies, light and free. “Why didn’t you tell us, Tiara?”

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

Shanti blinked desperately, fighting the plant’s power. She liked to be in control — it was her safety net — and she could feel that net being ripped away from her by the star-shaped fruit.

Petra tried to calm her. “It’s kind of like Burning Man without the patchouli.”

“Do you think they’ll give us a pee test when we get back?” Tiara asked.

“Back where? What’s back?” Petra asked, and Tiara nodded.

Shanti fought with everything she had — synchronized Tae Kwon Do moves and circle turns. She shifted through her Bollywood talent routine, but soon her fingers forgot the language. Her head
was an overgrown garden, and she was lost inside. She no longer knew where or who she was. Finally, she stretched out beside the others, and the jungle came to embrace her.

“I will search for berries as my ancestors did upon the plains before hunting the buffalo,” Shanti said dreamily.

Nicole rolled her head toward Shanti. At least, she thought she rolled her head. It was getting hard to tell what was what. “You’re not that kind of Indian, Bollywood.”

“Whatever,” Shanti replied. “Hey. Did you just see a purple dinosaur? He was wearing a boater hat.”

“Nice. I love a stylish dinosaur,” Petra murmured.

“I had a dinosaur when I was little. A stuffed dinosaur named Mr. Wiggles,” Tiara said. “One night, I found him under the covers, down, you know, there.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I think he did the nasty to me.”

Nicole patted her mouth. “My lips are spongy. Anybody else’s lips spongy?”

Tiara grabbed Petra’s arm. Her voice was low and urgent. “Mr. Wiggles. I put him in the back of the closet. I couldn’t look at him after that. He was a bad, bad dinosaur. What if he finds me? What if he finds me here?”

Petra held Tiara’s face in her large hands. “You’re safe. Ride the wave, my Mississippi flower. You’re on a smooth, pretty wave, just floating.”

“Okay,” Tiara said, settling back. “Okay.”

“Isn’t that nice?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you see the stars up there? Can you make out any shapes?”

“Yeah. I can.”

“What do you see?”

Tiara began to whimper. “A pervy dinosaur.” She leapt up and made a serpentine run for the jungle.

“Should we go after her?” Petra asked.

“Go after who?” Nicole asked.

Petra tried to remember, but her mind would not stay on task. “I don’t know.”

Shanti felt the blades of grass petting her ears. “I’m not sure what kind of Indian I am. I’m not really sure what I am at all anymore.”

“We’re not just sashes and states,” Nicole said on a sigh.

“Or gender,” Petra murmured. “Or bodies.”

“I’m sort of everything all at once,” Nicole whispered.

And then they were silent, lost to dreaming.

Shanti was a kite flying high in the sky. She’d never felt so weightless. At first, it was terrifying — where would she go? How would she get back? What if she were to drift away unnoticed? But soon she found she liked the feeling of not knowing. She was in control of her thoughts, and that was all she really needed. A strong tug brought her back.

Down below, Mrs. Mirabov held her string. “Comrade Singh, you are disgrace. Come down at once. We have work to do if you are not to be total failure like high-waisted, acid-wash jeans.”

“But I don’t want to. I like it up here.”

“You will fail, Shanti Singh. You need the winning. As yourself, you are not enough.”

Shanti the Kite wobbled and dipped. She feared that the wind might upend her and she would crash to earth and break into a million small splinters. Everyone would see. In a frightened voice, she called to Mrs. Mirabov. “Hold me up!”

“Only if you do as I tell you.”

“Okay,” Shanti agreed.

Mrs. Mirabov tightened her hold on both the string and the kite’s tail, and the kite went taut. Shanti felt it as a stabbing pain between her shoulder blades.

“I’m going to break,” Shanti gasped out.

“Nonsense. You are only as good as what you can do. Remember that you are not likeable, Comrade Singh,” Mrs. Mirabov called.

“I know.” The pain in Shanti’s back sharpened. It was unbearable.

“It is important for girls to be likeable.”

“But why?” Shanti asked.

If Mrs. Mirabov had an answer, she wasn’t sharing. “Come down this instant and we work on interview portion. You can tell story of how much you wish to be mother someday. People like to hear about your future plans for ovaries.”

Carefully, Shanti inched her way down, but the wind resisted. “Let go,” it whispered.

“I can’t. I’ll crash,” she said.

“Everybody crashes sometime.”

“Not me.”

“Comrade Singh, there are other girls who would not keep me waiting. Other girls who want it more.”

“She’s the best,” Shanti tried to explain.

The wind was warm. It caressed Shanti’s skin. It wanted to play. “We will hold you for a while.”

And for a moment, Shanti wondered why she needed Mrs. Mirabov when she already had the wind.

“I’m sorry,” she called down. “But I have to do this on my own. Thank you. And good-bye.”

“You will fail, Comrade Singh!” With a scowl and a blast of Russian, Mrs. Mirabov let go of the string connecting them. As Shanti soared higher, her handler shouted, “You are on your own! A girl without a tribe is no one. No one!”