Birthdays of a Princess (8 page)

Chapter
19

After lunch, which I’m allowed to eat in blissful solitude in my
Living Unit, I have an unexpected visitor. By the way, the food here is plain
but quite acceptable. I’m not a foodie anyway, not since I’ve outgrown the
usual juvenile hankering for sweets. Nowadays I eat to stay healthy and fit,
and as I am a rather small person, I don’t need much to keep me going. Would
hate to turn into a flesh-mountain like some people I know.

The visitor is the Director of this facility. I’m a bit surprised
that they, whoever
they
are, have chosen a female to rule over us.
Somehow, I always thought a man would hold this position of power. She seems
pleasant enough, very courteous in a formal way, but I’m immediately on guard.

The community area in my unit is large enough to accommodate several
easy chairs. She sits down opposite me, legs in straight line, hands clasping a
file on her lap. My uncomfortable feeling increases. There is a prescient
warning in somebody sitting opposite me, mustering me with a camera eye.

She breaks her inspection, looks down, opens the file, looks up
again with a smile and tells me that she has a concern. Her voice is clear and
light, warm. My muscles relax a little and I start breathing again.

“The Center functions on giving the residents rights and
responsibilities,” she explains to me. “You earn points through good behavior, and
the more points you earn, the higher your level will be.”

“I’ve read the manual.”

“You are currently on level one, the lowest,” she says. “I’ve been
informed by your psychiatrist, Dr. Eaton, that you find it difficult to
interact with others, and I have therefore issued instructions that new
admissions will be moved to other Living Units first, as long as there is room
available.”

I feel a small surge of warmth towards my psycho-doc.

“He also mentioned that we should keep the afternoons free for his
consultations with you. I’ve agreed to his request, but this means that you can’t
participate in our extra-curricular activities. You won’t earn extra points.”

I shrug.

“I’d only use them for the vending machine.”

“Good.” She smiles. “We can’t make too many exceptions. I’m willing
to make allowances in the Incentive Program and excuse you from those afternoon
classes, but you need to understand the implications of it and indicate that
you accept them.”

I try to smile back my understanding. “I read in the manual that you
have a gym in here.”

She gets up already. “We do.”

“Would it be possible for me to train there? On my own, I mean,
without others around me?”

“I shall discuss this with Dr. Eaton. We might even give you points
for that.”

Audience over. She leaves me sitting there, pondering over rights
and responsibilities. But she had still been smiling when she left, and I can’t
help thinking that she’ll make it possible for me to work out in privacy,
without sweating and gossiping peers next to me.

Rights and responsibilities, I know plenty of that. In my fast
experience as a human being, I must say that the responsibility part of the
equation usually outweighs its so closely connected counterpart. The rights
part is the later twin, the one that didn’t get enough oxygen to develop
properly.

Birthday Five

After winning the Miss Texas Princess, I was expected to win the
National American Miss four months later.

I didn’t.

Gracie and Mom cried foul. The winning girl was not nearly as
beautiful as me. How could the judges, those hypocritical blockheads, those
astigmatic amateurs, not have seen this?

I actually remember this strange pageant—well, parts of it anyway.
We had driven in our beat-up old car to Austin the day before and got settled
in the motel room the three of us shared. Twin beds, me and mom sharing one of
them.

The two of them were really nervous. I could feel the tension in the
car already and it got worse in the stuffy room. Grown-up nerves mean they
ignore me, snap at me, tell me to be quiet and stop fidgeting, while they themselves
fidget around as if they sit on hot stones. Then I pout and cry until one of
them responds with soothing gestures and promises of ice cream and cookies.
Usually, when they are not in competition anxiety.

That evening, they went at each other like roosters in a cockfight,
all beaks and claws and ruffled feathers.

“Damn it, you know how important Glitz is. That dress is way too
frilly. It looks cheap, and it’s pink.” By now Mom hated pink, she hated the trashy
and childish designs Gracie came up with. “It makes her dumpy, not cute.”

“Oh yeah? If you’d picked the right hair style to go with it, the
dress would work so much better. It needs to be pulled up, with pink ribbons.
See, here—” Gracie grabbed my hair and yanked it up. I was barely four years
old then, but I already knew that throwing a tantrum at this stage would not
bring the desired result. No cookies and ice cream while they were at each
other’s throats. So I got away, crawled into bed, hid under the cover and
sulked.

Next morning, they hadn’t made up but were forced to work together
to get me ready for competition. They must have succeeded, because the picture
taken after this pageant shows me with the ‘Most Photogenic Miss’ crown on my
perfectly coiffed dark curls, standing on stage, still pouting my lips.
Adorable Mini Drama Queen.

But photogenic sulking doesn’t pay much, and to get a lesser title
than at least Mini-Supreme is the same as losing. All those alternate
titles—Prettiest Eyes, Best Dress, Prettiest Smile, Best Personality—have a
duct-tape function. Little girls don’t cry when they get something, and the
organizers make sure no girl leaves without some sort of crown, trophy, title
or prize. Keeps them happy. It’s the grown-ups that cry, because they know how
meaningless those cheap giveaways are.

Driving home, my grown-ups argued over the money they had spent, and
how it had been spent, and what they had done wrong.

This could have been the end of my career, and nearly was, but soon
after the Austin flop, Gracie brought home a visitor.

“This is my friend Inez.”  

The lady patted my head—
aren’t you a pretty one
—and kept
talking to Mom as if I didn’t exist. I didn’t look at her either, her deep
voice scared me.

“I can see what you mean, Gracie. She’s got good bone structure,
nice hair. Yes, very cute. But it’ll take more than a cheap polyester dress to
make a Mini Beauty Queen out of her. We need to turn her into something
sensational. As lovely as she might be—it’s not enough to capture the Ultimate
Supreme title of Young Miss America. That takes professional styling, ballet
classes, dresses with matching shoes, jewelry. It takes money! Lots of money.”

Mom must have paled when hearing this. Gracie of course knew all
this already. She had brought my benefactor into our square little
third-row-behind-the-highway home. With the help of her photographer friend, my
first true admirer, she had spread my pictures around, talking me up in glowing
prophecies of the spoils a famous child-beauty-queen could earn, and she had
actually managed to get somebody interested.

So now I had my first sponsor.

I saw the generous lady with the avuncular voice only a few more
times, and each time she ignored me. But I know Gracie met with her often.

“She’s a great business woman,” Gracie said. “We’re so lucky to have
her.”

Indeed we were. The money flowed freely: hair-stylist and make-up
artists looked me over, and outfits were designed for all the different
categories of all the different pageants I attended in the following months.

Before I turned five, I won the coveted title of Grand Supreme
twice, in different competitions. My career was well on its way, and Mom and
Gracie—and the sponsor, I suppose—were pleased.

I liked being on stage, but I was happiest when I did really, really
well. Then I could jump off stage and into Gracie’s welcoming arms. When I
didn’t do so well—when I forgot to smile or missed my next move—then there were
no hugs. But she didn’t punish me. She never punished me. Gracie loved me.

On my fifth birthday, Gracie told Mom that the sponsor wanted to see
a bit more for her money, which was only fair as she had heavily invested in
me. Gracie and the sponsor had bonded over their mutual interest—me—and had
hatched a plan how to make the most of my photogenic talents. The photographer
friend would do a very special photo shoot for my birthday, an artistic one
this time, and they could sell those pictures to advertising agencies.

“I don’t know,” Mom said. “You really think those sell?”

“Like hot cakes. You’ll see. She’s adorable. Lots of people will
spend money on her.”

“Maybe we should get a different photographer. A better one.”

“Good luck finding one who doesn’t charge up front.”

“I don’t have time for that,” Mom said. “We have three more pageants
coming up in the next weeks. I can’t do everything. Have him take those
pictures, as many as he wants. See if I care. It’ll only be that once anyway.”

So Gracie took me to the special photo shoot. She fussed over me and
kept telling me what a pretty girl I was and how proud she was to have such a
good girl for a mija. Somehow she couldn’t stop talking and her hands were
shaking so badly she had trouble undoing all the buttons. There I was, in my
birthday suit, not really feeling embarrassed, I was too young for that. Gracie
was there, so it must be alright.

Gracie placed me on a swing they had set up in the studio. Her photographer
friend moved my arms and legs in position until he was satisfied with the
arrangement. Gracie told me not to swing, to sit perfectly still, and to smile—smile,
for Heaven’s sake!—until the many, many pictures her photographer friend took
of me were done.

Before we went home, they told me not to tell anybody anything about
the pictures because it was a big surprise and if I ruined the surprise I would
not be allowed to go to Disneyland. Soon, we’d go there. Gracie showed me a
pamphlet with all the attractions and talked about the magic mountain and the
rides, and by the time we were back, I’d forgotten all about the pictures. All
I could talk about was Disneyland.

My dear psycho-doc, (yes, dear, I’m slowly growing fond of him; his
visits interrupt the monotony of my cell-existence) drops by. I close my
journal and tell him about the director’s visit and my request to train alone.

“Do you think she should reward you?” he asks.

“It’s not a reward.” Why would he think that? “I can’t help
disliking other people. If she doesn’t grant it, I won’t exercise. No big
deal.”

“I’ve asked her already to make certain times available to you. She’s
a very nice person and has granted the request. She does find it commendable
that you want to look after your physical health. Many of the girls in here
don’t care; they’ve given up on themselves.”

“I need another favor. You’re obviously a big shot here. Can you get
me a television and a computer?  I think it would help—I’m stuck here for God
knows how long and I need something to do outside of morning classes and exercise.”

We argue for a while. He thinks internet is out of the question. But
TV, maybe.

“When?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” And as an afterthought, he hits me with
it. “Of course, privileges must be earned.”

Do I ever know that! “What do you want?”

“I want to read your journal.”

Get lost. No, wait. What would it matter if he reads it? Could it be
turned into a disadvantage for me? Hardly. Some of the stuff I’ll write down
might be a bit embarrassing—it always is when one is honest with oneself,
right?—and I wouldn’t want a total stranger to see it, but dove-doc is no
stranger no more.

“But only you can read it,” I say, “and only when I’m ready.”

This evening, a guy in a white nurse’s suit hands me the remote for
the television unit in the community room the eight cells in my Living Unit
share. Until now I hadn’t even noticed the flat screen on one of the walls
above the arrangement of easy chairs. Since I’m still the only resident-inmate,
I have free choice of the channels available. He informs me that, naturally,
certain programs will be blocked. They screen them carefully to make sure they
are suitable for us in here. I’m curious what this means. Suitable for a
fifteen year old dangerous criminal? Which programs would those be? He also
tells me I’m allowed to watch for one hour per day.

I would have preferred a computer.

Chapter
20

The reporter was very polite. Not what Melissa had expected at all.
He was not pushy or opinionated like most of those interviewers come across on
television, and he gave her all the time in the world to collect her thoughts.

When he sat down at her kitchen table she suddenly realized how
unprepared she was.

“I want to tell you about my daughter, about her life,” she said. “About
who she really is. Do you want to hear it?”

The reporter asked her if he could film the interview and if she was
willing to sign a release form that allowed him to air the material. That was
standard procedure, he explained, just a formality, but still it bugged her.
Why did everybody want her to sign forms?

“I know I’m not important,” she said, after having given her consent
to all his requests, “I’m only the mother.”

He assured her that she was very important, probably the most
important person in the case, aside from her daughter. What a sweet boy. His
name was Andy. He was in his early twenties, still a bit chubby, with big
friendly eyes and soft lips. Her anger dissipated in the gentle breeze of his
kindness. She felt in control again. It was time to tell the truth.

“My daughter has done something terrible, no question about it. I
have seen this horrible news item, it’s been the worst moment of my life.”

 “Things often look a lot worse on screen, you know.” With this, Andy
turned the camera on. “They get distorted.”

“I guess so.” Melissa looked straight at the red light, as Andy had
instructed her. “You’d know better. All I can say is that my Tiara has never
shown any aggression, nothing aside from the usual tantrums kids throw. It’s
not fair to brand her as an anti-social drop-out kind of girl. Like one of
those druggies who loiter around Main Street and have no home to go to. My
Tiara had a good childhood, and me being a single mother had no detrimental
effect on her upbringing. She has enjoyed a good education, has been brought up
with all the love and care a child needs. I want the world to know this.”

“Mrs. Brown, tell us about your daughter. We’d like to hear it from
you.”

“Where do I start? Tiara and I had a bond. From the beginning we
were best friends. She’s been an easy child, easy to understand, easy to love.
As a little girl she was most happy when she made me happy. You have to know
that it was just the two of us. Her father had died, killed in action, before
she was born, before he could marry me. He was a hero, you know. You can
imagine how devastated I felt after that. Looking back at it now, I might not
be here if it hadn’t been for Tiara. She saved me.”

“How do you mean that?”

“I remember the moment I saw her for the very first time. I’m sure
you heard that before, from mothers who’ve given birth. Your eyes fall on this
tiny bundle in your arms, and you understand that it’s part of you, an extension
of yourself.

 “But anyways, that’s nothing unusual. It happens every second of
every day. When I had Tiara, my broken heart was mended. Don’t get me wrong,
it’s not that I was happy right away, I still missed my Mikey an awful lot, but
I had a new purpose in life. It was all Tiara’s doing. You can imagine how
precious she was to me.”

“How was she as a child?”

“Growing up, she was such a…a…did I say how easy she was? Hardly
ever complained. And so easy to teach. I didn’t go to work, didn’t have to because
my Mikey had provided me with enough money to support the two of us for a
while, so I spent all my time with her. I was homeschooling her because she was
such a bright little girl, and the schools down there in Texas, you know, they
are not like here.”

“Why didn’t you take her back to Canada then?”

“I was still in love with Mike, although he was dead, and I just
felt it was the right thing to do to let his daughter grow up in his home town.
Surely people understand that.”

“Of course.”

“We had a lovely home. We lived in Galveston. A great place for a
holiday. Before Katrina, I mean. After the big storm, it didn’t look so good.
There was so much damage to the city, you can’t imagine. Before the storm hit,
my Tiara had never been scared of anything. After Katrina, I had to keep a
light on in her room every single night, that’s how afraid she was of the dark.
She was a lot more timid after that. It’s, really, it’s inconceivable that she’d
even touch a weapon, let alone use one—”

Melissa started to weep quietly. She didn’t want to, she had to.

Andy gave her a moment, didn’t pressure her and didn’t switch the
camera off.

“How could my Tiara change so much in such a short time? Maybe
somebody slipped something in her drink when she was at that coffee shop. That
happens, doesn’t it? There are drugs like that, mind-altering ones. Something
like that must have happened, don’t you think?”