Pretty Ugly: A Novel (10 page)

“Motherfucker!”

Snatching some sweatpants off the top of a pile of dirty clothes and an old M
ö
tley Cr
ü
e T-shirt he’d masturbated into a few days before, Ray grabbed his keys and shot out the front door.

Fishtailing into Joan’s backyard driveway, Ray’s Jeep narrowly missed the rusty old barrel where his mother-in-law still illegally burned her trash. Bounding up the patio steps, he banged on the screen door and waited. After a few seconds, he knocked again, then cupped his eyes and peered into the inky blackness of the kitchen. All he could see was the blinking 12:00 of the microwave clock and the glowing burner of the stove Joan had forgotten to shut off. After his third knock, the porch light flashed on, and Joan, wearing Roger’s old bathrobe and carrying a broken pool cue, cracked the door.

“Hey, Joan. Sorry if I woke you. The boys still up?”

“No, Ray. It’s after midnight. They fell asleep in front of the TV about an hour ago. I tried calling you, but it kept going to messages so I stopped.”

“Yeah, my battery just…” He let out an exasperated sigh and let her fill in the rest. He then moved to go inside, but Joan shifted her body and blocked his path.

“They’re already asleep, Ray. Why don’t you just let them stay over and I’ll bring them by in the morning on my way to the market.”

Joan referred to every establishment that sold goods and/or services as “the market.” It was one of the many things about Joan that bugged the living shit out of him.

“I appreciate that, but I took tomorrow off so the boys and I could practice some football. Tryouts are next week, and they need a little extra coaching.”

Joan winced at the word “tryouts.” The very idea of her boys having to prove themselves to a bunch of strangers was the height of insult. Who were
they
to pass judgment on
her
sterling young men of God?

“So … can I get them? Please?”

Joan stared at Ray for a long time without saying anything. Why was he so jumpy? And why did he look so out of sorts? Was he on drugs? Was he having an affair? She realized she couldn’t possibly know the answers, but Jesus would.

He responded immediately.

Oh Joan, you are truly one of my favorites. Ray’s not a bad man. He’s just a mess because he works so hard. Now, go get those boys and we’ll talk tomorrow.

Joan chuckled at her own silliness. Of course, Ray wasn’t bad. How could she even think such a thing? He was the father of her grandchildren, for Pete’s sake.
Good heavens, what is wrong with me?
she thought.

Not a thing, Joan. Not one single thing.

Opening the door, Joan let Ray into her house, then looked up at the heavens and gave Jesus a quick wink. Try as she might, it was impossible not to blush when He winked back.

chapter eight

The corridors of the Knoxville Crowne Plaza were teeming with little girls wearing enough makeup to offend a South Beach prostitute. Mothers, grandmothers, coaches, and a few bored fathers herded half-naked contestants in and out of hotel rooms while highly paid teams of consultants gave their final opinions on hair, clothes, poise, makeup, and coquettish expressions. “You go, girl!” was heard from every room, often sounding more like a command than an encouragement.

With her hair set in massive three-inch curlers, Bailey weaved through the mayhem, licking peanut butter off a plastic spoon. She was allowed to have peanut butter on pageant days because it was a good source of protein, and Miranda had heard an Olympic swimmer say that protein was good for a body in training.

“Pageanting takes just as much energy as swimming,” Miranda said. “More, probably, if you count the mental part.”

Cradling a bucket under her arm, Bailey searched for the ice machine. If memory served, it was at the end of the hall near the housekeeping station. Most hotels, the decent ones, anyway, did that now, put their ice and vending machines out of earshot of their guests. Bailey had become very familiar with hotels. Most of them were exactly the same: bright patterned carpeting, drab textured wallpaper, Art Deco wall sconces, flowers by the elevators. Bailey liked it, the similarity. At least if she had to spend every weekend in a new place, she could count on a few things being the same.

Miranda had been up all night crying about someone stealing her TV show, and Bailey had been sent to get ice for the swelling under her mother’s eyes. Any excuse to get out of the room was a welcome one, so Bailey grabbed the bucket and—when Miranda wasn’t looking—slipped a dollar from her purse.

Bailey’s interest in pageanting had dwindled to the point of nonexistence. Aside from the fact that all the pageants felt exactly the same, Bailey had grown increasingly tired of being judged by people who had probably never read a book that didn’t have beach chairs on the cover. There wasn’t a specific incident that soured her on competing, but standing backstage at the Dixie Dolls Spectacular (Jackson, Mississippi), she realized she didn’t really like any of the other girls, or their mothers. Especially their mothers.

“Everyone’s so two-faced and mean,” she told Miranda. “All they do is smile and wish me good luck, then go off and pray for me to make a mistake. Why do we spend so much time with them?”

“Because you love pageants, Bailey. You have since you were a baby.”

“Fine, but…” Bailey chose her words carefully. “I think I might like to try something else.”

Miranda inhaled deeply. “Like what?”

The true answer was “nothing.” Bailey wanted to do nothing. For as long as she could remember, every spare moment of her life had been scheduled: after-school dance classes or vocal lessons, gymnastics, dress fittings, yoga classes, photography sittings, nutrition classes, spin classes, kickboxing. Then every weekend they would pack up the minivan and drive to some random town where Bailey would make herself unrecognizable and perform like a trained chimp. She was tired of it.

“I think maybe I’d be happier spending weekends at home with my friends. I never get to see them because we’re always running around doing pageants. And I think it would be fun to just, you know, hang out. Play games, ride my bike, read books…”

Miranda looked at her daughter like she’d farted a curse word in church. “Wait. Where is this coming from? Did something happen?” Her tone turned dark. “Did Theresa
do
something to you?”

“No, Mom. No one did anything to me. It’s just…” Bailey shrugged, “It’s just something I’ve been thinking about for a while now. I think it might be time to retire.”

Miranda shook her head. “Nine-year-olds don’t retire, Bailey. And you’ve worked too hard to just quit. Besides, a lot of famous and successful women owe their careers to pageants. Diane Sawyer was America’s Junior Miss; Sarah Palin was Second Runner-up in Miss Alaska; Halle Berry was Miss Teen All American; Oprah Winfrey was Miss Fire Prevention; Sandra Bullock was Miss Congeniality—”

“That was a movie, Mom.”

“Yes, but I think they based that on a true story, so…” Miranda gave a knowing smile. “Besides, you name me one attractive, famous woman who sat around all day reading books.”

Bailey nodded. “Yeah, that’s a really good point, but I just thought it might be nice to go out on top, you know? People love that.”

“No one loves a quitter, baby. They love winners. And you’re a winner, not a quitter.”

Bailey wasn’t surprised by her mother’s response. Miranda was defined by Bailey’s success as much as, if not more than, she was. If Bailey quit, then Miranda’s life would no longer have purpose. For Bailey to stop competing there would need to be a good reason, and since there
was
no good reason—at least not one Miranda would accept—Bailey devised a plan: She would compete for one more season, never complaining and never giving her mother reason to suspect she was unhappy. Meanwhile, she would try to gain so much weight that in the end Miranda would be begging her to retire. Bailey knew her mother couldn’t stand fat girls in pageants, and she was more than happy to sabotage her own body as long as it took her career down with it. It had been a difficult year, especially after Miranda started monitoring her food and making her work out like Madonna. But if pageants had taught her anything, it was patience and determination.

After twelve months of surreptitious binge eating, it looked as if Bailey’s plan was going to work. She was getting too big to win her age division, and Miranda would either have to let her quit or live with the shame of having a fat pageant daughter. But desperation breeds creativity, and what was more creative (or desperate) than cheating?

“Mom, I think this is a bad idea,” Bailey said again, protesting her mother’s birthdate scheme. “Everyone knows how old I am. These moms know more about their competition than they do their own husbands.”

“You’re just being dramatic,” Miranda said dismissively.

“886-98-0093.”

“What is that?”

“Starr’s Social Security number. Please don’t do this.”

But Miranda would not listen. So Bailey dropped it. She’d once spent six months dancing to Tom Jones’ “What’s New, Pussycat?” while dressed as a cat princess. At this point she was immune to embarrassment. It was just one more part of her life that was out of her control.

The ice machine was tucked away in a dimly lit alcove by the emergency exit. When her bucket was full, Bailey fed the stolen dollar into the adjacent vending machine and freed a Baby Ruth from its corkscrew restraint. It landed with a satisfying thud. Tearing off the wrapper, Bailey devoured the candy in three quick bites. Retrieving her change, she found a small treasure in the form of an extra seventy-five cents forgotten by a traveling businessman.

“Sweet,” Bailey said, her tongue thick with chocolate and caramel.

Staring at the drink machine, she considered her options, then selected a Mountain Dew, something she’d never tried but had heard good things about. She popped open the can and drained it in one stretch. The belch was deep and resonant, and Bailey smiled for the first time all weekend. In the last two minutes she had consumed more calories than Miranda allowed her in a day. It felt like Christmas. Stashing the candy wrapper and soda can in a nearby housekeeping cart, she skipped happily back to her room, ice bucket in tow, feeling more alive than she had in weeks.

*   *   *

Miranda, meanwhile, stood in front of the bathroom mirror rubbing hemorrhoid cream under her red, swollen eyes. It was a trick she picked up from a veteran pageant mom.

“That stuff was made to reduce swollen tissue,” she’d said. “How does it know if the tissue is on your face or your butt?”

Wise people fascinated her.

Miranda inhaled deeply and watched the door, wondering what was taking Bailey so long. Her stomach burned. Brixton had been up all night tossing and turning, trying to soothe her mother’s tears, and Miranda was sick about it.

“My happiness isn’t your responsibility, sweetheart,” Miranda whispered as she rubbed her belly. “Your job is just to be beautiful and perfect.”

Having her daughter’s future mapped out made pregnancy so much more enjoyable. Bailey and J.J. had both been dream pregnancies despite their respective thirty-five and forty-two hours of labor. Junior, on the other hand, had been a demon fetus. Miranda spent every morning of the first trimester spewing vomit and curse words into the toilet. She lost six pounds, which she couldn’t even enjoy because the rest of her looked so haggard. Making matters worse, persistent night terrors—including a recurring one about Santa Claus slicing off her toes with a scalpel—prevented her from getting any rest. A mild sedative was prescribed, but she lost the bottle and was too embarrassed to ask for a refill. The truth was, Ray had snuck a couple of the pills and accidentally spilled the rest down the sink.

At nineteen weeks, Miranda briefly considered terminating the pregnancy and telling people she’d miscarried. It was an appalling idea for someone so staunchly pro-life as Miranda, who in high school once had to disinvite an exchange student to a church lock-in after rumors surfaced that the girl had had an abortion back in Russia.

“It’s just so awful,” Miranda eventually confessed to the anonymous voice at the other end of the pregnancy hotline. “I believe every life is precious, but I totally understand why some people choose to kill their babies.”

In the delivery room, her new son made up for nine months of agony by sliding out without so much as a push. The doctor, a young Indian fellow whose name Miranda never learned to pronounce—Prajapati or something—was a last-minute replacement for her regular OB-GYN, who ironically was a patient in the same hospital undergoing surgery for what turned out to be inoperable prostate cancer. Dr. P, as Ray called him, snatched the newborn’s leg just millimeters before hitting the floor. The young doctor laughed and said something in Hindi, or maybe it was heavily accented English, Miranda couldn’t tell. Either way, it seemed rude. But Miranda didn’t dwell on it. The important thing was that Junior was finally, mercifully out of her body. It was still the thing she liked most about her youngest son.

Just before dawn, Miranda had given up on sleep and moved to a chair by the window. She’d hoped to watch the sunrise, but her eyes felt fat and heavy like overfull water balloons. The stillness was suffocating. Hotel room silence was different from regular silence. Five
A.M.
anywhere is abnormally quiet, but five
A.M.
in a hotel room is outer space.

After everything she’d accomplished, the idea that Bailey wasn’t worthy of being on a reality show was painful and insulting. Yes, Starr was thinner and had won more titles, but so what? Bailey was a better
person.
Shouldn’t that count for something?

When her last fingernail had been chewed to the quick, Miranda started devising a plan to get Bailey noticed by the reality show producers. Relinquishing her Little Miss crown guaranteed
some
attention, but giving up a title wasn’t as sexy as winning one. She had a real shot in the Princess category provided no one discovered she’d cheated; but even that wasn’t going to be enough. The producers needed to see that Bailey was a superstar, and that meant she had to steal the focus from Starr Kennedy. Superior Miss was their best and only chance. If Bailey beat Starr in the best overall category, essentially being named the prettiest, most talented girl in the whole pageant, it would be the greatest upset in the history of regional children’s pageanting and worthy of TV attention. It was a long shot, but not impossible.