Pretty Ugly: A Novel (28 page)
Courtney then turned to the boys, who were rubbing their dirty socks in each other’s faces and laughing.
“Boys! Calm down! Here, eat this candy and be quiet!”
Nice, Joan. Way to keep your cool. You’re going to be great.
“Thank you,” Joan said out loud.
Courtney turned back to her. “Did you say something?”
“Yes. But I was talking to Jesus.”
Courtney looked at Joan as if she were the cutest thing in the world which, incidentally, she thought was a koala bear in a bow tie.
“That’s so sweet. Tell him I said ‘hey.’”
Hey?
Joan thought.
How dare she! Just who in the hell—
Easy now.
Suppressing an impulse to forcibly cast the demon through the window, Joan bowed her head and began to pray, not speaking again until they arrived in Chattanooga.
On the road, Courtney also became abnormally quiet. Silence was an ability Ray knew the girl possessed, although he had never been around her when she chose to use it. Something was up, and he didn’t like it.
The boys had fallen asleep just outside of Nashville, and Bailey (who had effortlessly lost ten pounds upon retirement) drifted off soon after. Brixton sat calmly in her car seat, staring out the window, wanting for nothing, enthralled by the world speeding past her window. And Miranda was deep inside
The Devil Wears Prada
audio book thanks to the noise-canceling headphones Bailey had won at the 173rd Annual Princess of the Confederacy Pageant and Cotillion (Charleston, South Carolina). With everyone sufficiently occupied, Courtney began composing her grand confession, pausing every so often to look up at Ray. Occasionally, they would catch each other’s eye in the rearview mirror, and she sensed he was trying to communicate with her. There was an impatient desperation in his stare, followed by a hopeful acknowledgment that she understood what he was trying to say. But it didn’t matter what he had to say, not anymore. Soon they would be together and all this childish nonsense would be behind them.
Just then, Miranda let the headphones fall around her neck and took Ray’s hand.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“Hm?” he said, turning from the rearview mirror.
“I said, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’”
“Oh. Good. So am I,” he said, looking out at the road in front of him. “This is going to be fun.”
She squeezed his hand and gave him the knowing smile of a woman who’d been married for a long time.
Courtney took their exchange as a personal affront.
Unbelievable,
she thought. After everything she’d done, how accommodating she’d been of everyone else’s feelings, for Ray to openly mock
her
feelings like this was beyond the pale. Well, she wasn’t going to stand for it, not anymore. Angrily, she flipped back several pages of her confession and furiously scratched out the words “I hope we can still be friends.”
“Oh, my God, no!” Miranda cried when she entered the parking lot of the Chattanooga Marriott and Convention Center. Parked prominently by the front entrance was a large production truck adorned with the TLC logo. All the hope and optimism she’d been filled with over the past few weeks was instantly forced from her body like air from an end-of-summer beach ball.
Ray let out a sigh that sounded enough like the word “fuck” to make Jr. and J.J. giggle. It was the only word the boys said for the next thirteen and a half minutes.
When Miranda reached the hotel’s huge sliding doors and saw the familiar shooting notice taped to the window, her throat tightened into an acidic knot.
“What more do these people want from me?” she asked no one in particular. They weren’t content with stealing her show and using it to make her look like a crazy person in front of the entire world. Now they were going to ruin what should be one of the most important events of Brixton’s life.
“Haven’t I been punished enough?” Miranda asked Ray, who nodded and kicked himself for not keeping that bag of pills closer. Miranda had cried an ocean over this goddamned reality show. So much, in fact, Ray had worked up a speech similar to the one he gave his dead patients’ families.
“You know, Miranda, no matter how much we prepare ourselves for disappointment, we’re never really ready for it—”
Miranda waved him off. She didn’t want to hear it. She closed her eyes and held her breath, hoping to stem the onset—or at least the severity—of her tears. And when she exhaled, there was … nothing. Not a single tear. There wasn’t any feeling of sadness, only the memory of it.
It’s just a silly TV show,
she thought. And as if she had uttered some mystical incantation, all the anger and jealousy and hurt went away, leaving her with a feeling she hadn’t known her entire pageant career: perspective. Her shoulders started to burn with relaxation like they did when she drank wine too fast. Miranda didn’t want a TV show anymore. She’d been given something greater than fame and fortune. She’d been given an opportunity to reprioritize her life. Miranda Ford Miller was a different person now. She was the mother of a special needs child pageant contestant, and that, in turn, made
her
special. She didn’t need some stupid reality show to tell her that.
Clutching Ray’s hand, Miranda opened her mouth to tell her husband about what had just happened to her—the epiphany that would forever change the dynamic of their family—when a short-haired woman clutching an iPad marched up and smiled.
“Miranda Miller!”
There was something familiar about her. Miranda checked her outfit: designer jeans, heels, fleece vest. Obviously, she wasn’t a pageant representative, and she wasn’t wearing enough makeup to be one of the mothers. She appeared to be some kind of professional woman, triggering Miranda’s instinct to be extra cautious.
“Yes?”
“Oh, thank God.” the woman said with the exaggerated sense of exhaustion Miranda often noticed in such women. “You are a hard woman to find. I’m Caroline Hayek. I’m a producer from TLC.”
“Oh.” Miranda took a step back. “Right. That’s where I know you from. You were in Knoxville. Have a nice day.” Miranda turned and led her family into the lobby of the hotel.
Caroline followed them inside, yelling, “Miranda, wait!”
“What do you want?” Miranda said, snapping back on her heels.
“Well, first of all,” Caroline said in a slight Southern accent Miranda hadn’t noticed before, “I just want to say that if our promo brought you or your family any unwanted attention, then I sincerely apologize. We had literally two thousand hours of footage to slog through and that thirty seconds was by far the best. When you see the show you’ll know what I mean. So I apologize if it embarrassed you,
but
… I have to say, the response to it has been unlike anything we’ve ever seen.”
“Well,” Miranda said, managing to sound both polite and sarcastic, “congratulations on your success, Ms. Hayek. I’m sure you’ve earned it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my daughter needs to eat.” Miranda gestured to Brixton, who was just beginning to stir in Courtney’s arms.
“Oh, my goodness, is this Brixton?”
Miranda instinctively stepped in front of this person and snatched her daughter from Courtney. “It is, and how did you know her name?”
“You’re kidding, right? Brixton is all anyone’s talking about!”
“
Who’s
talking about her?” Miranda asked louder than she meant to.
“Everybody! And that’s why I want to talk to you. Can we sit down?”
“No. What do you want?”
Caroline took a deep breath. “Miranda, I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but you’ve become a role model for mothers all over the world. In thirty seconds you demonstrated how completely unafraid you are to stand up for your kids, even use violence if necessary.”
Miranda shifted uncomfortably.
“And now with Brixton you’re saying, ‘I don’t care if she
is
different, my daughter is just as beautiful as your “normal” child!’ It’s
so
brave, I can’t even tell you.
I’m
inspired, and I don’t even have kids!” Caroline laughed, as if not having kids wasn’t something she thought about a thousand times a day. “And I think if we take that in-your-face, ‘mother bear’ attitude of yours and combine it with the bravery you’ve demonstrated with Brixton—and I assume will continue to demonstrate—then I think we’ve got ourselves a show.”
Miranda raised her eyebrows and leaned in closer, assuming she’s misheard. “Excuse me?”
Caroline laughed again. A
real
human reaction from a
real
human being. Priceless.
This
was why she produced reality shows!
“Certainly at some point you’ve thought about what a great show your family would make. A former pageant queen has a daughter who becomes a pageant champion, then gives birth to a special needs baby and enters
her
in pageants, I mean … it’s the reason reality TV was invented!” Caroline took a breath and gave Miranda her best saleswoman smile. “So, what do you say? Are you interested?”
The words had barely left Caroline’s lips before Miranda blurted, “Absolutely! Yes! I’m interested. We’re all interested. Aren’t we, Ray?”
What? No
. He was not interested. The last thing he wanted was for his family’s problems to be someone else’s disposable entertainment. He was perfectly aware of how fucked-up his life was, and he didn’t need someone else distilling it into bite-sized episodes and spoon-feeding it to bored housewives so they could feel better about their own shitty lives. Ray had never seen a reality show that treated its subjects with a shred of dignity, and even though his family was undoubtedly flawed, they still deserved better than to be on television. Hell, if a thirty-second promo could make Miranda cry for six days, what would ten half hours to do her? Ray wanted to tell Caroline Hayek to take her show and shove it up her Pilates’d ass. But when he looked at Miranda, all he could see was the overwhelming joy of someone whose dream had finally come true. It would’ve been cruel to take that away from her. He’d taken so much from her already. How could he say no?
“Is this what you want?” he asked. “I mean, what you
really
want?”
Miranda considered her recent epiphany, then promptly dismissed it as postpartum hormones.
“I think so. Yes. Yes, I do. It would be so good for Brixton, too. She could be a role model for other girls like her. Don’t you want that?”
He sighed.
Not really,
he thought.
I just want her to be normal and happy. But if that’s not possible, then at least you should be happy.
He shrugged. “Sure.”
Miranda squealed with joy, kissed Ray on the cheek, and whispered in his ear, “Thank you so much. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Caroline felt like she’d finally won the progressive slot jackpot at Mandalay Bay. This kind of stuff made her horny, and in that moment she was one light breeze away from orgasm. After six years writing needless celebrity news for E! (“You can’t spell ‘tasteless’ without E!”), Caroline left to work as an associate producer on several unsuccessful reality shows, including
Famous Stamos
and
Thai the Knot. This,
however, was the kind of show she had wanted to do all along: quality, uplifting family programming.
“So, Miranda, if you have some time this evening I’ve got a contract I’d like you to look over, and if you think everything’s okay, we can start shooting tonight. I’m in room five fourteen, come by around eight?”
Miranda was vibrating. “I’ll be there.”
“Then I’ll see you later. Nice to meet you, Ray.”
Ray nodded and extended his hand, but Caroline was already darting across the lobby, her face in her iPad.
Barely visible under a crush of hanging bags, pillows, and children, Courtney stood by silently as the Millers were handed a brand-new life. Just like that, Miranda got everything she’d ever wanted.
How is that fair?
she thought.
Why don’t good things ever happen to me?
She took a deep breath and allowed Miranda her moment. Soon enough, Miranda would know how it felt to have something important taken away from her.
“Courtney! Courtney! Is this yours?”
Courtney looked outside and saw a small bare butt pressed up against the window. “J.J., pull your pants up and get in here right now!”
J.J. ran inside, zipping up his pants and laughing. Courtney sighed and pushed the overloaded baggage cart through the hotel lobby completely unaware that Joan was watching her every move, determining the best time to kill her.
For the first time in its storied history, the Chattanooga Christmas Pageant and Winter Spectacular was being held in November. This was to accommodate Uncle Wes, who had finally made good on his promise to Paulo to spend the entire month of December in Rio. Thanksgiving was still a week away, but the lobby of the Chattanooga Marriott already looked like Santa’s Village. A dozen fake Christmas trees (one decorated with tiny menorahs and Stars of David) circled the perimeter of the lobby, imposing good cheer on all who entered. Thousands of twinkle lights blinked and flashed in festive synchronization with the generic holiday standards bellowing from hidden speakers. A giant column decorated in red-and-white candy cane stripes rose from behind the reservation desk like Santa Claus’s erect penis.
“Happy Holidays from the Chattanooga Marriott and Convention Center,” said a bland, oily-skinned woman from behind the desk. “Are you checking in?”
“You bet we are! Miranda Miller and family,” Miranda squealed.
The woman ran the Millers’ credit card, and Miranda was reminded why the whole family never came to pageants together. “Five hundred and fifty dollars for three rooms?” Her voice rose at the end like a community theater actor instructed to play ‘incredulous.’ “The arrogance of these hotels charging so much.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the clerk replied. “Do you still want the rooms?”
Miranda sighed. “I suppose,” she said, confident that “the network” would pick up the bill. “I guess if it weren’t for you guys we’d have no place to stay, would we?”
