Pretty Ugly: A Novel (3 page)
She then tried a fourteen-hundred-dollar custom-made neoprene sleep suit that was promised to sweat out excess water weight. But after a series of night terrors where Bailey dreamed she’d been thrown in the trash, followed by a two
A.M.
trip to the emergency room for dehydration, the suit was put on eBay. Despite her best efforts, the sad fact remained that Bailey was getting fat, and Miranda would just have to add that to the growing list of disappointments in her life.
She glanced again at the Glamour Time Photography ad sitting like a cherry atop a shit sundae of past-due bills. Again, Miranda tried to ignore it and looked around her kitchen wishing it were bigger. And newer. And part of a larger house. In Thoroughbred Acres. If Bailey hadn’t won that new dishwasher at the Gorgeous Belles and Beaus Pageant (Augusta, Georgia), the room would be downright shameful. Miranda briefly considered washing a few dishes, just to take her mind off her failure as a mother, but the ad wouldn’t leave her alone. Needing a distraction, Miranda decided she should start packing for the weekend, but a sharp kick in her stomach nearly took her breath away. Rubbing her belly, she realized she hadn’t eaten in nearly four hours.
“Brixton,” she said quietly, feeling her baby move inside her, “you’ve got to calm down, sweetheart. Lunch isn’t for another”—she looked at the clock—“half hour.”
Aggressively nontraditional baby names had become a trend at pageants all across the South, each one desperately transparent in an attempt to be quirky and memorable: Maelynn, Shelsea, Brinquley, LaDoris, Braethern, Gradaphene, Hendrix, Stylus, Dorsalynn, Orabelle, Gunilla, Kindle, Haylorn, JubiLeigh, Harlee, Davidson … Ridiculous all, but Brixton was different. Brixton was divinely inspired on a road trip to the Prettiest Girl in the World Pageant (Valdosta, Georgia).
Trailing a battered yellow dump truck filled with charred bricks from a razed crematorium, Miranda thought,
There must be a ton of bricks in that truck.
The words “bricks” and “ton” tumbled around in her head, and when she put them together it sounded a lot like poetry. A bumper sticker on the back of the truck asked
WHERE IS YOUR DESTINY?
and listed the Web site for one of those Six Flags Over Jesus megachurches Miranda disliked so much. Seeing the word “destiny” as the name “Brixton” formed itself in her brain was such an obvious and powerful sign from God that even an atheist would be compelled to rethink some things. Miranda decided right then and there that if she ever had another girl, she would name her Brixton Destiny Miller.
Her husband, Ray, wasn’t so sure. “Don’t you think it sounds a little … porny?”
Miranda did not.
When Bailey won her first pageant, Baby Princess Bar-B-Q Fest (Owensboro, Kentucky), at the age of seven months, Miranda told Ray she was ready to have another girl.
“All I want to do is make princesses, Ray! I want a houseful of princesses!”
Within two months she was pregnant, but when the child was born, a healthy and happy little boy they eventually named J.J. (which didn’t stand for anything), Miranda fell into a bout of postpartum depression so deep she could barely see the sun. For the first four weeks, Miranda could not bring herself to hold her baby boy for longer than a few minutes at a time. Six years later she still found it difficult to speak to him in anything longer than curt, declarative sentences. When their second son, Junior Miller, was born fourteen months later, her despair multiplied exponentially.
Spending quality time with her sons became a never-ending struggle. Little girls liked shoes, playing dress-up, having their hair and makeup done, things Miranda understood and was good at. Little boys liked frogs and dirt and farting. How could she possibly be expected to relate to that?
Every now and then, Miranda’s pastor would drop by to check in on her. They’d sit on the screened-in back porch and chat. She’d offer him a piece of pie and a glass of sweet tea, and he’d attempt to explain how the mother/son relationship is one of the most sacred in all humankind, using Jesus and Mary as his primary example.
“First of all,” she said, laughing good-naturedly, “I dare you to spend ten minutes with these boys and then compare them to Jesus. I’m kidding, of course. They’re good boys, and their father looks out for them. Not unlike Jesus. And my mother watches them a lot, too. So they’re fine. I’m not worried.”
The young pastor smiled and sipped his tea, and tried to explain that Miranda was neglecting sixty-six percent of her children.
“Well, first of all, I wouldn’t say I’m neglecting them,” she said. “I love them. I love them more than anything. They’re my children, for heaven’s sake. I just don’t have anything in common with them.”
And besides,
she thought,
when Brixton is born, that number will drop to fifty percent, which is probably pretty close to the national average.
When the ultrasound technician pointed out Brixton’s blurry gray fetal vagina, Miranda practically leapt from the table. She rushed home, dragged Bailey’s old baby pageant outfits from the attic, and meticulously laid them out on every available surface of the living room. Most of the outfits, like the furniture they lay on, were shamefully outdated and needed to be replaced, but just seeing the tiny dresses with their starched crinolines and ruffled bloomers, or the hand-stitched beadwork on the Indian headpiece and matching sequined leggings, made Miranda giddy for the first time in years.
Mistakes had been made with Bailey, obviously, but Miranda was determined not to repeat them with Brixton. And if that meant starting in utero with a strict meal schedule, then so be it.
“If Brixton learns in the womb that meals are to be eaten at specific times,” she explained to Ray, “then maybe she’ll be born with the nutritional discipline that Bailey obviously lacks.”
Ray just nodded. He’d learned to not question Miranda’s plans for the girls.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
Miranda jumped and grabbed her tummy.
“Oh, my God, Bailey!” Miranda said, catching her breath. “Don’t sneak up like that, sweetheart. You’re going to give Mommy a miscarriage.”
The nine-year-old stood in the doorway and shrugged. “Sorry.”
Her honey blond hair hung in front of her face like a veil, and she made no effort to move it. The pink Juicy sweat suit she’d won at last year’s Pride of Paducah Pageant (Paducah, Kentucky) had become a bit snug, but it perfectly matched the running shoes Miranda got free with Bailey’s gym membership. “I’m hungry.”
Miranda took a deep breath and tried to be encouraging. “I’m sure you are, sweetie, but you’re competing this weekend, and we talked about this. You’re up to seventy-five pounds. Which is a lot more than those other girls.”
“Yeah, but most of those girls have been bulimic since birth. They’ll probably never be seventy-five pounds.”
“Well, honey, not everyone can be blessed with an eating disorder,” Miranda said. “Some of us have to work to stay thin.”
Bailey pushed the hair from her face so her mother could see how genuinely appalled she was. “Mom, that’s not funny.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just a little hormonal.” Miranda sighed. “Okay. Go do your workout, twenty minutes on the elliptical, and I’ll steam you some carrots.”
The girl stared at her mother before letting her hair fall back into her face and trudged across the kitchen to a door on the far end of the utility room.
“I love you, sweetie!” Miranda called after her. “You’re a beautiful champion!”
“Yep!” Bailey called back, her fist raised in mock triumph. “I’m a winner!”
“See if you can push yourself and do twenty-
five
minutes,” Miranda yelled, but her daughter slammed the door, cutting her off.
Bailey took a deep breath and locked the door behind her. Kicking off her shoes, she dug her toes deep into the thick white shag carpeting and looked out into a sea of rhinestones. Every surface was covered with trophies, sashes, plaques, and crowns. In one corner, an old toy chest was filled with smaller, lesser trophies that didn’t warrant prime visibility: Best Hair (First Runner-up), Best Smile, Daviess County Second-Grade Spelling Bee Champion. Framed photographs of Bailey being crowned, holding fans of cash, and posing with “celebrity” judges (regional TV news anchors) covered the walls. The ceiling was a rainbow of contestant ribbons. It looked like the rec room of an elegant hoarder. The only nonpageant items were an old futon and a SOLE E35 elliptical trainer Miranda got from a neighbor who’d caught her husband cheating and was giving all his stuff away.
The asymmetrical room was an obvious add-on, made with cheaper materials and less skill than the rest of the house. It would have made a decent walk-in closet if it had been connected to any of the bedrooms, but instead it grew off the utility room like an architectural tumor.
Bailey set the elliptical machine for a twenty-five-minute workout and sat on the floor next to it. A large dusty trophy from the Little Miss Sass and Sand Princess Pageant (Gulf Shores, Alabama) sat in the back of the room: an anonymous peak in a mountain range of awards. Bailey carefully twisted off the bottom, and a Snickers bar fell into her lap. The elliptical machine beeped impatiently, and Bailey started pushing the foot pedal with her hand. The distance and calorie counter slowly began to rise as Bailey tore into the candy bar, jolting her body with the satisfying rush of sugar and defiance. From under the futon, she pulled a Kindle she’d won in an online photo contest and swiped to page seventy-eight of
Looking for Alaska
. A poster-sized glamour shot—Bailey’s most recent pageant photo—looked down at her from across the room, and Bailey stared back, mocking it as she finished the candy bar in an earnest attempt to destroy the girl in the photo from the inside out.
Meanwhile, Miranda took a worn overnight bag from the cabinet over the washing machine and caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror. Her highlights needed some serious attention. Her hairdresser, Garo (who also styled Channel 7’s popular new weather girl, Giselle Lopez-Beard), had overdone the blond streaks in Miranda’s mocha hair, making her look like a jaundiced zebra. Thank God her body still rocked. Despite having three kids, her boobs were holding up pretty well. Having one small B-cup and one full C was a constant source of embarrassment, but pregnancy rounded them both out to a satisfying and nearly symmetrical D. At seven months, Miranda had barely gained twenty pounds. Although she was dangerously close to her lifetime high of one forty-seven, she was determined not to reach it.
“Not bad,” she said, rubbing her belly. She turned to the side and shot a quick, furtive look at her butt. Every pregnancy had expanded her backside a little bit. She didn’t like to dwell on it, but she did want to be aware of any changes. Miranda Ford wasn’t dumpy, but at five foot four, she certainly could not afford to get any wider. One more baby and she would likely have to permanently go up to a size six, and the thought of that was more depressing than having another boy.
Tossing the overnight bag (substandard swag from the even more substandard Little Miss Kentuckiana Sweetheart Pageant—Jeffersonville, Indiana) onto the kitchen table, Miranda shook her head in disgust. “Second Runner-up,” she muttered, still not over it. “Never trust a judge from Indiana.”
Pulling Bailey’s socks and underwear from the dryer, Miranda shoved them unfolded into the bag, then stopped. Even with something important to occupy her mind, she couldn’t stop thinking about that ludicrous photography ad.
“Are your children
sexy
enough?” she practically spat. “How dare they?”
Storming to the freezer, Miranda reached past the tube of frozen tapeworm eggs (a gift from a pageant mom whose own daughter had experienced an unfortunate weight gain), and pulled out a three-pound block of ice that encased the family’s last usable credit card. A financial adviser had suggested she and Ray freeze their cards to help reduce impulse spending and rein in their mounting debt.
“When you want to use your card, just set the ice on the counter and let it thaw,” the man advised from behind his four-thousand-dollar oak desk. “It should take about ninety minutes. If after that time you still want to make your purchase, then go ahead. If not, it probably wasn’t that important.”
Miranda put the chunk of ice in the microwave and set it on High for three minutes. Brixton kicked. “Ooh, sweetie, did you think Mommy was making your lunch?” She chuckled, patted her bump, and checked the clock by the fridge. “Eighteen more minutes.”
Fishing her phone from her purse, Miranda called the number at the bottom of the ad and sighed, disappointed in herself and humanity. As the phone rang, she fiddled with the magnetic poetry on her fridge, picking through limitless combinations until she’d written:
i hate stupid people
“Glamour Time Photography Studio. How can I help you?”
“Yes, my name is Miranda Miller and I saw your ad in the pageant newsletter? I’d like to schedule a sitting for my daughter.”
Bailey may have been getting fat, but there was still a chance she could be sexy.
Ray Miller peeled off his white New Balance cross trainers and relished the cool air on his damp socks. The pedometer clipped to the waistband of his scrubs read eight point six miles. He was too tired to process that number, but he knew it was nowhere near a record. It was Ray’s fifth consecutive twelve-hour shift, and he couldn’t remember most of his day. But that was okay. He was just happy to have something to do.
As he added up his total mileage for the week, a familiar voice screeched from the intercom: “Nurse Miller, please report to the ER. Nurse Miller to the ER.”
“Fuck.” He sighed heavily and considered slipping out the back door by the used-needle incinerator where he used to smoke, back when he smoked, back when he did nice things for himself. Instead, he slid his swollen feet back into his warm, moist shoes and stood up. Resetting his pedometer, he laced his fingers behind his head and slowly twisted his back, exhaling when he felt the deeply satisfying pop of his spine.
