The guardedness of Mary Moore’s expression relaxed. “That’s really nice of you.”
I walked over to her getting-ready station. My fingers weren’t as practiced as my mom’s, and it took me a couple false starts. But after a few minutes, I stepped back to admire my handiwork. It didn’t look as picture-perfect as mine did, but it had a looser, more natural movement to it that I almost felt looked better.
Mary Moore looked at herself in the mirror, then turned to me. “It looks really beautiful. Thank you.” Her voice sounded almost disbelieving, and it occurred to me that this had been sort of like a test. She probably hadn’t planned to keep her hair this way. She’d just wanted to see if I was exaggerating my skill. After all, her own mother was still circulating the room and could have fixed it for her if she thought I’d done a bad job.
“Of course,” I told her, pleased with myself that I’d passed herlittle test. “I can show you some more styles she’s taught me next time if you want.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. But something in my face must have convinced her to continue. “You know, everyone’s nervous. We’re all just faking it.”
I was startled for a second, before breaking out into a grin. She smiled back, and we both laughed softly. It felt like this huge secret she’d let me in on, in exchange for helping her. Or maybe it was a lie—but it was a lie I believed, and needed to hear.
Then, before we could say anything else, I got called to the main stage for my performance. The stage was set up in an adjoining ballroom.
Backstage, the hairstyle my mom had spent so much time on pulled at my scalp, suddenly too tight. My head felt like it might tip all the way back if I didn’t make a concerted effort to keep myself upright. My false eyelashes tugged at my eyelids, and the sequins of my costume dug into my skin. The anxiety that I’d felt all morning began to peak.
When they announced my name, a stagehand shoved me gently onto the stage. I blinked against the stage lights and forced a smile to my face. The audience fell quiet.
The first few bars of my music started, and I launched into my routine. My steps were on the fast side, my nerves propelling my body through the movements as I tendu’d and leapt and twirled. I felt totally stiff as I moved from one step to the next—gone was the fluidity I normally felt when I danced. I reminded myself to keep smiling, though, especially as I got to the most difficult section of the routine.
The music crescendoed as I sashayed across the stage, and somehow, the sashay carried me one beat too long. For all the practiceI’d done, I’d neglected to account for all the adrenaline coursing through me. I was off by a full count. I’d finished my fouetté too late, and totally lost my place in the music. I froze.
I stared out at the crowd, suddenly mortifyingly aware of all those eyes. My breath got tight in my chest, and I could feel myself starting to panic. Then, through the lights of the stage, I finally spotted my mom. She was right there in the third row. Her eyes were wide with concern, but she must have realized I could see her, so she gave me a thumbs-up and mouthedkeep going. Somehow, the simple reminder snapped me back to attention. In that moment, I found my place again in the choreography and threw myself back into the steps. As I caught back up with the music, I risked one more glance out at the audience. Mom was watching every move, and this time, she was beaming. A smile so genuine and bright and proud that I almost didn’t recognize it. I hadn’t seen her smile like that in a long time.
I’d seen the fake one she gave to people when they asked how she was feeling or how her recovery was going, but this one was different. It wasn’t strained around the edges. It just burst free, as easy as a wildflower. And with it, that same easiness flowed through me, and the dance became organic again, like when I practiced it at home. I finished with a triple pirouette into my final pose, and the sound of applause washed over me with relief.
THE PAGEANT WENT ONfor a long time. After the talent portion, we had the evening gown portion. By the time they were announcing placements, I was completely exhausted from the adrenaline crash. The judges read off the second and first runners-up, and my namewasn’t called. For a moment, I wondered if my screw-up might’ve gotten overlooked, and somehow maybeIwas the winner. My face muscles hurt, but I kept smiling even as my cheeks started to shake.
They called the winner.
It was Mary Moore Musgrove.
I hadn’t placed at all. Even though there were tons of other girls who didn’t place, either, I was still a little shocked. All that work… for nothing.
Mom met me backstage and pulled me into a hug. “You did so good, hon.”
I couldn’t help fishing for the correction though. “Even though I lost my count?”
Mom’s hands came to my shoulders, and she squeezed them with a smile. “Even then.” She looked past me to the winners still onstage getting their pictures taken. “That Musgrove girl had the same hair as you.”
“Yeah, I helped her with it.”
“That was very kind of you, Nikki.” Mom looked back to me with a small smile on her face. “But next time…” She paused as if fighting with herself. “Next time, maybe keep that edge for yourself.”
She curled an arm around me as we left the ballroom. “I’m proud of you. You know, those other girls havelotsof experience. You just need to get a few more under your belt, and next time,you’llbe the one wearing that crown.”
Next time, I thought.
I’dhaveto do better next time.
I wanted to see that smile again.
11
IWAKE UP WITHa cramped neck, in near-total darkness, completely disoriented. I’m so thrown off, I jolt to the side—and end up falling off the bed. Luckily, it’s less than a foot from the floor. Which is when I remember: I’m sleeping on an air mattress.
In a closet.
Okay, not a closetexactly. At some point, this tiny, windowless space between the sewing room and the attic stairs was actually a small playroom. But as we got older, and I got into the pageant scene in earnest, it became our costume closet.
