Novel Square
Passenger Princess: Chapter 1
I think I’m going to vomit.
That’s the only thing going through my mind as I stand under bright lights in a dress my best friend made that weighs as much as a small child, my makeup a full centimeter thick, my feet numb from towering heels, and my hair sprayed within an inch of its life.Text content © NôvelDrama.Org.
I’m going to vomit, and this is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.
“Third runner-up is…Miss Oklahoma!”
Kristie McGee is sweet, but she stuttered during the interview section, and, from what the girls in the dressing room whispered to me about, that’s worse than a death sentence. Her fake smile doesn’t crack as she gazes at the camera before her light goes out, leaving just three women lit on the stage.
My hands robotically move in small, gentle claps—the only acceptable kind on this stage. It’s small enough, you’re barely even moving, and no real sound is made, but like everything else on this stage, it’s for show. To say, look what good sports they are!
And although I’ve been framed many ways over the last four months, from a trailblazer to a disgrace and humiliation to the apparently sacred world of pageantry, no one can say I’m not a good sport.
I breathe carefully, trying not to splinter the dress Harper literally sewed me into or show my nerves on my face. At least three cameras at different locations are pointed at each remaining contestant, and any tiny shift in my face holds the opportunity to be picked apart and made into a clip or a meme.
What’s worse than losing Miss Americana?
Becoming a meme and losing Miss Americana.
So my entire body remains stiff, my smile wide and plastered in place
“Second runner up…” Third place isn’t bad—you still get a cash prize, but it’s not as much as second or first, and you don’t have the same sponsorship opportunities thereafter.
And you don’t go on tour.
“Miss New York!”
I allow a hint of disappointment to show through my mask, a frowned upon move someone will probably be annoyed by. What else is new, considering nearly every move I’ve made since getting into the Miss Americana pageant has been against the grain? But since everyone knows Lily and I are friends, I think it’s worth the slight show of emotion.
Making friends here was, admittedly, a surprise to me. Part of me thought all of these women would resent me—the idiot amateur who somehow made it to the big times, the woman who joined just to try to drum up business for her friends. And yes, a handful here feel precisely that way about me, but there are even more women who I would call a true friend now.
Lily is one of them, and her coming in third saddens me. If someone was going to beat me, I’d want it to be her. I wish I could hug her, tell her she did amazing, and we’ll get drunk together later and talk shit. Instead, I’m gliding (pageant queens don’t simply walk, of course) to the center of the stage, where I grasp Anne’s hand between mine and smile wide at her.
It’s a fake smile, of course, because she’s the absolute worst—the kind of pageant queen that’s a cliché of herself. Snotty and unkind to everyone in her orbit behind closed doors, but shining and perfect to the audience.
Her answers are always about girlhood and team spirit and cheering on one another, but as soon as the cameras are off, she’s all underhanded gibes under her breath about extra weight or what people are wearing.
She’s toxic.
She’s also part of the reason I decided to take this pageant seriously.
When I somehow made it past the auditions to become Miss Americana New Jersey and thus entered the nationwide Miss Americana pageant, I fully intended to just have a good time. Another crazy experience I could tell my grandkids about one day and an opportunity to scream about my friends’ businesses from the rooftops.
Until the first joint press event introducing the official Miss Americana contestants for the year when Anne gave me the most wretched once-over. “Strange that they’re letting anybody into this pageant these days.”
If there’s one thing about me you should know, it’s that I love proving people wrong. Because of that single moment, I worked my ass off and spent the three months between being accepted and the actual pageant learning everything I could about the industry, about what it would take to beat her. I didn’t care if she got last place and I was second to last, I just wanted to beat her.
It wasn’t a one-sided beef, of course. From that moment, Anne has done everything and anything in her power to discredit me. She talks shit about me in the underhanded mean girl way she’s perfected in public and straight up ignores me in private, acting like I was invisible and not worth the dust under her red bottoms.
But now her eyes are gleaming and hopeful, and she’s smiling wide at me like we’re long-lost sisters, a look reflected on my face as well.
Again, it’s what’s expected from the show and what we’re contracted to deliver. If there’s one thing the Miss Americana pageant respects, it’s tradition, and we all had to sign a mile-long contract threatening legal action if we stepped out of line.
The rules and guidelines range from how we should address hot topic items to the press (i.e., divert and ignore) to promising to uphold the vow for the reigning Miss Americana to remain single for her entire term, since apparently a dating or, gasp, married Miss Americana is just unsightly.
“First runner up is…” Regina, the pageant runner, says, holding a thick white envelope. Last year’s Miss Americana stands beside her with a broad smile, holding a near-comically large crown on a pillow for the first-place winner.
It should be noted here Regina Miller also hates my guts.
It wasn’t like with Anne, where she hated me from the very start. No, I think she thought I’d be a fun way to get press, the “normal” girl they could promote as a, See! Even you could be Miss Americana! I was a novelty, a novice who was fun to watch but never going to win.
Until the public fell in love with me.
The largest chunk of points in the final top ten of the pageant is a public vote, accounting for just over one-third of your total score. The contestant with the most votes gets the full thirty-five points, second place gets twenty-five, and so on. When social media and news outlets found out about the refreshingly authentic (their words, not mine) contestant, people became interested in the pageant, which has been waning in popularity since the early 2000s. According to one article, the advertising costs for this final competition are on par with the fucking Super Bowl.
So, while Regina believes I’m making a mockery of the pageant and going against everything its decades of tradition stand for, I’ve also sparked interest in the dying industry, so she’s had to learn to play nice with me.
Begrudgingly.
Regina cracks the golden wax seal on the envelope with a wide smile, pulls out the expensive card stock, and gazes at the name on the paper.
And for a split second, I can see it.
The tiniest crack in her well-practiced pageant face reveals the truth: disappointment and irritation.
My stomach flips.
Then it’s gone nearly as quickly as it appeared, and she’s turning towards the main camera, smiling wide and saying, “Miss Utah!”
This time, I don’t have to fake the look on my face as it goes slack, my jaw near the floor.
Anne’s smile falls, and she clearly mouths what the fuck, but I can barely focus on that, instead filing it in a mental bank I’ll open later and watch when I need a good giggle.
Because if Utah got second place, that means…
“Making our winner of the Miss Americana pageant, Ava Bordeaux!”
The shaking of my hands held in Miss Utah’s isn’t part of the facade. Instead, it is unbearably real as reality crashes in: I’m about to go on the craziest adventure of my life. I’ll travel, explore, and meet so many amazing people, all because I took a chance on myself and wanted my best friends to succeed.
My body goes into autopilot as I bend at the knees a bit for someone—I can’t even focus long enough to know who—to slip on the bedazzled sash as last year’s Miss Americana secures the crown on my head and another assistant hands me a bouquet of flowers.
I try to remember what I’m supposed to do, how I’m supposed to act, and how not to let imposter syndrome creep up. I didn’t plan for this. In my hyperfixation-studying of the pageant, I never thought I’d actually win this thing.
The panic creeps in because, what am I doing? How did I get here? How do I tell them they’ve made a colossal mistake, I can’t—
But then my best friends in the very front row catch my eye, cheering like absolute psychos, Jules sobbing, and Harper jumping excitedly.
And I remember what I’ve been saying for the past three months: inspiring the followers I accidentally accumulated and using it as a platform to encourage women and girls to bet on themselves, take a chance on themselves, and do one thing that scares them every day.
Shoulders back, tits out, bitch.
You were born for great things.