Chapter 2

Genius grabs her phone from her back pocket to check the time. “Okay, ready for the interview? Of course you are. I have to go out front, so finish up, breathe, do some zen things in your head, and I’ll catch you from the audience. I need to make sure the photographer is primed and ready.”

She darts out of the room, and the loss of her energetic presence smacks me back into reality. The jittery nerves return, but I tell myself to keep calm. I can do this. I just need to focus.

Around me, other girls are getting ready, and the room is filled with the scent of perfume and hair spray, accompanying the chatter and laughter.

I turn back to the mirror and breathe in. My fingers tingle and my stomach wants to eat itself. I’m pretty sure if I gave my feet control of my brain, they’d make a run for the exit.

I sigh my breath out. Would Mom be proud of me, being here? I know she hated this idea, hated anything to do with being in the limelight or even sitting in one place too long.

Like Genius, she claimed pageants were outdated vehicles to keep women down and fighting each other, buying into the patriarchy’s ideas that females should be thin and pretty and on display.

If you ask me, though, I think she just didn’t want me out there for everyone to ogle over. For some reason, to her, there was always some bogeyman hiding in the dark—at least, that’s what it seemed like. She made us live in the shadows, and projected her fears onto me.

Pageants embody all the things she hated, but they’re also the perfect place for me to make a name, to be seen, a stepping stone to do good. There are scholarships and important connections, and I want to use my degree in ways that count.

I sit at the vanity and pretend to fiddle with my hair. Unlike my friend, I’m not used to wearing makeup and I’m much more comfortable in a ponytail than curls, so I don’t dare touch it.

It’s been two years since Mom died in the accident, and I miss her. Overbearing, overprotective, never able to sit still, both capable and nervy, able to pack a house in record time, she was something special. Super smart. She could’ve done anything if she’d just sat in one place long enough.

A balding man with watchful eyes comes in, his lined face splitting into a smile when he spies me. Spinning in my chair, I grin back, just in time to be swept into a hug that could crush bone.

“Flower Power,” he says. “You look… Your momma would be so proud.”

“Uncle Max!” I laugh, gulping back the burn of tears in my throat. “Don’t ruin the dress.”

He lets me go and steps back, making me turn in a circle with his hand. “Oh yeah, definitely proud. I’m proud, too. You’re going to go out there and win.”

There’s something there in his eyes that tells me differently. Not that he thinks I can’t, but like Mom, he doesn’t want me to. He took over for her when she died, letting me stay in his apartment, trying to talk me out of joining the pageant scene. Thankfully, after some begging, he’s accepted it. Under one stipulation: he gets to go to every event.

I take in a breath. “Do you really think? I mean, I know you both didn’t want me here.”

“Honey,” he says. “She had her reasons for not wanting you in the spotlight. You know that.”

Fear, that was the reason. She was always looking over her shoulder, afraid. No roots, no long friendships, no past to revisit. Just a string of places and memories of Mom and Uncle Max.

I press my lips together and nod.

Maybe that’s why I want to be an ambassador, why I want to help the displaced and those whose lives have been torn apart from things they have no control over. I don’t know. It just… speaks to me.

Max is chattering about my dress, about how pretty I look, how much I look like Mom. “You’re going places, Rosalind. She’s watching over you.

Probably crying.”

I roll my eyes. “Mom wasn’t a big crier.”

“That you saw.” He laughs and gives me a side hug. “Don’t want to mess up that make up. Not that you need it.”

“You’re so biased.”

“No, I just speak the truth.” Uncle Max steps back. “Scout’s honor. Now, I’m going out there to cheer you on. Go get that tiara.”

When he turns and leaves, a few of the girls follow behind him. That means it’s just about time for the interviews to start, and I should make my way to the stage, too. I smooth my hands down the front of the dress. I don’t have it in me to mourn the mauve one. Genius is a genius—this dress is everything she said and more. It’s not going to win for me—that’s my job, but I know the pageant circle well enough to know it’s going to help by turning focus onto me.

I lift my chin high and head out, trying to embrace the confidence a woman who wears this type of dress is meant to feel.

A cue light flashes from the rafters above, hidden from the audience but visible to anyone in the wings, and one by one, names are called as girls make their way on stage. I wait patiently, nervously, hearing the buzzing of voices but not really listening to the words. It’ll only distract me, make me question my own answers, so I focus on what Genius said—I’m meant to be here.

I can’t believe I’ve made it this far, to the final fifteen. Now, I’ve got my chance to make it to the final three, as long as I nail my interview.

Out of everything my unconventional and weirdly sheltered life has taught me, the greatest one is that I have mad public speaking skills. I’m good at sounding confident and cool, like I know more than I might. I’m good at presenting myself in a certain way to bring focus to what I want.

I got this.

The signal flashes above me again.

“Rosalind Germaine,” the announcer calls, and my heart beats a little faster in anticipation.

My turn.

I square my shoulders and step out into the blinding spotlight.