The Beauty Queen
Author: Susan Beth Pfeffer
Date: 1974-01-01 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Young Adult
Description: Playing the role of a happy pageant winner is not exactly the acting career Kit had in mind Kit Carson keeps trying to tell people that she didn’t do anything. All she did was put on a bathing suit in front of the judges, and suddenly she’s a beauty contest winner. It’s true that the money will come in handy—new dresses and college educations don’t grow on trees when your mom is a nurse and your dad doesn’t always remember to help out—but all Kit really wants is to try out her dream of being an actress. Not a famous one, just successful enough to have a career in a modest theater and make a li
Publisher: Open Road Media
Rights: All rights are reserved.

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The Beauty Queen

Susan Beth Pfeffer

To David, Ellen, and Michael Conford

Chapter 1

The scene was bizarre. We were at Morris Lake (“Great Oaks’ Great Lake,” actually an oversized pond), fifteen of us, wearing tank bathing suits, all bought for the Miss Great Oaks Beauty Contest. There we were, sitting on a shaky wooden stage, while Jack Davis, who ran the local turn-the-other-way-when-underage-kids-come-in bar, was singing “My Wild Irish Rose.” On his right were twenty middle-aged men, dressed in white slacks and yellow shirts, while their leader floated in a sea of ostrich feathers, pasted all over his shirt and pants, and strange cardboard growths, meant to represent wings. The yellow-shirt-and-feather contingent was from one of the less exclusive fraternal groups. They were at the contest to play “The Star-Spangled Banner,” but they were paying more attention to us than to their instruments. The town’s American Legion post sponsored the contest. They were sitting in full uniform in the first four rows on the other side of the lake, ogling us. With them were various relatives, like my mother, and boy friends of the contestants (mine fortunately was at home, and completely ignorant of what was going on), as well as the newspaper’s chief photographer. The Miss Great Oaks Beauty Contest was an event of great local importance. I couldn’t see why. The contestants were just ordinary girls, mostly kids I’d gone to high school with, but not the smart kids, or the rich ones. Just the crowd I would have been in if I hadn’t been so involved in theater.

But given the excitement level in Great Oaks, it wasn’t that surprising the contest was such an event. Except for an occasional car crash, very little happened. It wasn’t so much a small town as a dull one. Even though there was a fair-sized college there, the usual town-gown problems didn’t break through the wall of boredom. The most exciting moment in the lives of most Great Oaks residents was when they left town.

Sitting next to me was Sharon Reeves. Sharon and I had been in the same gym class. Except for that, we had nothing in common.

“I’m surprised you’re here,” she whispered, since we weren’t supposed to talk during the entertainment.

“My mother talked me into it,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “Jimmy said I should.”

Jimmy, I remembered vaguely, was Sharon’s steady. By now, he was probably her fiancé.

“Oh well,” I said, “fifty bucks is nothing to sneeze at.”

At which, Mr. Ostrich Feather sneezed loudly, causing a minor flurry. Sharon and I started giggling, and Mr. Davis, who was emceeing the affair, turned to us and said “Shush.” So Sharon and I stopped talking.

The whole thing was my mother’s idea. She had tried to talk me into it the year before, but I’d absolutely refused. This year, she was more persistent.

We were sitting in our living room, as ugly a room as I know. The furniture is left over from my mother’s married days, when she and my father bought everything on credit. The credit and my father had long since run out, but the furniture remained. It hadn’t been much to start out with, but years of neglect and abuse had made it even worse-looking. The sofa needed a new slipcover. The stuffing was coming out of the arm of one chair. The bookcase had been dusted so infrequently that the wood color was ash gray. We’d each done a little decorating in an effort to give the room more warmth. Mom bought little knickknacks from Wool-worth’s, heavily cute statuettes of children, dogs, and other things which she found a nuisance in real life. When I was twelve and aware for the first time that we were poor and tasteless, I smashed every figurine in the room, but one by one my mother had replaced them all. They were dusted even less frequently than the shelves. In a household of three women, there wasn’t a single housewife.

Marly, my little sister, had taste, and in the past couple of years had thumbtacked reproductions of Renoir and Van Gogh paintings to the wall. They were the only pictures we had, and their color added a note of desperate cheeriness. I contributed some candles that had been given to me as birthday presents. My friends know I don’t like being tied down by possessions, so they tend to give me things that are easily disposed of. My mother, who never liked candles, used them instead of a flashlight during a blackout last summer.

I was lying on the sofa, trying to look busy. Mom was flourishing the newspaper, open at an article about this year’s contest.

“How will it hurt?” she started.

“Well,” I said, “I could catch a cold waiting around Morris Lake.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said.

“And you’ll have to get me a bathing suit,” I said. “Contests like that don’t like bikinis.”

“It’s an investment,” she said. “You’ll need something decent for college anyway.”

“It’s ridiculous,” I said. “I’m sure lots of girls will be in the contest. I won’t win, and then I’ll be stuck with an ugly bathing suit and a runny nose.”

“You’re such a defeatist,” she said. “You’re the prettiest girl Great Oaks has ever seen. You could have any boy you want. You’re sure to win. Why, I’ll bet you go all the way and make it to the national contest.”

“You’re a dreamer,” I said. “Besides, that’s not what I want to do.”

“Why not? Is it too good for you?”

“It’s not a matter of good,” I said. “It’s just a waste of time.”

“There’s big money in these contests,” Mom said. “Scholarships, cars. You could make things a lot easier for me, for Marly, if you did it.”

“I couldn’t give my scholarship to Marly,” I said. “Besides, she won’t need it. Colleges are going to knock themselves out trying to get her.”

“Brains aren’t enough,” Mom said. “You need looks and personality, and Marly’s a little weak in both. And we’re hardly so rich that you can throw away real money on a whim.”

“Whim?” I said. “You’re the one who’s throwing away money on a bathing suit I’ll never wear.”

“You’ll wear it in college.”

“I’m not sure that I’m going to college.”

Mom didn’t pursue that one. “Lots of fine actresses got their starts in beauty contests,” she said instead.

“Lots of fine movie starlets did,” I said. “But I don’t plan to be a starlet.”

“Actresses too,” she said.

“Sure,” I said. “Name two.”

“Cloris Leachman,” Mom said. “I read about it in TV Guide.”

My mother commits TV Guide to memory. “Great,” I said. “I’ll take your word for it. Name another.”

“Do you deny she’s a good actress? She won an Academy Award you know.”

“I know,” I said. “I watched it with you. Name another.”

Mom thought about it. “Bess Myerson,” she said finally.

“Bess Myerson’s not an actress,” I said.

“I know, but she could be,” Mom said. “She chose to do more meaningful work. There, I’ve named two. Now will you do it?”

“What’s involved?” I asked, with a sigh.

“Nothing really,” Mom said. “You just walk around the lake, and they ask you a couple of questions, and then some judges decide which one should win. The winner gets a fifty-dollar savings bond.”

“Thrilling,” I said.

“A navy blue bathing suit,” Mom said. “You always looked good in navy blue. It brings out the auburn in your hair.”

“I trust your judgment,” I said, which I didn’t and never have.

“Good,” Mom said. “Because I’ve already gotten it.”

“Mom.”

“I knew you really wanted to do it,” she said. “It’s upstairs.” And she dragged me up there, and I admired the navy blue tank suit which I was now shivering in.

Even with the suit, I almost didn’t go. Marly came home and reminded us that the contest was the night of junior high school graduation.

“That’s much more important,” I agreed. “Marly, don’t worry about it, I’ll be there.”

Marly smiled at me.

“Wait a second,” Mom said. “You’re not getting out of it so fast.”

“What do you mean, not getting out?” I said. “I want to go to Marly’s graduation.”

“Marly, you wouldn’t want your sister to sacrifice her big chance, would you?” Mom asked.

“No,” Marly said.

“Big chance,” I said. “Mom, you are crazy. The absolute most I can hope to get out of this thing is a fifty-dollar savings bond. What kind of big chance is that?”

“We could use the money,” Mom said. “Not to mention the publicity.”

“Publicity?” I said. “Do you think a Flo Ziegfeld’s going to be in the audience? Ed Sullivan? Is that it? Are you waiting for Ed Sullivan to discover me?”

“Besides,” Mom said, ignoring me, “you only get two tickets, don’t you Marly?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Well that settles it. Kit can’t go anyway.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because your father is bound to come. So that’s one ticket right there. And you can’t expect me to miss Marly’s graduation.”

“I’m sure Marly could get me a ticket,” I said. “Besides, are you going to want to go if Dad does?”

“Your father and I are adults,” Mom said. “We can both sit in an auditorium together.”

I almost asked Marly who she’d prefer to have at graduation, me or Mom, but decided against it. Knowing Marly, she’d chose both of us and tell Dad not to come. Which would be foolish, since Dad was the one she really wanted.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go to the beauty contest, but only if Dad goes to graduation.”

Much to my pleasure, and a little to my surprise, Dad did show up, right on time. Of course, being Dad, he bungled the whole thing up.

“This is Sally,” he said, after we opened the door.

Sally was about thirty and very pretty. She gave the living room a quick glance and shuddered. “I’m pleased to meet you,” she said, after shaking hands. “Your father said it would be all right if I came.”

“Ed!” Mom shouted. “This is a respectable house. Don’t bring your girl friends here.”

“Sally is my fiancée,” Dad said. “I wanted her to meet the kids before the wedding.”

“Wedding,” Mom said. “And when is this wonderful event scheduled for?”

“Any day now,” Dad said.

“You must be Kit,” Sally said to me.

“Yes,” I said.

“And Marly,” she said. “Where’s Marly? Your dad talks about her all the time.”

“She’s upstairs getting dressed,” I said.

“Sally and I are going to graduation together,” Dad said. “If that’s okay with Marly.”

“There are only two tickets,” Mom said. “One for you, Ed, and one for me.”

“Oh dear,” Sally said. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

“No, of course not,” Mom said. “Neither did Ed, I’m sure. He just didn’t bother to think. He never does.”

“It’s no problem,” I said, because it was, and I didn’t want this evening ruined for Marly. “Mom, come with me to the beauty contest, and Dad and Sally can go to graduation. I’m sure Marly won’t mind.”

“Beauty contest?” Dad said.

“Miss Great Oaks,” I said. “It was Mom’s idea.”

“And a very good one,” Mom said. “With Kit’s looks, she’s bound to win.”

“For once, I think you’re right,” Dad said. “Kit, good luck with it.”

“Thanks,” I said. “The whole thing’s really dumb.”

“Go tell Marly about the change in plans,” Mom said. “And bring the bathing suit down to show your father.”

“Okay,” I said, glad to get out of there. I ran upstairs and knocked on our bedroom door.

“Come in,” Marly said.

“Change in plans,” I announced. “Dad’s here, but he’s brought some new girl friend. Says she’s his fiancée.”

“Oh,” Marly said. “Could you zip me? What does she look like?”

“Very nice,” I said, getting around to her back. “A little embarrassed.”

“Do you blame her?” Marly asked. “Thanks. Is Dad still going?”

“Yeah, but he’s bringing his girl. Sally. And Mom’s going to the contest with me.”

“Well that’s okay,” Marly said. “She’ll prefer that anyway, to some dumb graduation.”

“It’s not dumb at all,” I said. “I wish I could be there.”

“Well, Dad couldn’t make it to yours,” Marly said. “I guess this makes everything even, somehow.”

“Somehow,” I said. My graduation had been the week before, and Dad had to be on the road that day. Dad’s a salesman, living off of commissions and his charm. More often than not, one of them falls through. “I’m really proud of you,” I said. “First in your class. That’s quite an accomplishment.”

“It’s only junior high,” Marly said.

“It won’t be any different in high school,” I said. “I can’t wait until you make the valedictory.”

“I can hardly wait until I can say good-by to this whole stupid town,” Marly said. “Promise me if you become Miss Great Oaks, you’ll change things.”

“Sure,” I said. “They pay lots of attention to what us potential beauty contest winners say.”

“You’ll win,” Marly said. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, even on TV. You’re bound to win.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I only wish it was something important.”

“And now Katherine ‘Kit’ Carson,” Jack Davis announced. The American Legion cheered my name. I got up and walked around the stage, making quarter turns to show off my body. Mom and a few other people clapped.

“Kit’s a graduate of our fine high school,” Mr. Davis told the audience. “She’s just turned eighteen. She’s five foot seven and weighs one hundred and sixteen choice pounds.”

I smiled, just the way I knew I should.

“You have beautiful hair, Kit,” Mr. Davis said. “What color do you call it?”

“My mother calls it auburn,” I said.

“Auburn,” Mr. Davis said. “That’s a rich man’s red.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “I’m not rich, and I’m not a man.”

“No, you certainly aren’t,” Mr. Davis said and burst into hearty laughter. The audience decided it was safe to laugh, and snickered.

“A girl with real brains inside that beautiful head,” Mr. Davis said. “Let’s give Miss Kit Carson a real big round of applause.”

The audience applauded. I smiled again and sat down.

After that, I sat and watched the other girls make fools of themselves. Most of them I knew by sight; some of them were acquaintances. None of them were real friends. Sharon tripped on her quarter turn and some of the yellow shirts laughed.

“All right now,” Mr. Davis said. “The judges now have the hard job of choosing between these fifteen lovely girls. I’m sure none of us envy them their work.”

The judges looked worried. They scribbled names on pieces of paper and consulted with each other at length.

They were obviously not professional beauty contest judges. Out of the five men, I recognized three. Officer Todd, reputed to be the town’s only honest policeman, Mr. Brooke, who ran the college bookshop, and Mr. Schwartz, assistant principal at the junior high, who once pinched me. He, at least, had some credentials for the contest. I looked at Mom. I knew her fingers were crossed.

“Thank you gentlemen,” Mr. Davis said, as one of them handed him a sheet of paper. I stifled a yawn.

“All right, people,” Mr. Davis said. “The moment you’ve all been waiting for. Our second runner-up is little Miss Marjorie Sutz.”

Marjorie squealed and got up.

“First runner-up,” Mr. Davis said. “Now this is a very important job. Should Miss Great Oaks have to resign, our first runner-up takes over the title. Sort of a crown princess, you might say.”

The audience laughed some more.

“Our first runner-up is Laura Masters,” Mr. Davis said. “Let’s really hear it for Laura.”

The audience applauded some more.

“Now we have a real rarity in Miss Great Oaks herself,” Mr. Davis said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of this before.”

“It’s a tie,” Sharon whispered.

“We have a unanimous decision,” Mr. Davis said. “All five of our fine judges chose the same girl to be this year’s Miss Great Oaks. Not a vote of dissent for this very popular girl with the long, long legs and the auburn hair. This year’s Miss Great Oaks, the greatest Miss Great Oaks ever, Kit Carson.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Did you hear that folks?” Mr. Davis said. “This girl is so shocked all she can say is ‘Oh.’”

The audience laughed and applauded.

“Come here, Kit,” Mr. Davis said, and I walked over to the mike. “You must be a very excited little girl.”

I was two inches taller than Mr. Davis. “Very,” I said.

“Are your parents here tonight?” Mr. Davis asked.

“Just my mother,” I said. “My father’s at my sister’s graduation. She had the highest average in her junior high class.”

“Did you hear that folks,” Mr. Davis said. “A little closer to the mike, dear,” he whispered to me. “Your sister must be very proud of you.”

“I’m very proud of her,” I said.

“And you say your mother’s here?” he said. “Would Mrs. Carson please step up here. I’m sure all the people would love to see the lovely mother of such a lovely daughter.”

Mom scooted up, knocking a couple of people over in her enthusiasm. Mom has a real gift for that.

“Look at that, folks,” Mr. Davis said. “Like mother, like daughter. Aren’t they a lovely pair?”

Mom beamed. I looked at Mom and wondered why they were applauding.

“One more question, and then we’ll let you mingle with your subjects,” Mr. Davis said. “Any boy friends, Kit?”

“One,” I said. “This week.”

“Did you hear that?” Mr. Davis said. “I tell you, Great Oaks is honored to have such a beautiful and clever winner. And now, go and meet the people.”

I took that as a hint for me to walk around to the other side of the lake. Mom was clutching on to my arm, otherwise I would have swum. It seemed a pity not to use my brand new bathing suit for something practical.

“Here, please,” the photographer said. “Now smile big for the camera.”

I smiled big.

“And one with your mother,” he said.

Mom smiled bigger.

“Congratulations,” Sharon said. I hoped she wouldn’t cry. I congratulated Laura, who kissed me on the cheek.

“Kit, over here,” some woman said. “I’m Sheila King. You probably don’t remember me.”

“Of course I do,” I said. “You review plays for the paper. What are you doing here?”

“Color,” Sheila said. “The reporter who was supposed to come got sick at the last minute. Look, I’d love an interview with you. ‘Local beauty, combines rare looks with rarer talent.’ How about tomorrow?”

“Sure,” I said. “Thanks for remembering my talent.”

“It would be hard to forget it,” she said. “I still get goose bumps when I think about your Anne Frank.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve just made my evening.”

“Tomorrow,” she said. “After lunch sometime.”

“Great,” I said. “See you then.”

“Did you hear that?” Mom said. “I told you this would be a gold mine of publicity. Oh, Kit, I’m so excited and so proud of you. This has been the most wonderful evening of my life.”

“I’m glad,” I said. “Mom, I have to change.”

“Of course. You must be freezing. There’s such a breeze tonight.”

“I’ll see you later,” I said, careful not to say how much later. I ran my way through some more congratulations and changed into my dress. Then I went out the back door and walked quickly to the turn-the-other-way bar.

Chapter 2

Marly was lying in bed, reading by a flashlight, when I finally got in. I undressed quickly, admiring the shadow effect in the room. It looked a lot better in darkness than it ever did with light. There were two beds, left over from my parents’ original bedroom set; a chest of drawers which held both our things; a crowded closet; one desk, which Marly used; and one small bookcase, pretty much all Marly’s. I used a single shelf of it for my plays. Marly felt guilty about the room, but since she spent much more time there than I did, it made perfect sense to me that she should use most of the space. I was rarely home, and when I was, I was usually in the living room. Marly was more of a hider.

“You missed a great scene,” she said, after I got into my bed.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Mom came home absolutely furious because you’d disappeared …”

“I did not disappear,” I said. “I left. There’s a world of difference.”

“Not to Mom there isn’t,” Marly said. “I’d invited Dad and Sally in after graduation. He is my father, after all, and she’s his fiancée.”

“You don’t have to convince me.”

“Mom walked in, really mad, and I thought you’d lost the contest, so I said something like ‘too bad’ or ‘better luck next time,’ so she started shouting that I was a lousy ingrate kid, only slightly better than my no-good older sister, and it was no wonder, since we both took after the rottenest man ever to cross her path, and then she looked into the living room and saw Dad and Sally. Sally looked like she was going to die right there, and she hardly knows Mom.”

“It doesn’t take long to realize what a gem she is,” I said.

“So Mom turns to me and asks what Dad and his floozy are doing there. She really did say floozy, and you know me when I’m nervous, so I started giggling, and that didn’t help matters any. And Dad got indignant and said he was allowed to visit his daughters, and Mom said something about his support checks always being late, and Sally asked what support checks, which Mom thought was very funny. So Mom ordered Dad out, on account of it was past my bedtime, and Sally very innocently asked how you had done, and Mom said you won, in between a few obscenities, and I acted really surprised because I was. The way she was carrying on, I thought you’d come in last, or got kicked out of the contest for morals or something.”

“They didn’t think of it,” I said. “Otherwise they probably would have.”

“So I said something really bright like ‘no kidding,’ and Mom said some more things on the subject of family loyalty, and Sally said she really did have to get going, and Dad said he’d see us tomorrow, and they left. And I came up here, on the pretext of doing homework. Mom was so upset she didn’t even question it.”

“She will tomorrow,” I said. “She always thinks of things the day afterward.”

“It was awful,” Marly said.

“How did Sally seem?”

“Okay,” she said. “Friendly. Dad really seems to like her.”

“He liked Mom once.”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “At least, I don’t see how he could have.”

“Mom was very pretty,” I said. “Before she put on all that weight.”

“Speaking of weight, I think I’m going to go on a diet,” Marly said. “Lose weight this summer before I start high school.”

“That’s a good idea,” I said. Marly had inherited Mom’s tendency to flab, and although I knew she tried to keep it under control, there were times when she had to diet to get back to normal. Dad and I were slim, which annoyed Mom. Still, fat girls didn’t win beauty contests.

“Congratulations,” Marly said. “On winning I mean.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It was a farce.”

“Were any of the girls there really pretty?”

“Probably,” I said. “I was too busy shivering to notice. It gets cool there at night.”

“Are you proud?”

“No,” I said. “Do you think I should be?”

“No,” she said. “But sometimes people get proud of really dumb things.”

“I’m proud of my acting,” I said. “And that I graduated high school, even though I never liked it. And I’m proud of you. That’s about it.”

“Twenty pounds,” Marly said. “If I could lose twenty pounds, I’d be really thin.”

“You’d be invisible,” I said. “Ten pounds will do you fine.”

“I want to be really good-looking when I start high school,” she said. “I’ll never be as pretty as you, but I’d be pretty enough, I think.”

“I’ll never be as smart as you,” I said. “Why compete on those levels?”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Marly said.

“It is not,” I said. “I always wished I could do as well in school. You know how I crammed for tests and how I worried.”

“You would have done a lot better if you hadn’t been so busy acting.”

“I never would have done as well as you. I’m not as smart as you are. That’s a fact.”

“If you say so,” Marly said. “There are times when I’d swap brains for a good complexion and a nice figure and red hair.”

“Auburn,” I said. “I won with my auburn hair.”

“Mom must have loved that.”

“I don’t know,” I said with a giggle. “I left before I had a chance to discuss it with her.”

Dad called me up the next morning to congratulate me and to say he was sorry he couldn’t have been there. He asked when the county contest was, and when I told him, he said he’d make a point of being there. I told him he didn’t have to, but he said he wanted to be there when they crowned me Miss Harrison County. So I said okay and wished him luck with Sally. He said we’d have more of a chance to talk the next time he was in town. I said I hoped so, and we hung up. Then Mom grumbled at me some for leaving her, and I said we’d just gotten separated in the crowd, which was a lie, and she knew it. But she decided to forgive me.

“You’ll need an evening gown for the county competition,” she said.

“What?”

“An evening gown. The kind of things girls wear to their senior proms.”

“We’re not going to discuss that again,” I said.

“Of course not,” Mom said. “I made it perfectly clear then what I thought of a girl who would turn down three invitations from perfectly nice boys, when even her boy friend wouldn’t have objected if she’d gone, just because she didn’t feel like it.”

“We had a performance that night,” I said. “At the theater, in a show I was in. It would have been a little hard for me to get out of it.”

“You know perfectly well they would have canceled the performance if you’d asked them to,” she said. “Not to mention the whole subject of your priorities. Now here are three nice boys, smart, with money, and good families, asking you, begging you, to go to the prom with them, and you think acting is more important. Acting. It’s a sickness with you.”

“You should know,” I said. “Mental illness is one of your strong points.”

“What’s happened?” Mom asked. “You’ve changed your ambitions suddenly? Now you’re going to be a stand-up comic?”

“One stand-up comic is enough for any family, Mom,” I said. “Besides I thought we weren’t going to discuss the prom again.”

“I wasn’t discussing,” she said. “I was simply telling you you’re going to need an evening gown, and it’s a real pity you didn’t go to the prom because then you’d already have a dress, and now you’ll have to get one.”

“I would have had to get one for the prom,” I said.

“It would have gotten worn more if you’d gone.”

“Can we afford an evening gown?” I asked.

“If we have to, we can,” she said. “It’s an investment. You know Miss Harrison County gets five hundred dollars, and all she has to do is appear at a few functions and enter the state contest. And for that they give her five hundred dollars.”

“In money or scholarships?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t ask. Besides what difference does it make. You could use both.”

“Maybe I should get a job this summer,” I said. “They need someone at the bakery on Houston Street.”

“You’re not going to work at a bakery,” Mom said.

“Why not?”

“Because it wouldn’t be right for Miss Great Oaks to be a common salesgirl. What if the county judges heard?”

“They’d probably think it was very noble of me. Besides, I don’t have anything else to do this summer. The theater’s just doing musicals.”

“So why not be in a musical? Aren’t they good enough for you?”

“Mom, I sing like a bullfrog. And my dancing’s not much better.”

“I’m sure that’s not my fault. I was willing to continue your dance lessons. You were the one who said no.”

“They were a waste of money. I wasn’t getting anything out of them.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t dropped out, you could be in musicals.”

“What’s so great about musicals?”

“I don’t know,” Mom said. “And I don’t know what’s so great about acting, either, but you seem to see something in it. And besides—”

“Oh great,” I said. “I can hardly wait to hear what this besides is going to be.”

“Only that you’re going to need something for the talent competition. If you’d kept up with your dancing, maybe you could have done a little dance. They always like that on the national contests, when girls do dances.”

“Talent?” I asked. “I thought this whole thing was on looks alone.”

“Of course not,” Mom said. “They have to start separating the wheat from the chaff someplace, and it might as well be there. But if you sing like a bullfrog and dance like a toad, I suppose you’d better forget all about it.”

“Mom, lots of people have said lots of things about me in my life, but nobody’s ever said I lack talent. I’ll do a monologue from something.”

“Monologues never win,” she said. “Dances win. Songs win. Ventriloquism wins. Monologues and baton twirling never do.”

“How about gymnastics?” I asked.

“Gymnastics? I didn’t know you could do gymnastics.”

“I can’t,” I said. “I was just wondering.”

“Don’t wonder,” she said. “Just realize you can’t get up there and recite the lyrics to one of those silly songs you keep playing and think you’ll get anywhere. These are very intelligent people, and they’ll expect to see something really good before they give away any five hundred dollars.”

“I’ll remember,” I said.

“And remember you’ll need an evening gown,” Mom said. “See if you can borrow one from a friend.”

“I’ll see,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I’ll go right now and check.”

“You’re always running away from me,” Mom said. “Has that ever occurred to you?”

“Mom, if we keep talking, you’ll be late for work.”

“I’ll get to work on time,” she said. “I just wondered if you knew you were always running away from me.”

“It’s occurred to me,” I said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

It was too early to visit anybody, so I went to the bakery, but they’d already filled the job. I wasn’t disappointed, although it would have been fun to embarrass my mother. I went to the library and skimmed over some plays, trying to decide what speech to do. While I was there, I read a couple of magazines. Then, when it was late enough, I went to Greg’s house.

Greg’s mother opened the door with her typical suspicious expression. Greg’s mother doesn’t approve of me, and I don’t blame her. All of her suspicions about me are accurate, except one. She thinks I’m out to marry Greg, and I’m not. Not that Mom would object. Greg’s just the kind of boy she’d like for an instant son-in-law. His father’s a dermatologist; his mother a member of every respectable organization in town. He has one sister, who got married last year, right after her graduation from college, to a nice young boy, who went to Princeton and majored in good manners. Obviously, the right sort of people.

Greg, fortunately, shared my attitude on marriage. You couldn’t say I was opposed to marriage. It was just that I’d never seen a good one. Greg claimed he had, but it was one out of ten, or maybe twenty, depending on the mood he was in. So we were perfect for each other.

“I think Greg’s asleep,” his mother said.

“I’ll wake him,” I said.

“You will not,” his mother said. “I’ll see if he’s awake.”

“Thank you,” I said and made myself as comfortable as I could in the living room. I’d never seen a room which hated me quite as much as that one did. It was everything our living room wasn’t. For starters, it was clean. Everything shone. There was a white overstuffed chair that was still white, and an off-white leather couch that was supposed to be off-white, and the glass-and-chrome coffee tables shone. None of the plants had dead leaves, and instead of imitation Dresden shepardesses there were a few tasteful antiques. The paintings on the walls were real—framed originals. I often worried about how much of that room had worked its way into Greg’s blood.

“Hello,” he said, a couple of minutes later. He was fully dressed, and shaved, so I had the feeling his mother had been a little off. “Congratulations.”

“How did you hear?” I asked.

“Lynn called me this morning and told me. You made front page of the Clarion. Right where they usually put the latest accident picture. There you were, according to Lynn. I haven’t had a chance to see the paper yet. You should have let me know.”

“About the contest? I was embarrassed enough without having friends there. Besides, my mother was there to cheer me on to victory.”

“Lynn’s very upset. Claims you’re setting women’s lib back twenty years.”

“So I sold my body for fifty dollars,” I said. “I can use the money. Besides, I didn’t think I’d win.”

“Well, you did,” he said. “Does this mean you go on to bigger and better things?”

“Bigger, yeah. Probably better too. The county contest.”

“Miss Harrison County,” Greg said. “Objectively, you’re very pretty. And you have a good body.”

“Thank you,” I said. “But the same thing’s true of a hundred girls in Great Oaks alone. Your sister for instance. She looks much more like the beauty contest type to me.”

“Never,” he said. “First of all our parents would never permit it. And anyway she’s too short.”

“I have to show off some talent,” I said.

“Do the hula,” he said. “Girls who do the hula always do well.”

“Only if I did it topless,” I said.

“Oh yeah,” Greg said. “That would go over well.”

“Actually,” I said, “I thought I might do a little acting.”

“No kidding,” Greg said. “Acting?”

“How does Mary Tyrone’s final speech in Long Day’s Journey grab you?”

“It grabs me fine,” he said. “But I think it would be a little ostentatious.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

“Something light,” Greg said. “But meaningful. Maybe the Declaration of Independence.”

“Are you kidding? I don’t want to be arrested as a communist.”

“You’re probably right,” he said. “Sure the hula’s out?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Also baton twirling, singing, and gymnastics.”

“Anne Frank then. Some selections from her diary.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” I said. “Hokey, but meaningful.”

“It’s probably your best bet. Of course you could do one of your speeches from The Miracle Worker.”

“Sure,” I said. “‘Wah wah’ should go over really big.”

“Well it would be different.”

“While we’re on the subject, do you have an evening gown I could borrow?”

“Really, Kit,” Greg said. “There is a limit to bad taste.”

I laughed. “Mom told me to ask my friends, and you’re a friend. I need one for the contest.”

“Afraid I can’t help you,” he said. “Have you asked Lynn?”

“Lynn is five feet tall,” I said. “I’m five seven. Any evening gown of hers would be a mini skirt on me.”

“You have a point. Why don’t you buy one?”

“Knowing Mom, we probably will. I’m just trying to save us money.”

“Oh,” Greg said. Greg gets embarrassed when he thinks of his having money, and my not. It doesn’t bother me, but it upsets friends of mine sometimes.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Look, treat me to lunch, and then you won’t feel so guilty.”

“I don’t feel guilty,” Greg said. “But I’ll treat you to lunch anyway.”

“Good,” I said. “Because I don’t feel like going home and eating. Marly’s started a diet, and if I have anything more caloric than cottage cheese, she’ll give me this really pathetic look and I’ll feel guilty.”

“Fair enough,” Greg said. “I promise not to notice when you have franks and beans and baked Alaska.”

“What a great lunch,” I said. “And then when we’re through, you can drop me off at the Clarion for an interview.”

“I feel like James Mason in A Star Is Born,” Greg said. “Escorting the big movie star around.”

“Just you wait,” I said. “One of these days I will be a star, and then you’ll know true humiliation.”

“You know,” Greg said, “there are times when I almost believe you.”

Chapter 3

Sheila King, culture reporter for the Great Oaks Clarion, seemed pleased to see me. I liked her, or at least her reviews. The other reviewer for the paper had a grudge against the Red Barn, the community theater where I worked, and frequently panned perfectly good shows. She also gave good reviews to friends even if they didn’t deserve them. Sheila, on the other hand, was as objective as it’s possible to be with a community theater in a small town. At least with her, there was a fighting chance.

“You must be very embarrassed,” she said after exchanging hellos.

“I am,” I admitted. “What made you realize it?”

“I was reading over the reviews I did of your stuff,” she said. “You rated some really good adjectives.”

“My first year everything I did was called ‘promising,’” I said. “Then I worked my way up to ‘extremely promising.’”

“How old were you?” she asked.

I thought about it. “Ten, I think. I was eleven when they did The Bad Seed and then The Miracle Worker. After that I hit the awkward age and didn’t do much of anything except grow.”

“How tall are you?”

“Five seven,” I said. “And I’ve been five seven since junior high. It was very embarrassing then.”

“I was fat,” Sheila said. “Until college.”

“My sister, Marly, just started a diet,” I said. “She wants to lose weight before she starts high school.”

“Not a bad idea,” Sheila said. “I didn’t have a single date until I left home. Do you date much?”

“Enough,” I said.

“Anyone right now? Anything serious?”

“What is this, an interview or an engagement announcement?”

“For this paper, a little of both,” she said. “Why not get engaged and give me the scoop?”

“Sorry,” I said. “No one serious. I’m only eighteen.”

“Didn’t you go out with Jim Taylor for a while?”

“No,” I said. Actually I had, and Sheila knew it, but Jim was a nice guy and I was underage at the time. “I know him though.”

“I always liked Jim,” Sheila said. “He’s a good actor.”

“Pretty good,” I said. “He’s weak on comedy.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I guess this isn’t the time to discuss that.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “I’m not interesting enough for an interview.”

“That may be,” Sheila said. “But I’m getting paid to prove you wrong.”

“Okay,” I said. “What do you want to know?”

“What made you enter the contest?”

“My mother forced me,” I said.

“Did you think you’d win?”

“No,” I said.

“Were you very excited?”

“No.”

“I’ll change that to yes,” she said. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No,” I said. “Say that I was thrilled. They’re always thrilled when they win these things.”

“What do you think your chances are for the county?”

“Bad. Great Oaks never makes it to anything big.” I thought for a second. “Make that off the record, would you? I’m supposed to be full of boosterism.”

“Something modest, but full of pride for your home town,” Sheila said. “This should be a fun article to write.”

“Did you always want to be a reporter?”

“Yeah,” she said. “But I didn’t think I’d end up here.”

“Why did you?”

“A bad sense of geography,” she said. “You’re not supposed to ask me the questions. What was your favorite part?”

“That’s a good question,” I said. “Favorite part that I played?”

“Yeah.”

“Eliza in Pygmalion, I think. I’d really love to have played Annie Sullivan in The Miracle Worker, but they said I was more the Helen Keller type.”

“And what part would you most like to do?”

“All of them,” I said.

“What are your plans for this fall? College?”

“Probably,” I said. “My mother wants me to go to school here, and they accepted me, so I probably will.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

“Forgive me,” I said. “This is going to lack boosterism, but their drama department isn’t much. I’ve done some shows with them, and there’s nothing they can teach me any more.”

“So you want to be an actress?”

“I am an actress,” I said. “I want to be a professional.”

Sheila laughed. “You have the ego for it.”

“I know,” I said. “It drives my mother crazy, and sometimes my directors, but that’s just the way it is. I don’t want to be a star. I don’t even want to be on Broadway particularly. I just want to act and earn enough money to stay alive and, hopefully, to learn while I’m doing it.”

“Your guidance counselors must have loved you,” Sheila said.

“Oh lord,” I said. “They were awful. Very college oriented. Constantly harping on my IQ, which is adequate, but not much better. And my sister, Marly, who’s incredibly smart, she eats facts alive, they keep telling her she should belong to more clubs. She’s not social enough. They’re very big on well-roundedness.”

“They told me women couldn’t be journalists,” Sheila said. “Sometimes I think they were right. What kind of name is Marly?”

“It isn’t,” I said. “It’s short for Marlene. I couldn’t say Marlene when she was born, so I called her Marly, and it stuck. My mother thought it was cute.”

“Poor Marly,” Sheila said.

“She does okay,” I said. “Even with a cute name.”

“What does your father do?”

“He’s a salesman. He and my mother are divorced. My mother’s a nurse.”

“How long has your family been in Great Oaks?”

“Too long,” I said. “Ten years.”

“You’re right,” Sheila said. “Any beauty tips?”

“What?”

“You know, beauty tips. Cucumber baths, stuff like that.”

“Soap and water and eight hours sleep. How does that sound?”

“Very wholesome,” Sheila said. “Okay, that should do it.”

“I hope your next job is more interesting,” I said.

“I’ve given up on my next job already,” she said. “I’m putting my hopes on my next incarnation.”

“Good luck with it,” I said. “When do you think they’ll print the interview?”

“Possibly tomorrow, more likely the day after. Why? Don’t you get the paper every day?”

“We’re poor people,” I said. “We do without such luxuries.”

“Well, someone will tell you about it,” she said. “Thanks for coming in.”

“Thanks for having me,” I said. “Good-by.”

I walked home after that, stopping at a candy store to buy copies of the paper. I figured two would be enough. The man there congratulated me, which I thought was pretty funny. I’d never been a celebrity before.

Lynn was waiting for me when I got there. She and Marly were sitting in the living room watching a soap opera. Lynn’s addicted on school vacations.

“Shh,” she said before I even said hello. “Joe’s trying to get the tape.”

“Oh,” I said. Marly shrugged.

We waited for a commercial, and then Marly said, “The mayor called. He said you could call back before three.”

“The mayor?” I asked. “I must be famous.”

“He probably wants your endorsement,” Lynn said. “He’s running for re-election this year.”

“He’s a Republican,” I said. “I never endorse Republicans.”

“Wise,” Lynn said. “Wait until the soap’s over, and I’ll listen on the extension.”

“Only if you don’t giggle,” I said.

“Giggle?” Lynn said. “I’m sobersides herself.”

“I seem to recall one history test where you found an essay question so funny they had to kick you out of the classroom.”

“That was different,” she said. “It was a very funny essay test, especially if you hadn’t studied. They asked what the chief sources of income were in the ante bellum South, and all I could think of was prostitution. Actually, the question wasn’t as funny as my answer would have been.”

“Cotton,” Marly said. “And tobacco probably. It was a very agricultural place.”

“Shut up,” Lynn said. “The show’s starting again.”

We watched somebody sneak around someplace. Lynn seemed very nervous until it was over, and then she predicted death for somebody. I predicted death for her if she didn’t turn the TV off so I could call the mayor.

Mayor McGowan had been at our graduation, probably because it was an election year, and he’d said a couple of platitudes about working within the system and standing proud as we did it. He was a tall man, fairly attractive, who looked as if he wanted to end up on a postage stamp. Except Great Oaks never made it to anything big. His secretary put me right on. I could hear Lynn stifling a giggle.

“Hello, Miss Carson,” McGowan said. “I’m glad you called.”

“Thank you for calling me,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I just wanted to extend my congratulations on your victory last night. Jack Davis told me he was sure you’ll win in the county contest also. As a matter of fact, he said he wouldn’t be surprised if you made it all the way.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I have a long way to go.”

“Of course,” he said. “However, even if it should end here, you can be very proud.”

“Thank you,” I said. I wished someone would explain what I was supposed to be so proud of, besides being good-looking. I didn’t even wear make-up. I didn’t do anything except keep my nose from getting broken, and that didn’t seem like much of an accomplishment.

“I hear you’re quite an actress too,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said. “Have you ever been to the Red Barn Theater?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “You know how busy we politicians are.”

“Sure,” I said. “The President hasn’t made it there yet either.”

The mayor laughed. “Jack told me about your sense of humor,” he said. “Brains as well as beauty.”

Lynn snorted in the background. “God bless you,” I said, to cover any possible embarrassment.

“You know, as Miss Great Oaks you will have a couple of obligations,” he said. “Entering the county contest, of course.”

“Of course,” I said.

“And being at the July Fourth fireworks,” he said. “We like to have our Miss Great Oaks there every year.”

“I go anyway,” I said.

“Fine,” he said. “Well, thank you for calling me back, and I’ll see you on the Fourth.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Good-by.”

“Since when do you always go to the fireworks?” Lynn asked, as she joined us in the living room.

“I used to,” I said. “Until a couple of years ago. Last year I went with a whole bunch of people. We were all stoned. Fireworks look great when you’re stoned.”

“Don’t be stoned this year,” Lynn said. “It would be awful to be busted when you’re seizing power.”

“Power,” I said. “Right now I wish I had some.”

“How did the interview go?” Marly asked.

“Pretty good,” I said. “I like Sheila King.”

“Yeah, she’s all right,” Lynn said.

Lynn and I had started at the theater at the same time. I started because I was going to be an actress or die. Lynn was dragged there by a stage mother. We met during auditions. I got the part, and Lynn got a smaller one. Lynn loved the theater, but hated everything about acting. She just barely learned her lines, but after a week of performances, she knew how to run the light board. No one trusted her with it until she started high school, and by then she’d learned where to set lights as well. Lynn was planning on going to college and majoring in theater. By the time she graduated, she hoped they’d be letting women into the union. Except for the theater, we didn’t have much in common, but, except for theater, there wasn’t much else that interested me. The only other reason Lynn’s friendship was strange was her height. Lynn was my only really short friend.

“What did you tell her?” Marly asked.

“I told her how smart you are,” I said.

“You shouldn’t have,” Marly said. “You should have just talked about yourself.”

“Kid, you’d make a great actress,” Lynn said. “As long as you practice what you preach.”

“I talked plenty about myself,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I’m a little sick of the subject.”

“I don’t know why,” Lynn said. “How could you possibly tire of discussing your auburn hair.”

“How’d you hear about that?”

“It was in the paper,” she said.

“Oh,” I said. “I bought some copies, but I haven’t read it yet.”

“I told Greg how annoyed I was,” she said. “You’ve violated all the principles of women’s lib.”

“Yeah, I heard. When women’s lib pays me fifty dollars for having red hair, I’ll repent.”

“I always said you’d sell yourself out at the first opportunity.”

“Until I can afford not to, sure,” I said. “So would you.”

“Are you going to enter the county contest?”

“Of course,” Marly said. “She has to. It’s the law.”

“I don’t think they’d arrest her if she didn’t,” Lynn said.

“I won’t give them the chance,” I said. “Besides, it’s my golden opportunity. They have a talent competition.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not according to Mom. And I’m sure she researched it thoroughly.”

“Talent?” Marly asked, “Like singing?”

“Like singing,” I said. “That pretty well describes my talents.”

“You don’t have to sing,” Marly said. “You could act something.”

“I could indeed,” I said.

“Shakespeare,” Lynn said. “They love Shakespeare at things like that. It makes them feel cultured.”

“Greg suggested something from Anne Frank. Something heart-warming, with a message.”

“For that you could read a Christmas card,” Lynn said. “Stick with Shakespeare.”

“You know, it’s fun,” I said. “People have been making a fuss over me. I like that.”

“I’ve noticed,” Lynn said. “Just don’t get unbearable.”

“Not over this,” I said. “But I am sort of enjoying it. When I don’t think about it. When I do, I get embarrassed.”

“I would have hated standing there in my bathing suit,” Lynn said. “Of course, I have big hips and a belly. Both of which you’re missing.”

“It was cold,” I said. “I told Mom it would be. Hey, do you know where I could get a cheap evening gown?”

“I don’t suppose you’d want to borrow mine,” she said. “You could put some ruffles on it.”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Doreen Richmond’s about your height,” Lynn said. “She wore a nice gown to the prom. Demure, but you don’t want to get too sexy until the state finals.”

“I love the way people assume I’m going to win the county contest.”

“Yes,” Lynn said. “You do. I think Doreen would let you borrow it. It should appeal to her sense of humor.”

“I’ll call her later,” I said. “What color is it?”

“White, I think,” she said. “Possibly pale pink. Something unimaginative.”

“It’ll have to do,” I said. “We can’t afford to buy one.”

“Maybe you ought to,” Marly said. “I could loan you some money. I have some saved up, and Dad gave me some last night. I don’t know if you should wear somebody else’s dress for something important.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, loving Marly just because she did. “First of all, nobody will know, and second of all, it’s not important.”

“It is,” she said. “You should look your very best.”

“Listen to the girl,” Lynn said. “She speaks with the voice of experience.”

Marly gave her a look, and I loved her for that too. “Just remember,” she said. “It’s important that you should look your best.”

Chapter 4

“I like Lynn,” Marly said after she left, “but I wish she wouldn’t condescend to me like that.”

“Lynn condescends to everybody,” I said. “Including me.”

“I guess so,” she said. “Is it because she’s so short?”

“You’ve been watching too much TV,” I said, “arriving at snap psychological judgments like that.”

“It made sense,” she said.

“Maybe,” I said. “I think Lynn’s like that because that’s what her parents are like. They always act like I’m a germ or something, but very politely, because I’m Lynn’s friend. Tolerant, but overbearing.”

“I don’t know,” Marly said.

“She’s a good person,” I said. “She just thinks she’s a great one.”

“Why don’t you call Doreen and see if you can borrow her dress?” Marly said.

“Later,” I said. “There’s no rush. How’s your diet going?”

“Fine,” she said. “I’ve been on it all day, and I haven’t felt tempted once. Of course, the first day’s the easiest.”

“I hope it’s not one of those fad things,” I said.

“It’s not,” Marly said. “Just simple starvation. Always popular.”

“You’re kidding,” I said. “That’s no way to lose weight.”

“What do you mean that’s no way?” she said. “It’s the easiest way of all. Just forget food exists for a while.”

“You’ll need nourishment,” I said. “Green vegetables and protein. The only thing you lose by starving yourself is your health.”

“You sound like a gym teacher.”

“You sound like an idiot if you think you’ll be okay without eating.”

“Okay,” Marly said with a sigh. “I’ll eat.”

“Cottage cheese,” I said. “Skim milk. Carrots.”

“I’d rather starve,” she said. “Besides, what do you know about it? You’ve never had to lose a pound in your life.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “I had to lose five pounds when I played Anne Frank. The director wanted a really thin Anne. It was awful.”

“How did you lose it?”

“I didn’t eat for a week,” I said.

Marly laughed.

“Okay,” I said. “For a week in an emergency, maybe. For a whole summer, you’ll kill yourself. People have to eat. It’s biologically necessary, like breathing or drinking.”

“I’m going to drink,” she said.

“Don’t say that,” I said. “You sound like Dad.”

“He doesn’t drink that much any more,” Marly said. “I think Sally’s a good influence for him.”

“What does she do?”

“Schoolteacher,” she said. “Third grade.”

“That is wholesome,” I said. “Dad must be growing up.”

“I really think so,” she said. “They’re going to buy a house and everything. The whole suburban deal.”

“I wonder if they’ll have more kids.”

“Do you think so?” Marly asked. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“It sounds like it,” I said. “Why else would they need a house? Besides, Sally’s young. She probably wants to mother somebody. Other than Dad, that is.”

“Dad was really proud last night,” Marly said. “I mean, he was proud of you too, but he kept saying how nice I looked on stage, and when they announced my average, he said he started the applause, even though they said no applauding for individual achievements. He couldn’t help it, he said.”

“That’s nothing new,” I said. “He’s never been able to help it.”

“But it was really nice,” Marly said. “I liked it when they applauded.”

“You’d better watch it,” I said. “It can be addicting.”

“Is that what it’s like for you?”

“Usually,” I said. “Last night they could have been applauding Santa Claus, for all it meant to me. But when it’s because I’m good in a show, it’s the greatest thing in the world.”

“I’m going to be a surgeon,” Marly said. “I thought about it last night and I’ve decided that’s what I’m going to be. And when I operate, they’ll applaud me.”

“I don’t think they even do that on TV.”

“For me they will,” Marly said. “And then I’ll go to the jungles and be Dr. Marlene, Saint of the Yukon, or something. I’ll operate on the natives and, instead of applauding, they’ll worship me.”

“Now that’s a worth-while ambition,” I said. “Have you discussed it with your guidance counselor?”

“Yeah,” Marly said. “She said med schools discriminate against women, and have I considered nursing?”

We were laughing when Mom came in. “Now that’s what I like to hear,” she said, as she put her bundles down. “The sound of my two girls laughing. What’s so funny?”

“Nothing we can explain,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “Laughing at me again?”

“Mom.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “I’d rather you were laughing at me than at each other. Did you see today’s paper?”

“I bought a couple of copies,” I said.

“It’s a beautiful picture,” Mom said. “I bought five copies.”

“It’s a terrible picture,” I said. “And what do you need five copies for?”

“I don’t need them,” Mom said. “Although I would like to have one for my scrapbook and one to send your Aunt Doris. The others are for you.”

“For me?”

“It seems to me that you should be honored,” she said. “Not to mention the fact that it’s proof you can do something. You competed with fourteen other girls for that title, and you won. The way I hear it at that precious theater of yours, they hardly have anybody compete with you any more.”

“They still have auditions,” I said. “It’s just that I win them because I’m the best.”

“Best in a theater that size isn’t saying much,” Mom said. “But nobody was scared of you in that beauty contest. You won that honestly, and I think you should be proud to show it to people.”

“Send your copy to Aunt Doris,” I said. “It’s just her speed. But don’t expect me to send my copies to Elia Kazan or the Royal Shakespeare Company. They’re interested in talent, not looks.”

“Some girls don’t have looks,” Mom said. “They’d be happy to have just that and forget all about the talent.”

“Some girls just have talent,” I said. “And I’d change places with them in a snap.”

“Were you pretty when you were young?” Marly asked Mom.

“That’s what I like about your sister,” Mom said to me. “She phrases things so tactfully.”

“You know what I mean,” Marly said. “Did you win beauty contests?”

“I never entered one,” Mom said. “My parents wouldn’t have liked it. I wish I had though. I could have won, I know it; and then maybe I would have made something of myself. Just one good scholarship, and I could have met the right man. My whole life would have been different.”

“If you were so pretty, how come you didn’t meet the right man anyway?” I asked.

“Because I was in nursing school,” Mom said, looking away from both of us. “You never meet men in nursing school. When I was in high school, I dated. The best boys in the school used to ask me out constantly. But my parents were strict with me. They said I was too young to know what I wanted and made sure I had a profession to fall back on. They were right in a way. I’m grateful that I have my degree. It’s what keeps us alive, after all. We could hardly count on your father to support us. But if only they’d encouraged me, I could have studied some other field and gone to college like all the other girls in my class. All my friends went to college and met nice boys there. I was the only one not to. I went into nursing instead, and by the time I graduated, everybody was taken, and there was nobody left for me except your father. So I grabbed him up, and I’ve been sorry ever since.”

“I thought you liked nursing,” Marly said.

“I do,” Mom said, with a sigh. “I’d be very pleased if either of you went into it as a profession. The hours aren’t very good and the pay could be a lot better, but it gives you a real feeling of satisfaction, and that’s important too.”

“I know the feeling,” I said. “I get it when I do a part well.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Mom said. “You’re not helping anybody when you act. You’re just indulging in childish fantasies.”

“Adult fantasies,” I said.

“You’ll outgrow it,” Mom said. “How was graduation last night?”

“Very nice,” Marly said. “They applauded me.”

“Applause,” Mom said. “That’s all I hear about in this house. You don’t hear me saying my patients applauded me. What is this you girls have for the sound of applause? Give me money any day.”

“They don’t pay you for being smart in junior high school,” Marly said. “I wish they did.”

“They won’t pay you in high school either,” I said. “But you’ll clean up in college.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself,” Marly said. “Mom, I want to be a doctor.”

“It’s a good way to meet men,” Mom said.

“A real doctor,” Marly said. “Not just the wife of one.”

“I’m not stopping you,” Mom said. “If you can get the money, I won’t object. Just don’t expect me to pay for eighteen years of advanced training.”

“It’s hardly eighteen years,” I said.

“Well, that’s nice,” Mom said. “Have you been researching it? Maybe you’ve decided to be one too.”

“Not until they applaud in the operating room.”

“Wait a second,” Mom said. “They like girls to have ambitions like that in beauty contests. Doctor. Schoolteacher. Jobs where you help people. But the kind that takes brains.”

“Mom, I’m not going to say I want to be a doctor just so they’ll give me a couple of extra points.”

“It’s not a lie,” Mom said. “You might end up being a doctor. Besides, I think it would be nice. Your mother’s a nurse, so you want to be a doctor. She proved to be an inspiration, but you aren’t satisfied. You wanted something more than the simple satisfactions of nursing. You wanted the challenge of being one of the few women doctors in the country.”

“Mom, I’m the one who wants to be a doctor,” Marly said.

“I’m sure you won’t mind if Kit borrows your ambition for a while,” Mom said. “Brains and beauty. It would really impress them.”

“I hate to be practical,” I said. “But I don’t have the brains to be a doctor, and I certainly don’t have the ambition. All I want is a simple life at the theater, acting my poor little heart out in childish fantasies.”

“I’m glad you see it is childish,” Mom said. “Besides, that’s what all those girls say. Actress. Judges like a girl to have a real ambition. Maybe you should stick to schoolteacher.”

“Sally’s a teacher,” Marly said. “Third grade.”

“Speech therapist then,” Mom said. “They like speech therapists too. They’re girls with the talent to be actresses, but without the selfishness. So they help other people, little children, by teaching them how to say parts of speech.”

“A noun is a part of speech,” I said. “You mean sounds.”

“I’m sure if you know that much about it, you’ll do fine with the judges,” Mom said. “That should take care of ambition. Did you find an evening gown to wear?”

“Doreen has one. Lynn said I should ask her.”

“What does it look like? What color? Have you seen it?”

“No,” I said. “But Lynn described it. She said it was demure.”

“Demure,” Mom said. “What does that mean?”

“It means Doreen didn’t shock anybody at the prom with it,” I said.

“What color?”

“White,” I said. “Possibly pale pink.”

“Those are bad colors for you,” Mom said. “I wish they weren’t, but they are. You can’t carry innocence.”

“I haven’t had to in a long time,” I said.

“You’ll look like you’re trying to hide something,” Mom said. “You always look like that when you try to look innocent. That’s why you’re so good playing murderers.”

“I only played a murderer once,” I said.

“It was your best part,” Mom said. “I identified with your mother so in that show. I felt like trying to kill you myself.”

“You don’t usually need a show for an excuse,” I said.

“Kit’s going to do Anne Frank for the talent competition,” Marly said.

“Oh,” Mom said. “The whole thing?”

“Selections from her diary,” I said. “Greg suggested it.”

“Greg’s a nice boy,” Mom said. “He has very fine taste.”

“I should think so,” I said. “He goes out with me.”

“Anne Frank,” Mom said. “That’s all right, but not a white dress. Green’s your best color.”

“I don’t think Doreen would want me to dye her dress.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t,” Mom said. “I was just thinking that you shouldn’t wear anything demure anyway. Not that you should be dressed shocking. But your skin stays so pale in the summer, I think you should show if off. All the other girls will probably be peeling from sunburn, and there you’ll be, with your pale skin, looking like a southern belle.”

“Mom, this isn’t an audition for Gone With the Wind.”

“Don’t you think so, Marly?” Mom asked, ignoring me. “Something that will make Kit look aristocratic.”

“I guess so,” Marly said. “I don’t really see Kit as an aristocrat.”

“They said the same thing about Queen Elizabeth,” Mom said. “But it’s all in the bearing. Kit does have very good posture, when she wants to.”

“What’s for supper?” I asked. “Oops, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? About what?” Mom asked.

“Marly’s on a diet.”

“Why?” Mom asked. “She’s not the one in the contest.”

“Mom,” I said, “Marly might want to lose weight anyway.”

“It’s baby fat,” Mom said. “I had it at Marly’s age. She’ll lose it without any diets. Besides, I refuse to cook around either one of you. You’ll eat what I serve, or starve.”

“Fine,” Marly said. “That’s what I want to do anyway. Starve off ten pounds.”

“Fifteen,” Mom said. “Ten won’t make the least difference on you.”

“Kit said I should lose ten.”

“Kit doesn’t know everything,” Mom said. “In spite of what she thinks. Fifteen pounds off and you’ll look fine. Especially if you grow a couple of inches. And your complexion should clear up if you eat right and wash your face twice a day. I sometimes think you don’t wash your face as often as you might.”

“I’m not obsessive about it,” Marly said.

“Obsessive,” Mom said. “The words that come out of that baby. Listen, my love, twice a day is not obsessive. All the books say you should wash your face in the morning and at night, especially at your age. Unless of course you want to have pimples all over you.”

“I’ll lose ten pounds,” Marly said. “And then if I feel like it, I’ll lose five more.”

“Now that’s sensible,” Mom said. “Do you want me to ask some of the doctors how you should lose the weight? I’m sure they wouldn’t mind answering any questions I asked them. They have a great deal of respect for me.”

“That’s okay,” Marly said. “I’m sure they’re much too busy to care about my diet.”

“Don’t be silly,” Mom said. “Just say Yes, and I’ll ask all the best doctors there about diets for you. It’s no bother really.”

“Mom, I don’t want the entire hospital to know I’m trying to lose some weight,” Marly said.

“I don’t know why not,” Mom said. “I told them all about Kit, and showed them the article in the paper, and they were very excited. I’m sure they’ll be happy to learn about your diet. I like bragging about my two daughters; especially when they do something really fine.”

Chapter 5

“You can’t just wear a bathing suit,” Mom said.

“I know,” I said. “But the letter said—”

“Letter,” Mom said. “You’d think the mayor would call and give specific instructions instead of having some secretary write you.”

“He did call,” I said. “Right after the contest. The next day I think. And he mentioned the Fourth, and I didn’t think to ask what to wear.”

“I refuse to have you parade around the streets of Great Oaks in a bathing suit. It’s not decent.”

“Mom, I agree with you,” I said. “It’s just the letter says bathing suit.”

“Maybe a wraparound. You didn’t tell me the mayor called.”

“It slipped my mind.”

“Slipped your mind,” Mom said. “An important man like the mayor.”

“The mayor of Great Oaks is hardly important.”

“Maybe not now, but the man has ambitions. Mayor, then congressman, and then who knows what.”

“Right now he’s just mayor. I hear he’s running for re-election.”

“You ought to know. Your friends are the ones running around with the crazy politics.”

“They’re not crazy,” I said. “I don’t have a wraparound.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“What do you wear when you go to the beach?”

“A robe. My terrycloth one.”

“That’s all?”

“It’s always been enough.”

“You’re not a child any more. I’m surprised you don’t still change in the car, like we used to.”

“When we had a car,” I said. “In the good old days.”

“They were rotten days, and don’t you forget it. Sure we lost the car, but we lost your father with it. Speaking of which, he’s late with the payment again.”

The payment was Mom’s euphemism for child support. Dad tends to forget about it when the sales don’t come in.

“You’ll get it eventually,” I said, because it was getting close to time to go to the lake and parade my status as Miss Great Oaks. Actually, there were months when Mom didn’t get it. Those were always bad times because we really did need the money, and Mom would get bitchy about letting us see Dad, which didn’t bother me all that much, but it depressed Marly.

“If the payment had come, we could have used it for a wraparound,” Mom said.

“I don’t think it would have occurred to either one of us,” I said. “Look, I don’t care if you go to this thing, but Greg’s going to pick me up any minute, and we have to figure out what I’m going to wear.”

“Do you have any kind of long skirt?”

“A long dress. That’s all.”

“A long dress? Could you wear it for the county contest?”

“Impossible,” I said. “It would look ridiculous.”

“Okay. Put pants on then, something clean, please, and not torn and patched, and a blouse. And wear your bathing suit under it.”

“Great,” I said. “Then if they want me to, I can do a strip.”

“They wouldn’t ask you to do that,” Mom said, following me to my room. “This is a civic responsibility. And be sure to be polite. I heard that Orville Talbott’s going to be there.”

“Orville Talbott,” I said. “Who’s Orville Talbott?”

“He’s one of the judges for the county contest.”

“What’s he going to be doing here?”

“His mother lives here, and he comes every year. At least that’s what Dr. Hunnicutt said. Dr. Hunnicutt’s an old friend of Mr. Talbott. He said Mr. Talbott favors redheads.”

“How do I look?” I asked.

Mom looked at me. “Not bad,” she said. “Demure but sexy.”

“Demure but sexy is a tease.”

“The only person you ever teased was Marly,” she said. “I don’t think we have to worry about it now. Speaking of which, who told you to have Greg escort you to this thing?”

“Nobody told me. It was my very own idea. He has a car, you know.”

“I know,” Mom said. “Not as well as you do, I’m sure, but I know. What I don’t know is if it’s okay for you to go with your boy friend.”

“I don’t see why not. Greg’s very respectable.”

“His family’s respectable,” Mom said. Mom was very pleased Greg’s family was so respectable. She regarded it as a hope for the future. “Still, Mr. Talbott might think it was serious between the two of you and not vote for you. Couldn’t Lynn take you?”

“I asked. She’s doing lights for a show.”

“They’re having a show on July Fourth?”

“They figure they just might get an audience. So it’s either Greg or hitching, and I have my doubts about hitching.”

“I should think so. Suppose it got out that Miss Great Oaks had to get to the celebration by hitching?”

“Sounds like a juicy scandal.”

“I’ll go with you and Greg,” she announced.

“Mom, do you have to?”

“No,” she said. “But I think it would be nice. You wouldn’t have entered the contest if it hadn’t been for me. I have a right to be there.”

The doorbell rang. “That’s Greg,” I said. “Come on, Queen Mother. We might as well get the show on the road.”

Morris Lake was a jumble of colors when we got there. Even though the sun was just starting to set, they’d turned on a variety of colored lights, which reflected on the lake and made it look like an oil spill. There were a photographer, a reporter, and a lot of kids being chased by harassed parents. I held on to Greg for support as Mom followed us, telling me to stand up straighter. We hadn’t gotten very far before we were accosted by a stranger.

“Kit? Kit Carson?”

“Yeah,” I said. There were times when I wished my father had tagged me with a different nickname.

“I’m Norma Shandell, Mayor McGowan’s secretary. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise,” I said. My mother kicked me. “Oh, this is Greg Hoffman, and my mother.”

“Adele Carson,” my mother said.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Ms. Shandell said. “Mayor McGowan gave me some instructions for you.”

“I can hardly wait,” I said. Mom kicked me harder.

“First of all, did you bring your bathing suit?” she asked. “It’s traditional for Miss Great Oaks to be here in a bathing suit.”

“I have one on under my clothes.”

“Fine,” she said. “I have the ribbon and the crown for you, in this bag. Why don’t you just take it and go into the dressing room and change.”

“Crown?” I asked.

“It’s just paper, with some gold glitter on it. My daughter did the glitter. She’s seven, and you know how they are at that age. They just love playing with paste. Put the ribbon over your shoulder. You know, the way they have it on TV.”

“And then what do I do?”

“You’ll be introduced, and then you and the mayor will lead the people in singing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ You can sing, can’t you?”

“Not ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’” I said. “I mean, the notes are so high.”

“Nobody will hear you anyway. Just sing away from the microphone. And then say something nice about Great Oaks, and America, and then the mayor will, and that’s all. Except that it’s nice if you mingle with the people. And they’ll want you to comment on the fireworks.”

“What do you mean comment?”

“Nothing too hard,” Ms. Shandell said. “Just say how pretty they are. There’s a man here from the radio, and he’ll be asking you questions on the fireworks, so you just say how pretty and what nice colors. Frankly, they don’t expect too much from Miss Great Oaks.”

“I think I can handle it,” I said. “I’ll go change.”

It was a very nice ribbon, yellow on purple, which went just beautifully with my navy blue bathing suit. The glitter on the crown was falling off, and some of it slipped under my suit, which made me extremely itchy. I kicked my shoes off and made my entrance.

People actually applauded. I was glad Marly wasn’t there (dieting was giving her headaches, she said. She’d lost three pounds though), and extremely glad Lynn wasn’t there, and very sorry Greg was. Also my mother. It was the kind of moment she was going to hold over my head for years.

Mayor McGowan walked up and kissed me, which I thought was presumptuous of him. I wouldn’t have even known who he was except he was the only one wearing a straw hat with a red, white, and blue band saying “McGowan for Mayor.” I smiled broadly and waved hello to my subjects.

The mayor led me up to the platform we’d used for the contest. This time it was tastefully decorated with flags. My crown slipped over my forehead. I shoved it back, smiling broadly.

The mayor and I then sang “The Star-Spangled Banner.” From where I was, it sounded as if we were the only two people singing it. I depended on the mayor to get me through some of the rougher points, since I’d never really learned the lyrics. Somewhere around “the rocket’s red glare” I lose track of what’s coming. I tried to look patriotic and sexy, which isn’t an easy combination.

“And now,” McGowan said, after we’d all cheered, “this year’s Miss Great Oaks will tell us what the Fourth of July means to her. And, I might add, it’s especially appropriate since our lovely winner’s name is Kit Carson, after the great American hero.”

I smiled and tried, through thought waves, to keep my crown from slipping over my eyes. It didn’t work.

“I’m very proud to be an American,” I said straight into the microphone.

The crowd cheered.

“Especially an American from Great Oaks,” I said.

The crowd cheered some more.

I smiled.

“That was beautifully put,” Mayor McGowan said. “You have a future in politics, my dear. Have you thought about being the first woman President?”

“Oh no,” I said, in my best husky stage whisper. “But I’d just love to be the first woman mayor of Great Oaks.” And I smiled.

The mayor laughed and then stopped laughing when I stopped smiling. And then I smiled, and he laughed just a little, and the crowd roared. I sat down, crossed my legs, and forgot to try to look patriotic.

Mayor McGowan had learned nothing about brevity from my speech. His took at least ten minutes, and it was all about the Revolution and how it led to a great Republican administration in Great Oaks. I really felt for Thomas Jefferson and Thomas Paine. Had they known their revolution would result in McGowan, maybe they’d have been Tories instead.

After McGowan’s speech, the bugle corps from the local Boy Scout troop played a medley of John Philip Sousa songs, and the American Legion post leader read a selection of great thoughts from Great Americans. That was what he called it. I personally could think of greater Americans than Charles Lindbergh and Vince Lombardi, but the audience seemed to like it.

Then came the fireworks. I’d always liked fireworks, but I wished I was sitting with everybody else and wearing something warm. It really got cold around Morris Lake on summer nights.

“This is Barry King, coming to you from Morris Lake and giving an eyewitness report of the annual Fourth of July festivities. With me this year is lovely Miss Kit Carson, this year’s Miss Great Oaks. Say hello to the people, Kit.”

“Hello,” I said, and felt like a fool.

“We’ve been promised an unusual fireworks display this year, Kit. Have you heard anything about it?”

“I’m afraid not, Barry,” I said. If he could call me Kit, I could call him Barry. “They don’t divulge state secrets to Miss Great Oaks.”

Barry laughed heartily. I disliked him. “I know the feeling,” he said. “They keep us reporters in the dark too.”

Someone started the fireworks. The first few were just jumbles of colors.

“Lovely,” Barry said. “How would you describe that, Kit?”

“Lovely,” I said. “Reds, yellows, pale ocher. Too bad this isn’t TV.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s what I keep telling my boss.”

There was a technical difficulty then (I think someone dropped the matchbook), and Barry had to think of something to fill the time with. He decided on me.

“You must be thrilled being Miss Great Oaks,” he said.

“Oh yes,” I said. “It was the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“I hear your chances for the county contest are very good,” he said. “Rumor has it you’re a shoo-in.”

“I never listen to rumors,” I said.

“Do you think you’ll make it all the way?”

“You mean all the way?” I asked. “The whole schmeer?”

“That was the idea.”

“Never,” I said. “That’s utterly impossible.”

“Why?” he said. “It happens to some girl every year. Why not you?”

It was an interesting question, one I hadn’t asked myself. I’d just assumed it wouldn’t go any further. “I have red hair,” I said after a pause Barry must have hated. “And I’m not from Mississippi. They always give it to girls from Mississippi. And I bite my fingernails.”

Barry laughed. “You’re being much too modest,” he said. “You’re a lovely girl and very talented. You have every chance of winning.”

“Never,” I said, but fortunately before we could resume the conversation, the fireworks started again, and I was able to return to safer subjects.

As soon as I could, I got down from the platform and walked around looking for familiar faces. Greg came with me. Mom stayed in one place and fended compliments. I guess she decided we wouldn’t leave without her except maybe to elope.

There were a few kids there from my high school class, and I felt very embarrassed, like I couldn’t afford clothes and that’s why I was wandering around in a bathing suit (and an ugly one at that). The conversations were strained, but I wasn’t that friendly with anyone who wasn’t in the theater crowd, and since Greg was two years older, he didn’t know them. I was thinking about making a quick exit when I spotted Roger Davalos.

I’d done Anne Frank with Roger, and then he’d taken off for parts unknown to seek his fortune as an actor. I’d seen better actors in little theater, but no one with such a distinctive face. He had oversize features and a small mustache and everything crinkled. Most people’s eyes crinkle when they’re smiling, but Roger’s entire face crinkled all the time. He looked much more likable than he really was, but I hadn’t seen him in over a year, and I was eager to hear what he was doing. So I dragged Greg over.

“Kit, darling,” Roger said and grabbed me. We exchanged hugs, kisses, and introductions.

“Pleased to meet you,” Greg grumbled.

“What’re you doing?” I asked.

“More to the point, what are you doing?” he said. “Really, Kit, I thought you were above this sort of thing.”

“I thought so too,” I said. “Or below it. It was a freak that I won.”

“Just as long as you don’t take it seriously,” Roger said. “What’re your plans?”

“College here,” I said. “Unless something better comes along.”

Roger looked at Greg and crinkled. I did too. Greg frowned.

“What are you doing here?” I said. “The last I heard you were in Denver.”

“I was,” Roger said. “I’m on my way to New York now, to see about doing commercials. I’m signed up with an agency that’s very good at that sort of thing. And while I’m there, I’ll audition for shows.”

“What was Denver like?”

“The city or the theater group?”

“The theater group.”

“Marvelous,” Roger said. “Awful. Every day a different trauma. We had a managing director who thought playwriting began and ended with Shaw. But he was good with Shaw. I learned a lot from him.”

“Why did you leave?” I asked, eager for any news of real theater, of people who earned their living by it.

“I wanted to try other things,” Roger said. “I’m sure after a week of plugging foot deodorant I’ll be yearning for Man and Superman again, but I couldn’t take any more of it. And I wanted to try New York before I’m too old. But mostly it was because the group folded.”

“That could do it,” Greg said.

Roger ignored him. “So much depends on funding,” he said. “The Colorado arts council decided we should be self supporting already, which of course we weren’t. So we all went different ways.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Don’t cry about it,” he said. “We were all in the mood to try other things anyway. And some group in Colorado Springs got an enormous grant to do children’s theater. They have some good people there.”

“Children’s theater?” I said.

“Don’t condescend,” Roger said. “I almost joined up with them myself except their first production is going to be Androcles and the Lion and I couldn’t bear the idea of any more Shaw. You can learn a lot doing children’s shows. You learn to act honestly. Kids won’t take anything else.”

“Do they have any openings, do you know?” I asked.

“Probably late this summer,” he said. “They get a lot of kids for cheap labor, but by fall they need professionals.”

“Kit,” Greg said, in a warning voice.

“That gives me some time,” I said, thinking about doing theater for a living, even children’s theater, even in Colorado Springs. “You can really learn doing children’s theater?”

“It would be good for you,” Roger said. “You’d learn a hell of a lot more than the college here could teach you. Can you do anything besides acting?”

“Make-up,” I said. “Gerry Marks taught me last summer. I’m good at make-up.”

“That they might be interested in,” he said. “Make-up’s a good sellable talent. Especially for kid’s stuff. They just might take you on.”

“Do you really think so?” I said. “I’d give anything to be working for a theater group.”

“They’re called Joy,” Roger said. “Just Joy. Maddy Aronowitz is in charge. If you go out there, tell her I sent you. I don’t know how much weight that’ll carry, but it shouldn’t hurt.”

“Roger, you’re an angel,” I said and gave him a hug. “How long are you going to be in town?”

“Just until tomorrow,” he said. “I couldn’t resist staying for the fireworks, but frankly that’s the only thing worth while in this whole town.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said.

“For giving you a lead?” he said. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a lousy life, acting. You never know whether you’re going to eat tomorrow, and you have to take crap from everybody. And unless you’re a star, nobody respects you. But if you’re one of those crazy people who can’t think of any other way to live, the least you can do is help the other crazy people. You’ll do it for me sometime.”

“It was nice meeting you,” Greg said. “But I think Kit’s lips are turning blue.”

“Greg,” I said.

“I have to get going anyway,” Roger said. “It was great seeing you again, Kit. I’ll send you my address as soon as I get settled down. Let me know what happens.”

“I’ll do that,” I said, and we kissed good-by. I walked back with Greg to my mother, who was standing where we left her, holding court. I decided not to mention anything to her that night. Let her enjoy the glory while it lasted.

The evening finally ended, and I blew my last kiss. I walked over to the dressing room and put my clothes on. Someone had stolen my shoes, so I ran out barefoot. I put the ribbon and the crown back in the bag, but Ms. Shandell told me I could keep the crown as a souvenir. The ribbon they’d use again next year. I told her to give the crown to her little girl and tell her someday it might be hers. Ms. Shandell thanked me.

“I was very proud of you,” Mom said, “but you could have been a little nicer to the mayor.”

Greg laughed. “I think she did very well for herself, Mrs. Carson,” he said. “The people seemed to enjoy it.”

“It was an easy fifty bucks,” I said. “Did Mr. Talbott like me?”

“Mr. Talbott wasn’t there,” Mom said. “His mother was sick.”

“I wonder if I should have kept the crown. Maybe given it to Marly.”

“Marly can live without it,” Mom said. “Besides, why give her thoughts like that? She’ll never be in a beauty contest.”

“She has too much sense,” I said. “Did you hear what that Barry person suggested?”

“What?” Mom asked.

“Nothing really,” I said. “Just that I might go all the way. Win big. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

“I don’t think it’s ridiculous at all,” Mom said. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along. You’ve been laughing at me, but now an important man’s said it. He’s in radio. You don’t get to be on the air like that without having been around. If he said it, maybe you’ll believe me when I do.”

“Mom, it’s insane,” I said. “I don’t have the looks.”

“Listen to the girl,” Mom said to Greg. “She doesn’t have the looks. Have you ever seen such a pretty girl?”

“Never,” Greg said. “Kit, you’re beautiful. And stranger things have happened.”

“Not to me,” I said. “Besides, even if I have the looks, I don’t have the personality. I’m bound to blow it somewhere.”

“So act,” Mom said. “You’re so big on acting, act your way through those contests. Pretend you’re really excited. Pretend it’s the most important thing in your life. Give the performance of your life, and then see what happens.”

Mom’s tone of voice worried me. I looked back at her, and her face was glowing. I’d never seen her look so pretty.

Chapter 6

Mom bought me the dress the same day I told her about Colorado Springs, and they both caused a big argument.

The dress came first because Mom was on some kind of crazy shift that let her out at nine in the morning. She then went to the most expensive clothing store in town and got me an evening gown.

“I was going to ask Doreen if I could borrow hers,” I grumbled. I would have shouted except she’d awakened me to show me, and I never shout first thing in the morning.

“You never called her,” Mom said. “You’ve been saying you’ll call her for two weeks now, and the contest is in five days. What if the dress hadn’t fit?”

“Now we won’t have a chance to see,” I said. “You got the dress at Bradley’s? We can’t afford Bradley’s.”

“For something this special, we can,” Mom said. “Aren’t you even going to look at it?”

“Do I have to?”

“Of course you don’t have to,” Mom said. “You can go to the contest naked if you want. I don’t care.”

“I don’t either,” I said.

“Look at the dress,” Mom said.

So I opened the box, and there was a fantastic dress, sleeveless, apple green, and cut just enough in front and back so we wouldn’t have to worry about faking innocence. But not too sexy. “It’s perfect,” I said.

“It cost a fortune,” Mom said. “But I saw it and I just knew it was right. Try it on.”

“Over my pajamas?”

“Go to the bathroom,” Mom said. “Take the dress and some underwear with you, and come out dressed. Fast.”

So I took the dress with me and came out as fast as I could. I stopped in front of the full-length mirror and admired myself. It was a great dress.

“You look lovely,” Mom said. “The only thing that dress could use is a string of pearls.”

“The only thing we could use is a million dollars,” I said.

“Money makes money,” Mom said. “A string of nice cultured pearls might make the difference between winning and losing.”

“Lose?” I said. “Me lose? How can I in this dress that cost all the food money for the month? Marly’s bound to lose weight, now that we can’t afford food.”

“We’ll manage,” Mom said. “Besides, I’m sure Marly won’t mind giving up an occasional treat. She’s as excited about this contest as I am.”

“I’m glad you left me out of it,” I said.

“I know my daughters,” Mom said. “The only reason you’re in the contest is because you’re the one with looks.”

“Marly wouldn’t be in it,” I said. “You can’t talk her into things like you can me.”

“I didn’t know I could talk you into anything,” Mom said. “It’s nice to hear.”

“Can I get out of the dress now?”

“Do you like it?”

“I love it,” I said, because it was the truth. “It was a ridiculous extravagance, and I’ll never wear it again, but I love it. And thank you for buying it. Can I pay you back for it? I have money saved up from baby-sitting.”

Mom kissed me. “It’s a gift,” she said. “Sometimes even I can be generous.”

We spent the day in unusual harmony. I took the dress off, but as soon as Marly got back from the library she insisted on seeing it, so I put it back on and gave a regular fashion show. We agreed I could wear the same bathing suit for that part of the competition and became engrossed in a discussion of what I should wear for the talent part. We chose a blouse and skirt.

Mom seemed in such a good mood, I decided to gamble. “Guess who I saw?” I began and realized my voice was squeaking. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Roger Davalos.”

“Who?”

“Davalos,” I said. “I was in some shows with him. He’s an actor, a professional one now.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” she asked. I could see Marly looking worried.

“Nothing,” I said. “Except he mentioned this theater group in Colorado Springs that’s going to be needing people.”

“Colorado Springs,” Mom said. “What kind of theater could be there?”

“There are theaters all over this country,” I said. It annoys me when people think the only place with theater is New York. “In this case it’s children’s theater. This group, called Joy, got a big grant of money to do children’s shows. Roger said there were some openings.”

“That’s nice,” she said.

“Anyway, I thought I might go out there later this summer and see about it,” I said. “Roger said that they use high school kids for the summer, but it’s a full-year program, so they’ll need people later on.”

“You’re crazy,” Mom said.

“What do you mean, I’m crazy?” I said. “It’s a good group, and Roger said I could learn a lot.”

“I think Kit should go,” Marly said.

“I didn’t ask you what you thought,” Mom said. “This is a decision for Kit and me to make.”

“No, Mom,” I said. “It’s all for me, and I’ve already made it. This is a real opportunity, and I’m going to take it.”

“Don’t hurry,” Mom said. “There are a lot of things you ought to consider first. Is the company any good?”

“Mom, it could be the Royal Shakespeare Company, and it wouldn’t make any difference to you.”

“It’s still a factor. Have you ever heard of them?”

“Just what Roger told me,” I admitted.

“That’s really something,” Mom said. “And what about college?”

“What about it?” I asked. “I never wanted to go anyway.”

“You say that now, when you’re young, but someday you’re going to miss that degree.”

“Mom, the odds on my staying in college long enough to earn a degree are so minimal we can ignore them. I’m not Marly. I don’t like school.”

“Even two years is better than none. Even one year is. You’ve been accepted to a very good college, and I don’t think you should throw that away on a possibility.”

“College is a waste of money,” I said.

“And what about the contest?” Mom said.

“What about it?”

“Are you planning to enter it? Or are you just going to drop everything and run away?”

“I’m not running away,” I said. “And sure I’ll enter it. What’s the problem?”

“What happens if you win?” she said. I could see the look of triumph in her eyes.

“Win?” I said.

“You heard me,” Mom said. “Lots of people think you’re going to win. And then you’ll have to be here in September for the state contest. You won’t be able to run off to Colorado.”

“All right, I won’t be in the contest,” I said. “I’ll drop out now. That way we won’t have to worry about it.”

“That’s great,” Mom said. “Just drop out. That’s really grateful.”

“What does gratefulness have to do with anything?”

“A lot of people have helped you with this contest,” Mom said.

“Besides you, who?”

“Bradley’s for one,” she said. “They gave me a discount on this dress when they heard what it was for.”

“You went begging to some clothes store to get me this dress?” I said. “Thanks for telling me, Mom. Now will you please return it?”

“I don’t mind begging for my daughters,” Mom said. “Not when it’s something important. And Bradley’s was delighted to do it. It’s free advertising for them because they’re sure you’re going to win.”

“Well, thank them very much and take the dress back,” I said. “Let me go to Colorado, and you won’t have to beg for me any more.”

“And throw away your real chance? Ten thousand girls your age have your talent, Kit. It’s not so unusual. But you’re the only one in the world with your face and your body. They’re what make you special. Use them for what they’re worth.”

“There’s something about that that makes me feel really cheap,” I said. “Like all I was, was a pretty face. I’m more than that, Mom, and I wish you’d realize it.”

“There’s five hundred dollars in that beauty contest,” Mom said. “That’s a lot of money for this family. You won’t be able to save a cent from that theater no matter how hard you work.”

“I won’t cost you a cent either,” I said. “And it’s what I want to do with my life. Isn’t that what’s important?”

“If you think it’s more important than helping out your family, I can’t argue with you,” Mom said. “If you think it’s all right to let down your friends, your home town, then there’s nothing more I can say. Go, run away. Spend your life pretending. You were never much good at truth anyway.”

“That’s unfair,” I said. “There’s a difference between acting and lying.”

“Would you wait a second,” Marly said. “The two of you, could you just shut up for a moment?”

We shut up.

“I don’t see why you can’t stick around for the county contest,” she said. “It’s only next week, that’s not so far away. And then you can lose gracefully and go to Colorado and see what happens. Instead of making such a fuss right now. Doesn’t that make sense?”

“It means keeping the dress,” I said.

“I want you to have the dress,” Mom said. “Even if it’s just for this one time. It’s important to me.”

I never liked it when Mom pulled that kind of argument on me. There’s no way you can get out of it without sounding like an ungrateful wretch. I might be ungrateful, but I resented the wretch part.

“I’ll lose the contest,” I said, thinking out loud.

“If you go into it with that attitude, I don’t see how you can win,” Mom said.

“Actresses never win,” Marly said. “Dancers, gymnasts, they win, not actresses.”

“It’s just such a waste of the dress.”

“Someday,” Mom said, “when you’re a big star, you can pay me back for the dress. You can buy me one, and Marly, and get us both strings of pearls. Until then, don’t worry about it. The only pay I want right now is to see you in it during the county contest. That’s all. I don’t think it’s too much to ask for.”

“Wouldn’t you rather see me opening night?”

“Not if it means going to Colorado,” Mom said. “Is it a deal?”

“I won’t win,” I said. “It’s ridiculous I even won Miss Great Oaks. I don’t have the personality for this kind of thing, and it must be obvious to the judges. And if I don’t win, I don’t have to worry about it. I can try something really important.”

“It makes sense to me,” Marly said. “Of course it was my idea.”

“It was a good one,” I said. “Most of your ideas are. And Dad said he would come. I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.”

Mom let that pass, which showed how much she wanted to make peace. “Okay,” I said, feeling like I’d consorted with the devil. “I’ll be in your silly contest.”

“Fine,” Mom said. “Now take off your dress before you get it dirty. They won’t even look at you in a dirty dress.”

So I went upstairs to change and think about acting.

Chapter 7

There are no big cities in Harrison County, just a collection of small and medium-sized towns. Great Oaks fell somewhere between the two, so I didn’t feel like a country bumpkin or a city slicker when the contest began.

Actually, I didn’t feel much of anything except disappointment because my father didn’t show and impatience to get it over with. I hadn’t expected Dad to come; he was always saying he’d come to things and then not showing. But I never realized ahead of tune that he’d do it again, so each time he didn’t come, I was disappointed. I guess I expected him because he did come when it had to do with Marly. Still, he’d made it for her graduation, and that was the important thing.

The impatience was a little harder to deal with. Greg had driven us up to Lawrence, the county seat where the contest was being held, and it was an uncomfortable drive. Greg and I had been having problems ever since Colorado Springs came up. He was annoyed at something, and I was annoyed he wasn’t telling me why. So by the time we all got into his car, Greg and I were hardly speaking. Mom was so thrilled about where we were going that she didn’t say anything. Marly talked a lot, but not about anything important, and her babbling got on all our nerves.

The contest was a whole day affair. Greg dropped me off, with suitcase, at the hotel where it was being held, and drove Mom and Marly around to have breakfast and do some sight-seeing. There are no sights to see in Lawrence, but there wasn’t anything else to do. I “freshened up,” which meant washing my face and wishing for a better deodorant, and went to the main room to see what they’d do to me.

It was a large room, decorated in teal blue, with a gray plush rug. It was probably the banquet room, but today it was set up for less social purposes. In one corner were three rows of chairs for the contestants to sit in when they weren’t being examined and cross-examined for beauty, brains, and long legs. Two walls were taken up with a number of fair-sized tables. Behind each table sat a judge, generally a middle-aged man in a conservative business suit and more conservative tie, and on the tables were a stack of papers, scattered around to give the appearance of officialness. When I got to my first table, I checked and the papers were all blank. So, for the most part, were the expressions on the faces of the judges.

A middle-aged lady, with a great deal of silver-blue hair, grabbed me by the arm. “I’m Charlotte Dealing,” she said.

“Katherine Carson,” I said. “Miss Great Oaks.”

Ms. Dearing looked through a pile of identification cards and gave me one. “Put it on,” she said, and I did.

“Great Oaks,” she said and looked down a list of names. “You start with Mr. Smith.”

“What?” I asked.

“Mr. Smith,” she said. “And then Mr. Talbott, Mrs. Marsh, and Mr. O’Reilly. They’ll ask you a few questions, try to get a feel for your personality.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “As long as that’s all they feel for.”

Ms. Dearing chose not to hear me. “Mr. Smith is right over there,” she said, pointing me in his direction. “Go speak to him, after the other two girls.”

I thanked her and waited for my chance to speak to Mr. Smith.

“So you’re Miss Great Oaks,” he said, when I finally sat down at his table.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Katherine Carson.”

“Do you have any nicknames?”

I almost hated to tell him. “Kit,” I said.

“Kit,” he said, but didn’t put the two names together. “Well, Kit, you must be a very excited girl.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t ask about what.

“Have you ever traveled?”

“No,” I said. “At least not out of the state.”

“And what does your father do for a living?”

“He’s a salesman,” I said. “He does all the traveling for the family.”

Mr. Smith laughed. I’d noticed that people involved in beauty contests laughed very easily. “And where do you plan to go to college?”

“Morsly College, in Great Oaks,” I said. Mom had told me to keep my mouth shut about Colorado, and it seemed reasonable. Besides, if she found out I’d told, she would have killed me.

“You are a home town girl,” he said.

“Just a poor one,” I said. “Morsly’s giving me a scholarship, and I can live at home.”

“I see,” he said. “Well, thank you very much, Kit, and I wish you luck with the contest.”

“Thank you,” I said, hoping poverty didn’t disqualify me. For all I knew, it might. I thought about the beauty contest winners I’d seen, and they all looked middle class.

The other judges asked comparable questions. When they asked about my ambitions, I was very modest. “I’d love to be an actress,” I said. “But I know what a difficult field it is. My second choice is speech therapy. It’s such worth-while work.”

The judges nodded a lot after that. I wished someone was around to appreciate my performance.

After the interviews, all the contestants had lunch together. It wasn’t a very good lunch, but it was free. I learned early never to knock free food.

“What a drag,” said the girl sitting next to me.

“Lunch or the whole thing?” I asked.

“The whole thing,” she said. “But lunch in particular. Chicken. I hate chicken.”

“It’s not cooked enough,” I said.

“The whole contest isn’t cooked enough,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“Me neither,” I agreed. “My name’s Kit.”

“Cynthia,” she said. “They’ll never give it to anybody named Cynthia. Too aristocratic.”

“You’re probably right,” I said. “What’s your talent?”

“Baton twirling,” she said.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“No,” she said. “It’s the only talent I have. Besides we decided it would be homey enough to counteract my name.”

“Do you know how to twirl?”

“No,” she said. “But I figure the judges don’t know either. I’m planning to fake my way through.”

“I know the feeling,” I said.

“I’m a sophomore at Barnard,” she said. “I wouldn’t be here except my father decided it would help business if I entered. If my friends at Barnard hear about it, I’ll have to drop out.”

“I’m hoping I won’t win,” I said. “I have other things to do.”

“I know I won’t,” she said. “They never choose baton twirlers. Especially if they go to Barnard and have names like Cynthia.”

“That must be very comforting,” I said.

“It’s all I have to hold on to,” she said.

The conversation made me feel better. In Great Oaks, everybody had wanted to win. Maybe here it was different, and all the girls would be just as happy to lose. I felt a lot more relaxed.

After lunch, the thirty-five of us did our talent presentations. That way, the judges could cut the number down to ten for the evening event. Most of the talent was terrible. I liked Cynthia’s act though. She had a baton, and she threw it into the air a couple of times. The second time she caught it.

“Not bad for a beginner,” she said.

One of the judges snorted. The others were very somber. I realized that they weren’t going to laugh at just anything, especially if it made fun of the talent competition.

At the end of her act, Cynthia threw the baton in the air, and tried to catch it while she jumped. Instead, she tripped and fell and the baton hit her on the head. She got up, tucked the baton under her arm, and smiled as if it were all part of the act. For all I knew, it was.

I read my Anne Frank selections. I was good. It annoyed me slightly, since if I’d been really bad that would have ended things right there, but I just couldn’t botch her up. I remembered doing the play, remembered everything the director and I had discussed about her, and it was all there when I did the selections. A couple of the girls applauded when I finished, and I smiled. It had been a long time since I’d felt in control of a situation, but I did right then.

The talent competition took all afternoon. About half the girls sang, or tried to. A few did ballet, but none of them were any good. One girl did a ventriloquism act, and I knew she was going to make it to the ten finalists. There were six baton twirlers, including Cynthia, and five actresses, including me. I was definitely the best actress. A couple of the singers had been very good, but what they had in talent, they lacked in looks. The best of the singers was positively pudgy. My chief competition, I decided, was a girl who did acrobatics. She was at least five foot nine, with waist-length hair and great cheekbones. I wouldn’t have minded looking like her myself.

When I realized I was systematically categorizing the competition, I got a little scared. I didn’t want to do well in the contest. Actually, my ambition was to be fourth runner-up. It would make Mom feel better, I decided, knowing I’d been in the running, but there would be no responsibilities. I tried to feel like a fourth runner-up for the rest of the day, but it’s not the easiest thing to grab on to. It was simple to feel like a winner, just as easy to feel like a loser. But a fourth runner-up didn’t feel like much of anything.

After talent, we had a light supper, during which I complimented Cynthia on her baton twirling.

“Thank you,” she said. “I worked very hard on it yesterday.”

“Nothing like giving your all for a contest,” I said.

“You’ll make it as a finalist,” she said. “Miss Haverstown and I have a bet going whether you’ll win. She says yes, I say no.”

“I’m on your side,” I said. “I think the acrobat will win.”

“No,” she said. “Too tall. And much too beautiful. They don’t like them when they’re that classic-looking. Too much like models, not wholesome enough. My money’s on Miss Claridge.”

“She did one of the dances, right?” I said. “She can’t dance worth beans.”

“You know that, and I know that, but I’ll give you odds the judges don’t. They’re very impressed with Art around here. And she doesn’t look like a dancer. Her thighs aren’t muscular. They like them when their thighs are thin.”

“I’m still going with Acrobatics,” I said. “She’s the best-looking one here.”

“Yeah, if you go for cheekbones,” Cynthia said. “Dimples are more the judges’ speed.”

“It’s funny,” I said. “I don’t want to win. But I feel terribly competitive.”

“I know,” Cynthia said. “I feel the same way. Only I don’t have the talent, and you do. Watch, I won’t make it to the finals.”

“I hope you do,” I said. “I’d feel better knowing you were one.”

“No way,” she said. “But thanks.”

After supper, we were given half an hour to rest, which meant lying down on cots, pretending not to talk, and then we were sent to put on our make-up and get into our evening gowns. The evening gowns were a formality, since the judges had already decided who the ten finalists were to be. The make-up was a problem since I didn’t wear any. Cynthia finally got me some green eyeshadow and a little mascara. I didn’t feel any prettier when I had it on, but she pointed out, correctly, that it would bring my eyes out more, and the judges expected it of me. We all admired each others’ dresses. Cynthia’s was a multicolored chiffon.

“That is a gorgeous dress,” I said.

“Thanks,” she said. “They never choose girls in multicolored dresses, but I figured if I had to be in the contest, I might at least get a nice dress out of it, so I chose this one.”

“My mother got me this,” I said. “After a massive fight.”

“It looks like your mother got it,” she said. “But good. Appropriate. They like dresses like that.”

Most of the girls were wearing white, or pale pink. I felt almost daring in green.

“Pastels,” Cynthia said. “Pastels, ruffles, and dimples. Never fails. There are a lot of last year’s prom dresses here. I can spot them a mile off.”

“What are you majoring in?” I asked.

“Chemistry,” she said. “But even chem majors can spot last year’s prom dresses.”

We were then lined up, in alphabetical order, and the piano player who was accompanist for the talent that needed it, as well as professional entertainer for the evening, began playing “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody.” The first girl in the line assumed it was a cue, and started walking on stage, but Ms. Dearing pushed her back. The girl started to cry, and Ms. Dearing shook her and told her to get control of herself. We all felt awful.

Our master of ceremonies said some stuff about how this year’s Miss Harrison County contestants were the prettiest and most poised he had ever seen, which started a giggling fit backstage. Ms. Dearing went around shushing us. The MC then said some stuff about how smart we were and what a tough job the judges would have. At which point the piano player started playing “Michele,” and Ms. Dearing told the first girl to start walking.

She gave us each a little push when it was time for us to start across stage. I have a feeling half the girls would never have made it if it hadn’t been for that shove. I was eager to get it over with and walked a half pace too fast, took a deep breath, and slowed myself down.

The lights were terrible. I’m used to stage lights, but these blinded me. I reassured myself that everybody else on stage started out blind and walked around, listening to the applause.

First we walked, and then we stood there, listening to the cheers. The MC made a few more comments about our loveliness and promised the audience a great show as well. The piano player played “What the World Needs Now” and sang, slightly off key. I winced, then smiled broadly, since wincers never win (and winners never wince).

The judges finished with their lists of finalists, and handed it to the MC. They were in no particular order, he said. I was the fourth name on the list, which I regarded as a good omen, for being fourth runner-up. The acrobat also made it, and Miss Claridge, the bad dancer did, as well. Cynthia didn’t, and neither did the pudgy girl with the good voice. I hadn’t paid that much attention to the other finalists.

We were all ushered backstage, where the ten finalists changed into their bathing suits. A few of the losers were crying. Cynthia looked relieved.

“Win it for the gipper,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said. “Enjoy the show.”

Walking around in my bathing suit wasn’t so bad, since I’d had some practice with it. I had one advantage over everybody else, including Miss Acrobatics. They all had spiked heels on, the kind that went out of style everywhere, but beauty contests, years ago. I was wearing sandals. Even Mom had agreed it wasn’t worth the money for me to buy spike-heeled shoes.

The audience applauded us all. I think I got a little more applause than some of the girls, but not as much as Miss Acrobatics. It was hard to judge. By then I’d adjusted to the lights and was spending my time trying to smile like a fourth runner-up.

When we finished we went backstage and changed into our talent outfits, while the pianist sang a medley of Cole Porter songs. I decided he was supposed to sound bad, to make us look better. That was the best excuse I could come up with.

We couldn’t see the talent from backstage, which was a pity, since I wanted to see how the other girls were. The singers we could hear though, and you could tell they were nervous. Miss Acrobatics got a lot of applause, and so did a batonist. The ventriloquist was very popular. I decided she’d win. And then it was my turn.

The problem was I could feel like a fourth runner-up in my bathing suit, and in my evening gown, but I just couldn’t with the talent part. I blamed it on Anne Frank and what the part had meant to me when I’d first done it, since it was what proved to me I was an actress. I’d suspected it for years before that, but the director’s encouragement had made it seem real, and I loved Anne for that. I was no fourth runner-up when I read from her diary to the audience. I was a winner and I knew it. I went backstage and told myself that they preferred ventriloquists to actresses.

The ten of us went out again in our evening gowns and listened to the pianist who, fortunately, this time just played. The judges handed in their list of five finalists.

It was the ventriloquist, Miss Claridge, Miss Acrobatics, a singer, and me. I was the last one named, and I held on to that for comfort.

Five folding seats were set up for us. We sat down and congratulated each other. I tried to look unenthusiastic, but I was nervous, and when I’m nervous, from a distance I look excited. So I tried to look blasé instead, but I don’t think that came off too much better.

The judges then handed the MC five cards, with questions to ask us. They’d told us beforehand that the questions would be a big factor in deciding who the winner would be. I decided to stutter when they asked me mine.

The first girl was asked who she admired most in the world. She listed her father, the pope, and John Lennon. We agreed that it was an interesting group. She said it was because they all believed in peace.

The second girl was asked about walking on the moon. She said she couldn’t wait to go herself.

The third girl was Miss Acrobatics. I had high hopes for her. They asked her what she thought the most noble quality in man was, and she said selfishness. It seems she’d just finished reading Ayn Rand. I closed my eyes in sorrow, knowing she’d blown it. Selfishness was not big with beauty contest judges.

The ventriloquist was asked what was the most important event in her lifetime. She said the Miss Harrison County Beauty Contest. I had the feeling the judges were looking for an answer like the A-bomb, or J.F.K.’s assassination, but I couldn’t be too sure. In any event, I decided, she hadn’t blown it like Miss Acrobatics.

“And now Miss Great Oaks,” the MC said. “This year’s Miss Great Oaks is named Kit Carson. She’s five foot seven, and weighs one hundred and sixteen pounds.”

I stood there, waiting for my question, and smiled.

“Tell me, Kit, what do you think the role of youth is in today’s society.”

“Youth?” I asked, and forgot all about stuttering. “I think youth today has an obligation to listen to what their elders say, to learn from their wisdom. I think we also have a responsibility to listen to our conscience and refuse to make the mistakes that so many generations have made before us. The youth of today must learn, but they must also teach.”

I knew I’d blown it as soon as I sat down. Good-by Miss Fourth Runner-Up. Method acting had taken its toll again. I didn’t even blink when they announced that I’d won.

Chapter 8

“You blew it,” Greg said, as we drove home from the contest.

“What do you mean blew it?” Mom said. “Kit won, silly. I couldn’t have been more proud if it was me on stage.”

“I wish it had been,” I said. I was feeling very miserable.

“You looked beautiful,” Marly said.

“I felt beautiful,” I said. “That’s the killer. I felt like a winner. I didn’t want to, but I did.”

“It showed,” Mom said. “You looked like a champion, like you’d go all the way. Do the same thing for the state contest.”

“My God, the state contest,” I said. “I forgot all about it.”

“How could you?” Mom asked. “That’s what we have to prepare for. You can’t get away with anything any more. You’ll have to buy the right kinds of shoes, and get yourself some make-up. Your hair needs trimming too.”

“Can I wear the same evening gown?”

“Of course. You know we can’t afford another one. When you make it to the national contest, then we’ll get you a new one.”

“This is a nightmare,” I said. “Why didn’t they give it to a ventriloquist?”

“Ventriloquists never win,” Mom said. “Actresses win. Beautiful actresses with auburn hair, that is.”

It takes a lot to make me cry. Twelve years of failing, or close to failing, grades never made me shed a single tear. When Dad left, I cried a little, but mostly from relief. And even losing parts I really wanted, which happened twice, caused more embarrassment than pain. I cry only when I feel vulnerable, and I feel vulnerable when I’ve lost control of the situation, and it’s a situation I have to be in control of. When I couldn’t get a grasp on the character of Eliza, and no matter what I did she didn’t live for me, let alone anyone else, I cried. When, briefly, because of something cruel I said, I lost Lynn’s friendship, I cried. And when I won a beauty contest that I had been determined to lose, I forgot about sleep, and the courtesies of sharing a bedroom, and sobbed.

“Don’t,” Marly said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because it could be worse,” she said. “Just think about living with Mom if you’d lost. She wouldn’t have known who to blame.”

“She would have found someone.”

“Probably me,” Marly said. “The state contest isn’t that far from now. You’re bound to lose then.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I have this awful fated feeling. Maybe it’s silly but I can’t help feeling if I was going to lose, I would have already. And if I win the state contest, I’m really stuck. That’s a job. You can’t even go to college. And I won’t be me any more. I’ll be a beauty contest winner.”

“No, you won’t,” Marly said. “You’ll never win. You’re just not the beauty contest type. They’re bound to realize it eventually.”

“They haven’t yet,” I said. “I was there, giving them my best fourth-runner-up smile, and they picked me to win. And I know the same thing will happen again. Mom has me too well trained. I’ll go to the capitol for the state contest, and they’ll put me on stage with all the competition, and I’ll refuse to lose. I hate losing, Marly. I do it terribly. And I’ll sit there and say I’m damned if I’m going to lose, and then I’ll win, and good-by to peace and quiet and hello to the national contest. And chaperones. They have chaperones in the national contest, and all the money goes to scholarships, and with my luck I’ll win that too. And Mom’ll smile and say how proud she is. She’ll probably start a syndicated column on how to be the mother of a beauty queen.”

“I think you’re worrying too much,” Marly said. “Call Lynn tomorrow, and she’ll bring you back to reality.”

So I called Lynn and she said she was no longer speaking to me.

“I think it’s rotten,” she said. “You were a fool to enter Miss Great Oaks and an even bigger fool to stick with it. And then you had to win. You can’t possibly expect me to treat you with respect.”

“Respect has nothing to do with it,” I said. “But I could use a little sympathy.”

“I save all my sympathy for losers,” she said. “Call me when you come to your senses.”

Mom was very proud. “Did you see the pictures in the Clarion?” she asked, coming home for lunch.

“I haven’t been out,” I said. I didn’t tell her I was afraid I’d be booed if I did.

“Here,” she said. “I’m so proud. All the doctors congratulated me. And would you believe it, some of the patients did too. I don’t know how they found out about it, unless it was on the radio, but they all said what a beautiful girl you must be, and when I showed them your picture, they were very impressed.”

“That must have been a real thrill.”

“It was,” she said. “You may not understand it, but most of the time I’m nothing to the patients but a convenience, someone who makes the beds and takes their temperatures. Sure, the doctors know I’m a good nurse, but they’re busy men. They don’t have a chance to really notice me. Today I was someone. I was the mother of Miss Harrison County. Maybe it’s foolish, but it was a real thrill.”

I looked at her and realized how tired she was. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

“I said beauty wasn’t all you had,” she continued, ignoring me. “You had a lot of talent too, and the judges realized it. I didn’t know whether you were going to win at first. Of course, I wanted you to, and I hoped you would, but you can never tell how judges are going to react, and some of the other girls were pretty. None as pretty as you, but they were pretty. But then you read that speech, and I knew you had it. There was something in the way your face shone, and your eyes. There was such a feeling of beauty there. After that I knew you’d win. I wasn’t even surprised when they announced it. I just said to myself, of course, how could they not. I would have been surprised if you hadn’t won. I would have been shocked. You looked like a winner.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I tried to look like a fourth runner-up.”

“I can’t understand your attitude,” she said. “You know, I never realized what a good actress you were until last night.”

“You saw me in Anne Frank at the theater,” I said. “The whole thing. That was a lot harder than reading a couple of selections.”

“You didn’t do anything for me then,” Mom said. “I didn’t want to tell you at the time, you seemed so excited, and pleased that I was there, but the whole thing left me cold. Of course it could have been the fact you were calling two strangers Mother and Father. At least that’s what I told myself was the problem. But last night I saw what a good actress you are. I think it’s a good idea for you to continue with your acting, once you finish with the contests.”

“Contests?” I said. “There’s just the state one left.”

Mom smiled at me. “Don’t be silly, dear,” she said. “You don’t really think you’re going to lose, do you?”

“It had occurred to me.”

“You’re a winner,” Mom said. “I brought you up to be one. Your father’s a loser, and Marly’s a loser, and I’m the biggest of them all, but you were born a winner. They could even tell at the hospital. ‘This one’s different,’ they said. ‘This one is something special.’”

“They said that because you were a nurse there yourself,” I said.

“They said it because they knew,” she said. “They could see it as clearly as I could. And ever since then you’ve gone after what you’ve wanted and you’ve always gotten it.”

“There’s lots of stuff I haven’t gotten,” I said.

“Name it,” Mom said.

I thought about it, and she had a point. There were lots of things I didn’t have that other kids did, Barbie dolls and English racers, but I’d fussed over it more because I felt obliged than out of real desire. “There must be something,” I said.

“I don’t know what it would be,” Mom said. “Any boy you’ve ever wanted. Any part in a play. Even grades in school. It doesn’t just fall in your lap. You go after what you want, and you work for it. But you always get it. Marly can diet forever and she’ll never be pretty.”

“I wish you’d stop harping on Marly.”

“I’m harping on you,” Mom said. “If you insist on using that word.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” I said. “Harpists always win.”

“Only if they’re blondes,” Mom said. “Judges are suckers for blondes with harps. Makes them feel less lecherous.”

I laughed.

“Sure,” Mom said. “Don’t take me seriously. I could see how those judges felt about you. I could practically hear them sweating.”

“And you still want me to be in contests like that?”

“Why not?” she said. “They keep those contests very clean. There’s never any trouble. And if men are going to admire you anyway, you might as well get some profit out of it.”

“I don’t think I like what you’re saying.”

“It’s the truth, and you know it,” she said. “You’ve always had things easy because of your looks. There’s nothing wrong with it. But don’t think all those producers you keep dreaming about are going to hire you because of your talent. Maybe you have some, I don’t know. I do know you have a lovely face and a lovely body, and they’re much more interested in that. Even when they’re casting Shakespeare.”

“Nobody’s ever gotten anywhere on looks alone.”

“Actresses never get any place without them,” Mom said. “Actors maybe. Actresses never. Just remember that, and be grateful you have them.”

“‘Anatomy is destiny,’” I said.

“I don’t know about that,” Mom said. “All I know is that it never hurt a girl to be pretty, and there’s never been a pretty girl who didn’t milk it for all it was worth. Yourself included.”

After that, I definitely wasn’t in the mood to leave the house. I went upstairs to my bedroom, glad Marly had decided to spend the afternoon at the library, and I thought about what Mom had said.

I knew that girls who were really pretty, and very aware of it, used it for whatever they could. They tended to be cheerleaders, because cheerleaders were popular in school. They went out with football captains and class presidents. They did just as well as they wanted to in school; a few did really well, the rest just got along, but they all had the money for college, and they all planned to go. They were very popular with boys, and with each other. I never wanted to be part of that group.

Still, it was true I was good-looking. I’d always known it. Being really pretty is like being really ugly; you have to make peace with yourself or you’re miserable for the rest of your life. And I’d made my peace by ignoring it. I never worried about clothes. Except for a brief fling when I was twelve, I never wore make-up. My hair got cut when I had the money, and except for making sure I wasn’t bald, I didn’t worry about the style. I ate whatever I felt like eating, and I didn’t exercise daily. If I had a good face and a good figure, that was fine. I wasn’t going to pour acid all over me. But I wasn’t going to worry about it, or pamper it, or act like that was what was really important.

The thing was, and I realized then it was naïve of me, I’d never connected my looks and my acting. I was grateful I was tall and that was it. Short actresses had problems. Of course so did ugly actresses. And I wasn’t an ugly actress.

I went over every part I’d ever had, at the Red Barn, in high school, and at the college, and tried to decide if I would have gotten them with just talent. And then I remembered Anne Frank. The director hadn’t wanted to cast me as Anne because I was a redhead. I auditioned three times before he was convinced I could do it, and then I promised to dye my hair brown if he wanted. At first he said Yes, and then he changed his mind. And he would know. He was a professional and he respected my talent.

Except it didn’t work. It might have if I hadn’t gone out with him while we were working on the show. Nothing serious, because he couldn’t handle how much younger I was than him. It didn’t bother me, but I guess I went out more with older men than he did with younger girls. The point was that he couldn’t have been objective about my acting. If he thought I was pretty enough to date, he couldn’t have judged my acting all by itself. And if that went out the window, everything did. All the directors who’d ever cast me in shows probably cast me because I was pretty.

Of course it didn’t mean I lacked talent. There was never a moment after I’d first been on stage that I doubted my talent. It was there, it was real. But maybe there wasn’t as much of it as I’d thought. I’d never computed looks before. I’d never made those equations. I decided not to do so then either. Instead I called Greg.

“Hello,” he said. “What can I do for Miss Harrison County?”

“You can stop rubbing it in,” I said. “Greg, I’m really upset about things.”

“Like what?”

“Like winning. Like being stuck here. Like the way my mother’s behaving. Like the way you’re behaving.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“I want you to tell me what’s going on,” I said. “What’s the matter, Greg?”

“Everything,” he said. “You want the truth?”

“It would be nice for a change.”

“Okay,” he said. “I don’t want you to go to Colorado.”

I could picture Greg on the other side of the phone, sitting in his clean, comfortable bedroom, talking on his extension, and I knew how hard it was for him. Greg never interfered with my life, and I never interfered with his. That was how our relationship had lasted so long, even though he was away at school. We really liked each other because everyone we knew interfered with us constantly. “Why not?” I said.

“Oh come on, Kit.”

“I mean it, Greg. Why not?”

“Because I love you. Satisfied?”

I wasn’t satisfied; I was shocked. I tried not to sound it. “Oh,” I said. “When did this happen?”

“It’s happened all along,” he said. “I just never thought it was important enough to mention.”

“Not important! Don’t you think I’d like to hear it?”

“Frankly, no. I figured you’d run away scared if I ever even mentioned the word.”

Greg had a point. I wasn’t very comfortable with love. “I don’t know how I feel about you,” I said.

“I didn’t think you did,” he said.

“Well what were you hoping for?” I asked.

“I wasn’t hoping for anything,” he said. “Except maybe a continuation of the status quo.”

“Status quo?”

“You’d go to Morsly,” he said. “I’d see you vacations. If I still felt this way next year, maybe I’d start talking seriously. I figured that was my best bet. Play it casual. But it never occurred to me you might pack up and leave. That way I’d lose you, and I don’t want to.”

“Oh, Greg.”

“Do you want to be engaged?” he said. “If you do, I’ll propose. I don’t care. I just don’t want to lose you. I don’t want you to go to Colorado, and leave there and go to Alaska, or Minnesota, or Mississippi. I want to know where you are and be able to see you.”

“But you don’t want to get married?”

“Not now, no,” he said. “Not if I have a choice in the matter. If that’s the only way I’ll keep you, then I’d think about it.”

“This is great,” I said. “I called you to be reassured. You were supposed to calm me down. Now I’m a complete nervous wreck.”

“Don’t go,” he said. “If that’s why you’re calling, to have someone tell you what to do, then I will. Don’t go. It doesn’t even have anything to do with me. You could go out there and find nothing. You could lose all your money, and your scholarship to Morsly, and then you’ll be completely stuck. Stay here. Get your degree. Play it safe for a change.”

“I don’t play things safe well,” I said. “I’m not a safe person.”

“Maybe you should be,” he said. “Maybe it’s childish to take risks all the time.”

“If I don’t take risks, I won’t be an actor,” I said. “That’s what it’s all about. And I can’t not be one. That’s my life, Greg. My whole life. Everything else is just window dressing.”

“Including me?”

“No, of course not. But you’re part of the theater too. Greg, why don’t you come with me? We could go out together and see what it’s like.”

Greg was silent for a moment. “I can’t, Kit,” he said finally. “I like theater, but it’s not everything. I want my degree. And I don’t want to hurt my parents.”

I couldn’t even blame him. If I’d grown up in a clean, white living room, I might not be so eager to try Colorado. “Okay, Greg,” I said. “That’s it.”

“Dammit, Kit, why should I feel guilty?”

“I’m not asking you to,” I said. “It’s not your fault.”

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “Just because I won’t go to Colorado is no reason why you should. I’m sorry if you’re thinking like that. You do react that way to pressure, you know.”

“I know,” I said. “Thank you for knowing it about me.”

I could hear Greg take a deep breath. “All right,” he said. “There are a lot of sensible arguments for staying. Now before you start saying anything, I know there are reasons for going too, but you know them all by yourself. I’m playing devil’s advocate, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

“There’s college,” he said. “And your mother’s feelings. And the possibility that it’s a wild-goose chase. And the contest.”

“The contest,” I said. “It always comes back to that, doesn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a symbol,” I said. “It represents everything I’m not happy about.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“I won that stupid contest because I’m pretty,” I said. “That’s all. Just a face and a body. I want to be something more than that.”

“You are,” he said. “You’re a great deal more.”

“Greg, do I get away with things on stage?”

“You certainly do.”

“Because I’m pretty?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Because you’re pretty, and young, and very appealing on stage. It’s a winning combination, and it lets you get away with all kinds of mistakes.”

“It’s not fair,” I said. “I don’t want to be pretty.”

“That’s crazy,” he said. “Of course you do. It’s an advantage. People like good-looking people. Maybe they shouldn’t, but they do. It’s a lot easier to go through life attractive than ugly.”

“But if I was ugly I’d get judged on what I am, not what I look like.”

“No,” he said. “You’d get judged on being ugly. All it would be is a handicap. Really, Kit, be glad you’re pretty. It’s going to make your life one hell of a lot easier. It already has.”

“Oh, Greg, why aren’t things simple?”

“Things are,” he said. “It’s people that complicate matters.”

“I don’t know what to do,” I said. “Except don’t worry about marrying me.”

“Okay,” he said. “If I thought you’d take me up on it, I probably wouldn’t have brought it up.”

I laughed. “I’ll let you know when I decide something,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said. “Please, just try to be reasonable.”

“I’ll try,” I said. “And thank you for loving me.”

“No thanks are needed,” he said. “Just take care.”

So I hung up. I went to the full-length mirror and gave myself a thorough examination. I was a very pretty girl with red hair and long legs. If I were on TV, I’d admire myself. Especially if I were in color so that my hair would look the right shade. In black and white, it would just look brown. I resolved only to appear on color-TV shows.

I tried to laugh, but I started crying instead. I felt like a fool, standing in front of the mirror, hoping my mother had gone and Marly hadn’t come back, crying because I was beautiful. Other girls were happy when they looked good. I had to be the weird one.

The tears made my eyes look greener. I turned away from the mirror. I couldn’t stand it, staring at myself, looking like a beauty queen.

Chapter 9

And then the phone started ringing.

The first call was from the Clarion. Not even from Sheila, who could have reassured me. Just the Clarion.

“This is Bob McCay,” the Clarion said. “From the Clarion.”

“Hello,” I said, hoping he was trying to get us to subscribe.

“Is Kit Carson there?”

“Kit Carson killed Indians,” I said. “He was a terrible man and he died years ago.”

“I mean Katherine Carson,” he said. “Is she there?”

“I’ll see,” I said, and putting my hand over the phone, hollered “Katherine!” very loudly. There was no answer.

“She doesn’t seem to be,” I said. “Can I take a message?”

“If you would,” he said. “The Clarion would like to have a picture spread on her and her family for this Sunday’s paper. Miss Carson is the first Miss Great Oaks ever in the state contest, you know.”

“No, I didn’t,” I said. “Katherine must have forgotten to tell me.”

“Nothing formal,” he said. “Just pictures of her at home, relaxing. Maybe a bathing-suit shot. Have her call me at 342-2017, okay?”

“Sure,” I said. “As soon as she gets in.”

“Thank you,” he said, and we hung up.

I wondered how I could keep Mom from knowing the Clarion wanted pictures of her for their Sunday edition, when the phone rang again. I debated answering it, and bad judgment won out.

“Hello?” I said.

“This is the mayor’s office. Is Miss Kit Carson there?”

“Speaking,” I said. I never lie to mayors’ offices.

“I’ll get Mayor McGowan,” his office said. I heard a click, and then there was Mayor McGowan.

“Hello, Kit,” he said. “This is Mayor McGowan.”

“Hello,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“First of all,” he said, “I want to congratulate you on your victory last night. All of Great Oaks was proud that you won and wishes you the best of luck in the state competition.”

“Thank you,” I said, wondering if he’d taken a poll.

“I’m also calling with a request,” he said. “You are eighteen, I believe.”

“That’s right,” I said, and suppressed a giggle. The usual request that followed that question was not the sort of thing I’d expect the mayor to call me about.

“I assume you are planning to register to vote in November’s election.”

“Eventually,” I said. “I’m not wildly political.”

“It is the obligation of every citizen, no matter how young, to vote,” Mayor McGowan said. “How else will the people be able to express their opinions to those in command?”

“I didn’t know those in command listened,” I said.

The mayor laughed. “It may be hard for you to believe, but, yes, they do listen, and they listen hard, every November.”

“I assumed they did in November,” I said. “It was the rest of the year I had my doubts about.”

The mayor thought about that. “Politics is a complex business,” he said, ending that conversation. “What I wanted to ask you was if you would be one of the speakers at a rally to get the young people out to register. We’re holding it next Thursday night at the high school auditorium. It’s called ‘Make Yourself Heard.’ Would you be interested?”

“What would I have to do?”

“Nothing really,” he said. “Just appear there as both Miss Great Oaks and Miss Harrison County. Maybe draw a parallel about your election and the elections in November.”

“Is the purpose to get them to register as Republicans?” I asked.

“Of course not,” McGowan said. “It’s simply to get them to register. They can be communists for all I care, just as long as they exercise their right to vote.”

“And is the rally free?”

“You’re a regular Joan Baez, aren’t you?” McGowan said.

“I’m apolitical,” I said. “But I don’t want to find myself endorsing something I don’t believe in. I do have an obligation to the Miss Harrison County Contest not to get involved with politics.”

“The rally is free,” the mayor said. “There will be some entertainment and some speeches. We thought it would be nice if you appeared, because as part of the peer group, we thought you would be more convincing than a bunch of aging politicians. Right now this aging politician is starting to have his doubts.”

“Welcome to the club,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry. You caught me at a bad time. Postcontest letdown, you know. Let me think about it; okay, and I’ll call you back tomorrow. All right?”

“Fine,” he said. “Congratulations, once again.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Good-by.”

“Good-by.”

I sat down, feeling evil and rotten, and tried to think. It didn’t do any good. There were no thoughts left in me. I turned the TV on to Lynn’s favorite soap and tried to follow the action. The phone rang again.

“Hello,” I said, wondering how much an answering service would cost.

“Hi there, Kit,” the man said. “This is Barry King.”

“Right,” I said, remembering the Fourth of July. “How are you?”

“Fine, Kit. How are you?”

“Holding up under great strain.”

Barry laughed, and all of a sudden, I decided I liked him after all. “How would you like to make it big on radio?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. “Everybody says radio’s due for a revival.”

“It is,” he said. “Not this year. Maybe not even this century. But hold on, Kit, and it’ll be there.”

“I’m holding on,” I said. “What do you want me to do?”

“First of all, that Fourth of July stuff you did went over really well. A lot of people listen to that broadcast every year, but we’ve never had a response like this year’s. People called us, wrote in, saying how much they like you, what a nice voice you have. It broadcasts very well, low and smooth.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I grant you it’s a pity it’s not TV,” he said. “With your looks, you’d be a star overnight. But you have the voice too, and that’s a big help.”

“It certainly is,” I said and decided I might have gotten Helen Keller on the basis of my looks, but definitely not on the basis of my voice. It made me feel better.

“Anyway, we’ve been talking about it, me and Larry Haskins, the program manager, and we’d like to take a shot at something. If you’re interested.”

“You’re not planning to take a shot at me?” I said.

Barry laughed. “That’s what I mean. That nice sense of humor. By the way, congratulations on winning. You must have been really excited.”

“Thrilled,” I said.

“I can believe it,” he said. “What we’d like you to do is a weekly fifteen-minute show. We’re thinking of calling it Youthvoice.”

“What would I do?”

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to monologue for fifteen minutes,” he said. “We’re crazy, but we’re not that crazy.”

“Good,” I said. “I’m not that crazy either.”

“We’d set up interviews for you,” he said. “Sometimes it would be adults in the community that kids would want to hear from. Sometimes it would be the kids themselves if they’re doing something important. We wouldn’t want it to turn into Kit and Her Friends, if you know what I mean.”

“I know,” I said. “But I don’t think you’d have to worry about it.” They weren’t speaking to me anyway.

“I know,” he said. “But you know how program managers are. They like to make sure things are clearly understood.”

“Clearly,” I said. “How much work would be involved?”

“Wait,” he said. “I’m not finished. If the show catches on, we might expand it. Keep the fifteen minutes for three weeks in a month, and the fourth week make it a half-hour rap session with two or three kids, you moderating.”

“Just as long as they’re not my friends.”

“Just as long as it doesn’t sound like they are.”

“Would you pay me?”

“Of course,” he said.

“How much?” I asked.

“You’d have to take that up with Larry, our program manager. I’m calling because we got along so well on the Fourth. Larry figured you’d be more interested if you heard it from me.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It sounds like fun, and I could use the money, but there might be some kind of regulation against it. I’d have to check.”

“You mean with the beauty contest people?” he said. “By all means check it out with them, and then get back to us. We’d like to start in two weeks if it’s possible with you.”

“I’ll tell you by tomorrow,” I said. “Either way.”

“Fine,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure speaking to you. You have a very sexy voice over the phone, you know.”

“Yes,” I said. “You sound like a radio broadcaster.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s my curse. ’By, Kit.”

“Good-by,” I said and wondered whether to keep the phone off the hook. Fool that I am, I didn’t, but hung up properly and tried to return to the soap opera. From what I could figure out, it had ended while I was on the phone, and a new one was on. I didn’t care. Other people’s problems seemed just wonderful to me then.

The phone rang. I let it ring six times before I picked it up.

“Hello,” I said, in my best German accent.

“Is Miss Katherine Carson there, please? This is Charlotte Dearing of the Miss Harrison County Beauty Contest.”

“I vill see,” I said, staying German to the end. “Miss Katherine!” I called, and this time Katherine was there to take the call.

“Hello,” I said, back in mid-America. “This is Katherine Carson.”

“Hello, Kit, this is Charlotte Dearing,” Ms. Dearing said.

“Hi there,” I said. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. We were a little concerned about you.”

“Why?” I said.

“You left so early last night,” she said. “Right after the contest. The judges didn’t have a chance to talk with you at all.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “My mother had to go to work. She’s a nurse you know, and it was a long drive back.” Actually, Mom was all in favor of staying there forever, but I was exhausted and depressed and wanted to be home. There was no reason for Charlotte Dearing to know that.

“That was very considerate of you,” she said. “Worrying about your mother like that.”

“Well, I also wanted my beauty sleep,” I said. “Eight hours a night, keeps my complexion clear and my eyes sparkling.”

“Your eyes sparkled last night,” she said. “Especially when you read that Anne Frank selection. You were just lovely.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I called to congratulate you,” she said. “I didn’t have a chance to last night, what with all the confusion.”

“Yes, there was a lot of that,” I said.

“And to talk to you about the various responsibilities you will have as Miss Harrison County. Are you ready?”

“I’m still here,” I said.

“Fine,” she said. “First of all, there’s the state contest. We have very high hopes for you. You have the look of a winner.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“The contest is at the end of September,” she said. “I hope if you’re planning to go away to college, you’ll be able to return for it.”

“I’m not going away to college,” I said.

“Fine,” she said. “Sometimes that causes problems for our girls. Now as Miss Harrison County you will be expected to appear at the Harrison County Fair later this month.”

“Sure,” I said. “Do I have to wear a bathing suit?”

“Of course not,” she said. “A skirt and a blouse will be fine.”

“Not jeans?”

“We would prefer a skirt and blouse,” she said.

“Just asking,” I said.

“Fine,” she said. “It’s better if everything’s clearly understood from the beginning. It solves so many problems that way.”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“It is also customary for Miss Harrison County to spend a day at the Veterans Hospital in Lawrence. It’s a real morale booster for those fine young men.”

“Should I wear a bathing suit?”

“Of course not,” she said again. “A simple skirt and blouse.”

“How about a dress?” I asked.

“A dress would do nicely,” she said. “We have that visit scheduled for a week from Tuesday. Will that be all right with you?”

“I assume so,” I said. “I have no pressing engagements this summer.”

“That’s another thing,” she said. “Are you engaged?”

“No, of course not.”

“Good,” she said. “The judges in the state and national contests prefer girls who are not seriously involved. You can never tell when the girl might decide to get married and have to drop out of the contest.”

“I have no plans for getting married,” I said.

“Fine,” she said. “Are you politically active?”

“No,” I said. “But the mayor of Great Oaks just asked me to appear at a rally to get kids to register.”

“That’s fine,” she said. “We’re very pleased when our girls are civic-minded. However, please, if possible, keep away from partisan politics. We can’t forbid you, of course, but it has been our experience that the judges shy away from girls who are overly involved, especially with left-wing politics.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.

“To get back to your responsibilities as Miss Harrison County,” she said as though we’d ever been away from them, “we like our girls to give an interview to the Lawrence Enterprise-Gazette. It’s become a tradition for them to have a picture spread on Miss Harrison County every year, with pictures from her childhood. That would be your childhood, of course.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m sure I could find some pictures.”

“We also like to coach our girls before the state contest. You know seven years ago, Miss Harrison County won the state contest. Unfortunately she didn’t make it as one of the finalists in the national contest.”

“Poor thing,” I said, in my most sympathetic voice.

“She was a lovely girl,” Ms. Dearing said. “She used her scholarship money to go to the University of Massachusetts. She married a nice young man, an orthodontist, I believe.”

“How nice,” I said. “After the contest was over, I hope.”

“Of course,” Ms. Dearing said. “Would you be available for coaching the weekend before the state contest?”

“I suppose,” I said. “Will I be chaperoned?”

“Of course,” she said. “You’ll be a guest at my home for the weekend.”

“It sounds lovely,” I said. “I’m sorry I had to ask, but I know my mother would.”

“Certainly,” she said. “Put your mother’s mind at ease. There has never once been a scandal connected with this contest. Our standards are the highest.”

“I’m sure they are,” I said.

“Which brings up another question,” Ms. Dearing said.

I waited for one on the status of my virginity, but fortunately I was disappointed.

“Are you at all active in women’s liberation?” she asked.

“Women’s liberation?” I said in a shocked voice. “Me?”

“I assume you’re not,” she said. “Fine.”

“Really,” I said. “Do I look like the sort who would be?”

“You never can tell,” Ms. Dearing said. “Some of the most attractive girls around are sympathetic. And you must agree that they have some good thoughts.”

“I’ve never found any,” I said.

“Well, equal pay for equal work,” she said apologetically.

“I grew up in a very old-fashioned household,” I said. “My mother always taught me a woman’s place is in the home. And there she doesn’t have to worry about equal pay.”

“Fine,” she said. “Sometimes a girl who’s active in women’s liberation tries to embarrass the contest.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “The last thing I would want to do is embarrass the Miss Harrison County Beauty Contest.”

“Do you have any questions?” Ms. Dearing asked.

“Probably,” I said. “But I seem to have forgotten them.”

“You have my phone number if you should think of them,” she said. “Good-by, Kit. It’s been a pleasure speaking to you.”

“Thank you,” I said and hung up, trying to remember what I’d forgotten. Before I had a chance to sit down, the phone rang again. I suddenly remembered the radio show, and on the crazy assumption it was Ms. Dearing again, I picked up the phone and said, “Hello?”

“Is this Kit Carson?” a man asked.

“Speaking,” I said.

“I bet you have lovely breasts,” the man said. “May I kiss your breasts?”

I hung the phone up and went back to the TV. I turned the volume really loud, but it didn’t drown out the sounds of the phone ringing.

Chapter 10

I slept late the next morning, to make up for sleepless hours during the night. I didn’t get downstairs until after eleven. I made my way to the kitchen, where I saw Marly eating from a bag of potato chips. When she saw me, she tried to hide them.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Marly said. “Just eating.”

“That’s a pretty self-destructive thing to eat,” I said. “What happened to your diet?”

“I thought about it,” Marly said. “And there was no point. I could lose all the weight in the world, and I’d still never be pretty. At least never as pretty as you are.”

“Get out of this house,” I said. “I mean it, Marly. Go live with Dad. You can’t deal with Mom, and it’s time you stopped trying.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I wouldn’t leave you alone with her.”

“I’m not going to be here,” I said. “I’ll be in Colorado.”

“Then you decided …”

“Of course I decided,” I said, as though it hadn’t cost me a night’s sleep. “That’s what I want to do with my life and it’s about time I started. But that still doesn’t answer what you’re going to do.”

“It wouldn’t be fair to Dad. He and Sally will just be getting married.”

“Forget about fair,” I shouted. “They’ve never been fair to either of us. Besides, Dad loves you. He really does. I bet he’d be pleased if you asked to live with him. He’s not the world’s greatest influence, but he’ll hurt you a lot less than Mom. Especially if this Sally is as nice as you say. Marly, do it.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m not trying to run your life. Just to give you sisterly advice. You’re a smart person, and you’ll probably end up doing what’s best for yourself. Just like I’m going to do what’s best for me. But don’t make easy assumptions. Think about it. Promise me that.”

“I promise,” she said. “Have you told Mom?”

“I haven’t told anybody,” I said. “It’s going to be a fun day.”

“Go on,” she said. “Procrastinating won’t help.”

“I know,” I said. “I’ll see you later if I survive.”

My first call was to Ms. Dearing. I dialed the number she gave me and asked for her. After a minute or so, they put her on.

“Hello,” I said. “This is Katherine Carson.”

“Hello, Kit,” she said. “Did you remember your question?”

“Yes, but that’s not why I’m calling,” I said. “I’ll probably have to send you a letter, but I wanted you to know I won’t be able to keep the title.”

“What? Why not?”

“There’s no scandal,” I said. “And I was very pleased to have won. But I’ve decided to see about acting for a living, and that means I have to be free to travel.”

“You mean you’re giving up being Miss Harrison County, and entering the state contest for an ambition like acting? Is that sensible?”

“Very,” I said. “I spent a lot of time thinking about it, and it’s the only right choice.”

“Have you spoken to your parents about it?”

“Please don’t hassle me,” I said. “I was going to lie to you, say I’d decided to become a nun or something, but then I figured I’d be better off with the truth. I haven’t spoken to my parents about it, and I imagine when I do, they’ll agree with you, but it’s still something I have to do, and that’s it. I can’t change myself just for a title. I’d get ulcers.”

“Don’t do anything hasty,” she said. “You know we had a lot of confidence in you. You’re a lovely girl, Katherine, and very talented.”

“Actually,” I said, suddenly feeling a lot better, “I’m a very talented girl and lovely. At least, that’s what I’m out to prove.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, “but you do sound decided.”

“I am,” I said. “I’ll send you a letter today. Do you make the official announcement, or do I?”

“We will,” she said. “Good-by, Kit. I wish you luck with your decision.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m going to need it. Good-by.”

My next call was to Lynn. I told her what I’d chosen.

“Fantastic,” she said. “I’ll loan you my knapsack.”

I thanked her and said it would be a useful thing to have.

Barry King was very nice about it. “You’re crazy,” he said. “But all actors are. That’s why I went into radio.”

“It would have been fun,” I said. “Fifteen-minute interviews with the really important people of Great Oaks.”

“Shut up,” he said. “I’m starting to envy you your youth, and that won’t do me any good.”

“I’ll send you a postcard,” I said. “In my most mellifluous style.”

“I’ll read it on the air,” he said. “Take care, Kit, and when you become a star, remember all the little people.”

“I could never forget them,” I said.

Mayor McGowan wasn’t as sympathetic. “Resigning?” he asked.

“I’m afraid so, sir,” I said.

“Do you realize this is the first time a girl from Great Oaks would have been in the state contest?” he asked. “That’s a very important event for Great Oaks.”

“I’m sure it is,” I said.

“If you win, we’re planning on giving you a ticker-tape parade. Declare it Kit Carson Day.”

“I look terrible in ticker tape,” I said. “Next year’s crop of girls is gorgeous. I’m sure one of them will go all the way, and then think what a celebration you could have. Just hold on, Mayor McGowan, and see what glories will come.”

“You lack civic responsibility.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I’m a selfish brat. But I’m going to be a happy selfish brat, or kill myself trying. I hope you understand.”

“No,” he said. “I am deeply disappointed and don’t understand at all. Good-by, Kit. Our loss is Colorado’s gain, I’m sure.”

“Good-by,” I said. “Good luck in November.”

He slammed the phone down. I rested mine for a few moments, then called Greg.

“Everybody says I’m crazy,” I told him. “In those words.”

“You are,” he said. “You’re throwing away at least five hundred dollars, and probably more. You’d be a finalist in the state contest, if not the winner. You’re throwing all that away, plus the glamour involved, and the happiness it would give to other people. That’s a lot to give up on the chance of a job.”

“I can’t stay in Great Oaks,” I said. “If I do, and go to college like Mom wants, I’ll end up being what Mom wants me to be, and that would be awful. I couldn’t make it as a suburban housewife. I’d hate it.”

“You’ve never tried it.”

“I’ve never tried anything,” I said. “Except maybe acting, and that was enough. Oh, Greg, I’ve got to learn. I’ve got to see if I can make it. I’ve got to see what there is for me, and this is my chance. I thought you’d be on my side.”

“You know when you walk in there, even if they hire you, they won’t swoon and give you Anne Frank. You’ll be lucky if you get two lines.”

“I won’t care,” I said. “Well, that’s not true, I will care. I’ve been spoiled in this town. But that’s one of the things I have to unlearn. I have to go where all the other people can act too and see if I can hold my own. I think I can, but I’d better find out while I’m young. Say you understand.”

“I understand,” Greg said. “Have you told your mother yet?”

“No,” I said. “But I will. Don’t worry.”

“I’ll worry,” he said. “But I know you will. Good luck with that.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“See me before you go,” he said.

“I will,” I said. “I love you, Greg.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I love you too.”

I went to my room and borrowed some stationery from Marly. I wrote an official resignation letter to the Miss Harrison County Contest people. As soon as it was in an envelope, I took it to the post office and mailed it. That would make things easier with Mom.

She got home that evening in the best of spirits. “How’s the beauty queen?” she asked.

I winced. “Mom, I’ve got to talk to you,” I said.

“Of course,” she said. “You know we never had a victory celebration. Why don’t we go out to dinner tonight? Just the two of us. Marly won’t care, what with her diet and all.”

“Mom, I can’t.”

“Why not?” she asked. “Do you have a date with Greg? Or some obligation for the contest?”

“Neither,” I said. “Mom, I resigned.”

“From what?”

“From the contest. I called them and sent them a letter and everything. They’ll make the announcement in a couple of days.”

“A couple of days,” she said. “That gives you time to call them and tell them you’ve changed your mind.”

“No, Mom.”

“Why have you done this?” she asked. “Just to annoy me? Because if you think it bothers me, you couldn’t be more mistaken. I don’t care what you do with your life. I’ve had eighteen years of your garbage and I’m perfectly happy not to have to worry about you any more.”

“Good,” I said. “Because you won’t have to. I’m going to Colorado.”

“So you’re just running off,” she said. “No hellos, no good-bys. Just grab a train out.”

“Bus,” I said. “I can’t afford a train.”

“And what will you do if they don’t hire you? Have you figured that one out?”

“I’ve thought about it,” I said. “First of all, I think they will. If I can con all those judges into making me Miss Harrison County, I think I can convince some people in Colorado that I know my way around a theater. If I can’t, then I’ll leave. Don’t worry. I won’t come back here. I’ll work my way around the country until I find a theater that’ll take me. It won’t be fun. But I’m willing to do it.”

“You’ve never worked a day in your life,” she said. “You don’t know what work is.”

“I worked my way through high school,” I said. “Every blasted day I went to that building and pretended geometry was the most exciting thing in the world, I was working. I worked at home too, cooking meals and taking care of Marly. I baby-sat. And my acting’s been work. So have the sets I’ve helped build, and the tickets I’ve sold, and the make-up I’ve put on. I know what work is.”

“You’re a bum like your father,” she said. “I should have known with his genes you girls didn’t have a chance. You’ll never stick with anything. Just take what suits you and then disappear. Well, good-by my dear, and I wish you luck. Just don’t think I’ll let you back in when you’ve had enough of your wanderings. This house is closed to you, and don’t you forget it.”

“I don’t want to leave like this,” I said, staring straight at her, “but you’d better know that I’m willing to.”

It worked. Mom started crying. “Oh God,” she said. “Don’t you think I have your best interest at heart? The contest … college … it’s something real, something solid you can fall back on. It’s your chance, Kit, your one real chance to break out of this kind of life and get something comfortable. A nice house, a nice husband. That’s all I want for you. What I couldn’t have.”

“I can’t live my life according to your plans,” I said. “I even think a little part of you is glad I’ve chosen acting, just because it was the sort of thing your parents wouldn’t let you do.”

“You’re crazy,” Mom said. That made her the third person who said that to me that day. “I’m miserable. I wanted something special for you. You were the one I put all my hopes on. If you’d only gone out with the right boys, instead of those terrible men at the theater. I blame them for a lot of this. They corrupted you with their flattery. And I was helpless. I just watched and tried to point out the terrible mistakes you were making, but you never listened to me. You never have you know. You listened to your father, when he was still around, but never to me.”

“I wanted to,” I said. “But you never made any sense.”

“That’s just like you,” she said. “You can’t resist making those little digs, can you? I could be dying and you’d come home for one last insult.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought we were being honest.”

“There’s a difference between honesty and cruelty,” she said. “I hope someday you learn it. If going out to Colorado teaches it to you, it’ll be worth it.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” I said. “I closed my savings account and sold my bond and I’m using that money.”

“You didn’t get full value on it,” she said.

“No,” I said. “I got $37.50.”

“You shortchanged yourself,” she said. “You always do.”

“No, Mom,” I said. “This time I haven’t.”

“Have you told your father?”

“No,” I said. “I wanted you to know first.”

“You ought to,” she said. “He’ll want to know.”

“I’ll call him now,” I said. “Thank you, Mom.”

“Don’t thank me,” she said. “Just be a star.”

Talking to Dad didn’t appeal to me, which was the other reason I hadn’t called him. But I dialed the number and waited for it to be over with.

“Hello, Kit,” he said. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “How’s Sally?”

“Great, just great. She’s here if you want to say hello.”

“No, that’s okay. I called to talk with you.”

“About the contest. Don’t worry. I have the date written down someplace. I won’t forget.”

“You already did, Dad,” I said. “The contest was two days ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “Two days ago?”

“It’s okay. Really.”

“Tell you the truth, Kit, I was a little reluctant to go. I was afraid I’d slug the judges if they didn’t pick you.”

“They did,” I said. “I won the contest.”

“That’s great,” he said. “Congratulations. I guess I shouldn’t have worried.”

“I’ve resigned,” I said. “I decided not to keep the title. I’m going to Colorado Springs instead.”

“It’s a nice town,” he said. “What are you going for?”

“There’s an acting company there that I want to try out for,” I said.

“I have cousins there,” he said. “Marge and Bill O’Brien. Look them up.”

“I will,” I said. “I’ll miss you, Dad.”

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll miss you too, Kit. Let me talk to your mother for a minute, okay?”

“Sure,” I said and handed the phone over to her.

Mom listened intently for a minute, and then her face turned red. “You cheap-skate bastard,” she shouted. “Just looking for an excuse to cut down on the payments. I’ll need all that money whether Kit’s here or not.”

I stared at her for a second and then started laughing. Mom turned around and glared at me.

“It’s not funny,” she said.

“I know,” I said, in between bursts of laughter. “It’s awful. But I’m damned if I’m going to cry any more.”

Mom turned back to the phone. “Your daughter is insane,” she said to Dad. “Yes, yours. I wish there was room for doubt, but there isn’t.”

I ran upstairs, still laughing. Marly was in our room, lying on her bed. It was her thinking posture.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“This whole family,” I said. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

“Stay here, I think,” she said. “I have a feeling things will be better for me when you’re gone. I think Mom’ll love me more if you’re not around.”

“It’s possible,” I said. “Just watch out for yourself.”

“I will,” Marly said and gave me a smile. “Come on, I’ll help you pack.”

About the Author

Susan Beth Pfeffer wrote her first novel, Just Morgan, during her last semester at New York University. Since then, she has written over seventy novels for children and young adults, including Kid Power, Fantasy Summer, Starring Peter and Leigh, and The Friendship Pact, as well as the series Sebastian Sisters and Make Me a Star. Pfeffer’s books have won ten statewide young reader awards and the Buxtehude Bulle Award.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1974 by Susan Beth Pfeffer

Cover design by Mimi Bark

ISBN: 978-1-4976-8280-1

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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New York, NY 10014
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SUSAN BETH PFEFFER

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Table of Contents

- Cover Page
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- About the Author
- Copyright Page