Bella
“Isabella! You’re nearly late,” Tori snapped at me. She was managing the show and was the dance director at the local ballet studio. I’d been a student there as long as I could remember, and Tori was practically family.
“I’m here. Keep your hair on,” I muttered to her, resisting the urge to bite my nails. My father hovered anxiously by my side. “You can go watch, Pa. It’ll be a while, I’m sure.”
“Are you nervous? Your mother was always nervous,” my father rattled. He wasn’t looking so good, frailer by the day. He didn’t take very good care of himself, and considering he was all I had left, it broke my heart.
“I’m good, seriously,” I tried to reassure him, finally sending him off toward the audience.
I peeped out at the crowd. Yikes, it was filling up out there. How embarrassing. I felt my hand return to my mouth before forcing it down again. I hated pageants. I hated competing in something so vain, but I wasn’t doing it for myself. It was for dad. Alfie Moore’s wife, Joanie, had been the loveliest woman in town, or so everyone had told me about a million times. They’d been childhood sweethearts, and my father’s proudest moment had been when she’d won a regional beauty pageant right before getting pregnant with me. That had been her last contest because the night I entered the world, she left it.
Now, when my father brought me a flyer about another pageant, I couldn’t say no to him. He wanted me to follow in her footsteps. God knew why. I couldn’t refuse him. I wasn’t very good at saying no to the people I loved.
I smoothed my dress and fought my internal cringe as I took in the other competitors. I’d told Alfie that this was it, my last show. I couldn’t possibly continue it as I got older. Twenty-two was old enough to be trotting out in a princess dress, slowly followed by a bikini. This was my last, and afterward, I’d gladly hang up my hairspray and false eyelashes and retire. I couldn’t wait.
The pageant got off to a slow start, with competitors grouped into age brackets. I was one of the oldest, along with an elderly lady named Beverly, who competed every year and never won. I lingered at the curtain, watching the audience sit and chat to each other, wishing fervently I could be out there watching instead of parading around on stage.
In the crowd, I could see Alfie sitting near the front. He was talking to those around him, and I could practically hear my name on his lips, along with my mother’s.
That’s right, she loves to compete, just like Joanie. Like mother, like daughter, I always say.
I’d heard those words from him countless times. I stuck them inside me, pasted them on the endless wall of guilt and obligation I felt toward my only living relative. Alfie’s life had turned to shit when I was born. His wife died, and he had to bring a tiny baby home from the hospital and take care of her alone.
I shifted my eyes around the crowd, ignoring the pinch of tears that always welled up at the guilt trip I put myself through whenever I thought of my father and his sad life. It was my fault he drank too much. My fault he was in debt, and the bookstore—my mother’s business—had always struggled. It was my fault he gambled. It was all my fault.
In the audience, someone entering the hall was causing quite the stir. Whispers rippled like wildfire around the room, and people stopped where they were or twisted in their seats to stare.
The object of such fascination was a man. Dressed entirely in black, with a towering physique, he drew the eye. He was wearing one leather glove, the kind you wore to drive a sports car, and a heavy black coat. His hair was the same jet-black as his coat and sprinkled with grey at the temples. That should’ve made him seem old, yet his face held such vitality and energy that I couldn't think of him that way. My father was old, with his sloping shoulders, beer gut, hopeless eye bags, and jowls.
This black-clad stranger was the opposite of my father in every way. His dark, eagle-like eyes surveyed the room and fixed on Alfie. Alarm crept up my spine at that look. It was dangerous. The black slash of his strong eyebrows drew into a line, and his full mouth pursed into a considering scowl. I wanted to rush out and protect my father from that look, but what good would that do? How did he know my father? Who was this man?
A chime sounded overhead, a warning that the show would start soon. People shook off their stupors and hurried for seats. The man in black went to sit at the back, alone. A natural oasis of calm surrounded him, like nobody wanted to get too close. He fixed his eyes on the curtain where I was, and I drew back, feeling like I’d been stung. I dropped the curtain and left the stage, heading for the wings and preparing to strut my stuff on stage. Somehow, knowing that the black-clad stranger was there made it even more embarrassing.
In the introductions,as I sweated under endless stage lights and heavy makeup, I fancied I could feel that man’s eyes on me. I shifted from one foot to the next, waiting for my turn to make a lame introduction. Finally, it was over, and I scurried backstage. One bit down, only a million to go. I changed into my swimwear and lined up to go out again.
Back on the stage, I knew I was one of the few contestants wearing a modest one-piece. Well, Beverly and me. I might as well be in my seventies, too, for all the use I made of my youth. Twenty-two and never been kissed. Twenty-two and working for less than minimum wage at not one but two crap jobs. Twenty-two, and without even a best friend to call, never mind a boyfriend.
I walked across the stage, feeling self-conscious. Under the harsh lights, I felt sure everyone could see every lump, bump, and ingrown hair from their seats. I wanted to sink into the floor and die. The embarrassment was so excruciating. Minutes ticked by painfully slowly, and I couldn’t have gotten off the stage faster at the end. The rest of the show passed, and my face was tired of the cheery rictus grin I had slathered on.
Finally, it was the time for judging. I stood next to Beverly and waited for the results of my category. There were only five of us in it, and utter disbelief filled me as I came in first place. My father stood up in the crowd and cheered me on with a raw yell of encouragement. I lowered my head for the cheap crown to be placed on it. Well, it was a good place to stop. At least my father might be more accepting now I’d finally won something. I was a beauty queen.
Just like mom.