Prologue
Raven
“ Where did you get that, Raven Lorrain?” My mother’s voice is sharp, and she snatches the chocolate cupcake with the bright blue frosting from my fingertips.
“Zoe’s mom had?—”
“Zoe’s mom…” She cuts her eyes in the direction of a little girl I befriended while we were sitting in crinkle curls. “She did this on purpose… Just look at your face!”
I can’t look at my face. I don’t have a mirror, but I can deduce by the way my mother roughly scrubs my cheek with the damp towelette, it has blue stains on it.
“It’s not coming off!” The panic in her voice pitches my stomach. “All your contouring is ruined. How are you ever going to be Little Miss Georgia Peach with doughy-blue cheeks? It’s bad enough you’re five pounds heavier than you were last year.”
She gives my face a little shove as she flicks it away with her wrist, and shame prickles the back of my neck. I look down at my fluffy peach and white chiffon dress, and I notice my fingertips are also stained blue from the cupcake frosting.
“Joining us next, all the way from Peachtree City…” The announcer’s polished voice rings out, and a soft growl comes from my mother’s throat. “Miss Raven Lorrain Gale.”
“Go on,” My mother hisses, her brown eyes burning with anger.
Lifting my chin the way I was trained, I walk out onto the stage. Bright light burns against my skin, and I can’t see anyone in the audience. Still, we’ve been drilling for this moment for the last six months, so I know what to do.
I walk to the center and hold, looking left, right, then I continue down the runway.
The Little Miss Peach pageant is the next step on the rung leading to Miss Middle Peach. From there, I’d compete to become Miss Teen Peach, leading ultimately to Miss Georgia Peach, which is the very top before Miss Georgia World.
I’m not sure where the peaches go after that.
“Raven is eight years old. She’s the daughter of Jeffrey and Roxanne Gale, herself a former Miss Georgia World 1996.” The man continues listing my status and breeding like I’m a pig at an auction.
If my mother is to be believed, I might as well be. All I do is eat and lie around watching YouTube videos. My face is round, and my cheeks are fat—genetics from my father’s side of the family, she muses, doing her best to contour my features with bronzer.
When I reach the end of the runway, I pause, smiling as I look left, right, then I turn and slowly walk back to the top for a final stop in front of the judges.
The lights change, and polite applause fills the hotel ballroom. I wait for a count of five, then I walk off the stage under the watchful scowl of my mother.
She doesn’t speak. She only turns, and I follow her to the dressing area to wait for the results.
Twenty-four eight-year-olds, all dressed in a rainbow of colors with their hair all teased and sprayed and their faces made up to look like grown women proceed to do the final walk before we’re called out to line up in front of the judges.
My mother doesn’t even bother to reapply the bronzer, and when the time comes for us all to walk out and the winners to be selected, my new friend Zoe is crowned Little Miss Peach.
I walk away with fourth runner-up, and my mother doesn’t even look at me. She collects our things, and she sits in the front seat of my father’s silver Mercedes sedan facing forward as my father takes my hand and helps me into the back.
He gives me a sympathetic smile before closing the door. I buckle my seatbelt, and no one says a word as we drive home in the rain.