Chapter 3 #3
“Thirty-five years ago,” Vera begins, thirty-five years into this speech and still enjoying every word, “a woman stood on a stage in Honolulu with nothing but a borrowed dress and the absolute certainty that she was going to win.” She pauses.
“She did not win.” Another pause, longer, more satisfied.
“But she built an empire instead, and I think we can all agree that’s a heck of a lot better. ”
I’m guessing she’s the loser in question.
Light applause. Vera absorbs it like oxygen.
“This circuit has launched careers. It has built women.” She holds the trophy aloft.
“And it has also, on occasion, embarrassed a few.” Her gaze finds Kali and stays.
“Not intentionally. Never intentionally. But when a contestant arrives on this stage without the foundation to back up her ambition, the judges don’t look away out of politeness.
” The smile is enormous and empty. “They look closer. That’s their job. And they are very, very good at it.”
Kali’s eyes grow in size, and the poor thing looks more than a little embarrassed. I make a mental note to send a mango butter mochi bar to her room. Possibly two. That’s basically how I solve problems now, with dessert, and my success rate is honestly not bad.
“We have standards here,” Vera goes on, “that other circuits have quietly abandoned because standards are inconvenient and uncomfortable and require a backbone that is apparently in short supply.” Her eyes move to a petite, heavily accessorized woman near the back who is pointing her phone at Vera with real dedication, as if putting the device down would count as a personal failure.
Vera looks at her for a long, flat moment.
“This is not a content opportunity. This is a competition. There is a difference, and if you don’t know what it is, that is useful information about your chances. ”
The woman lowers her phone. Slowly. In fact, a lot of phones just did a disappearing act.
“Presentation matters.” Vera’s gaze finds Kali again, drops to her gloves, comes back up.
“Every detail matters. The judges are not looking at your potential. They are looking at you, right now, tonight, as you are. Not as you hope to be perceived. As you actually are.” She bares her teeth in an attempt at a smile.
“Some of you should find that motivating. Some of you should find it terrifying.”
Her eyes move to Charlotte now, cool and deliberate.
“We also have eligibility standards that exist for very good reasons and will be enforced without sentiment.” The trophy tilts slightly in her grip.
“I want to be clear about that. Without. Sentiment.” She holds Charlotte’s gaze for one beat past comfortable.
“This circuit was built on integrity. I will not watch it compromised by women who believe the rules are suggestions that apply to other people.”
Charlotte looks somewhere past Vera’s left ear. Her expression gives away absolutely nothing, and her drink has gone completely still in her hand.
Vera turns to Pickles with a smile that is warm and loaded and delivers at least three threats.
“For thirty-two years this woman has coached on this circuit.” She gestures at Pickles with the trophy and comes this close to bonking her on the head with it.
“Thirty-two years of turning raw material into something the judges can pretend to work with.” She lifts her chin.
“Some of that raw material was a little rawer than others, weren’t they, Pickles? ”
Pickles offers a deep belly laugh. “Every contestant is a project, Vera,” she says, patting her thigh. “And some of the underlings are, too.”
“That’s right, every contestant is a project,” Vera repeats, turning back to her audience with genuine delight.
“And I have to be honest with you all, standing here tonight, looking out at this group.” She pauses, and the trophy catches the torchlight.
“I have never had a more ambitious collection of projects in thirty-five years.” Another pause.
“I’ll let you decide if that’s a compliment. ”
The crowd titters nervously.
“Nevertheless, welcome to Miss Mango,” she continues.
“This week will ask everything of you. Your composure, your preparation, your discipline, and your honesty.” The trophy in her hand sparkles gold lasers across every face on the beach.
“And if any of those are in short supply—” She smiles, wide and bright and absolutely merciless.
“Well. That’s what the first round of judging is for. ”
She steps off the platform to applause that is enthusiastic from the men and complicated from approximately everyone else.
In all fairness, most of the men are just thrilled to be in the vicinity of all these beautiful women, and, well, in the vicinity of their mangoes too. Okay, fine. Mostly their mangoes.
I clap along with everyone else and try very hard to ignore the part of me that’s already wondering which of these people will end up needing an alibi.