Chapter 10 Reasons to Smile
REASONS TO SMILE
MISS SWEET GEORGIA PEACH was in the local parade, wearing her tiara and sash. I was eleven, looking up at her from my spot on the curb with a mix of awe and ambition, my cherry lollipop dangling from my mouth.
Mom must’ve clocked my expression, because she bumped my shoulder with hers. “That could be you, Nikki-Belle.”
I saw the way her eyes twinkled, and my own lit up.
As soon as we got home, we started researching local pageants.
Once she signed me up for my first one, we drilled my dance routine for weeks.
We practiced changing out of my costumes as quickly as possible without toppling over in my heels or mussing up my hair and makeup.
Mom asked me endless practice questions about my greatest accomplishment (raising the funds to make a butterfly garden for the elementary school), my role model (my mom), and what’s important to me (my family).
The week before the competition, Mom had me do my walk in front of the whole family, which had been simultaneously mortifying and helpful.
If I could nail my walk while Cooper made pretend throw-up noises and Linney and Pete tossed a baseball back and forth, there wasn’t much that would knock me off balance when I was on the pageant stage.
It was still dark the morning of the pageant when Mom came to wake me, but I was already up.
My stomach roiled with a mixture of excitement and nerves, and I mentally raced through all the things I needed to remember—how to hold my arms, how to spin at the end of my walk, the steps of my dance routine.
We carefully piled all my supplies into Mom’s red Volvo and headed east, the sky gradually lightening as we drove.
After we pulled into the parking lot of the Marietta Ramada, we followed a crowd of tanned girls into the lobby.
Girls were everywhere, in various states of makeup and hair, but everyone seemed to know what they were doing and where they needed to go.
I stood awkwardly, holding the garment bag with my evening dress above my head to make sure that the dress didn’t drag along the floor and pick up any wrinkles.
“You head in and find a spot, hon. I’ll go get us checked in.
” Mom disappeared toward a table that looked semiofficial, and I spun on my heel, searching for where to go.
Most of the girls seemed to be headed down the hallway in one direction, so I followed the crowd through a set of double doors into a banquet room that had been transformed into a massive dressing room.
The large space was crammed with portable lights and mirrors, every table littered with makeup kits and bobby pins, brushes and hand mirrors and precariously placed curling irons plugged into walls.
A fog of hairspray and the lingering smell of slightly charred hair hovered over the room, which echoed with the noisy chatter of what had to be more than a hundred youth contestants.
I scanned the room, nervousness starting to freeze up my chest, when I spotted a girl who I recognized from school, and felt a sudden wave of relief.
We didn’t know each other that well, but I knew her name: Mary Moore Musgrove.
I tossed her a shy smile and hung my dress on one of the clothing racks not far from hers.
Mom came back with a number to pin to me and a schedule of events.
For the next half hour, I sat in a chair while Mom did my hair and makeup.
But with each twist of hair and swipe of blush, the anxiety that had ebbed just a little at seeing a familiar face started building again.
All of the girls around me looked so sure of themselves.
Why did I think I belonged here? I’d gotten so caught up in spending time with Mom and the fun of practicing for the pageant that I hadn’t spent any time really imagining what the pageant itself would be like.
I’d just wanted to look and feel sparkly and special and otherworldly, like the girl I’d seen in the parade.
I hadn’t really thought about what it would feel like to have all these people staring at me—and to have to compete.
After Mom dotted on the final bit of lip gloss and sprayed finishing spray all over my face to keep the makeup from slipping, she helped me into my dance costume. As she zipped up the back of my leotard, her eyes met mine in the mirror. “You look perfect, honey. I’m so glad we get to do this.”
“Me too,” I said, meaning it. Despite my nerves, it had been worth it to get so much time with Mom those past few weeks.
She’d undergone a simple surgery earlier that year, and her recovery had gone well, but it’d still put her out of commission for a while, and even my typically smiling mother had been on edge because of it.
I had only absorbed some of the details, but there had been a lot of reassuring phrases like caught it early and full remission and treatment successful.
What I knew was that she was all better now—and finally, we were getting to spend time together again.
“I’m going to go find a seat. Break a leg, sweetie!”
“Okay.” I wanted to beg her to stay with me, but I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I pressed down the feelings and forced a smile.
“I’ll see you out there!” I packed as much cheerfulness into my voice as I could.
Mom gave me one last hug, careful not to muss my hair, and then disappeared into the crowd.
“What’s your talent?” The voice came from behind me. I spun around in my costume, the white fringe along my arms catching on the sapphire sequins that covered the bulk of the leotard. It was the girl from school. Mary Moore.
I swallowed down my anxiety and tried to pin my smile back into place. “Dance.”
“Hmm,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “I do tumbling.”
“Oh, that sounds really cool.” And it did. Too cool. So much cooler than me. How talented would I look doing a few pirouettes next to a girl who was doing back handsprings?
Her lips pressed into a thin smile. “I changed my whole routine to be a Sweet Home Alabama remix. My mom found out the lead judge is from Birmingham a few days ago, so I’ve been practicing like crazy with the new music.”
“Wow, jeez. That must’ve been so much work.”
Mary Moore just shrugged. I fidgeted with the fringe along my forearm.
Should I have known who the judges were?
Neither Mom nor I had thought to try to find out.
I’d spent so much time tailoring my answers to what I knew my mom would like, but I hadn’t spent the time to think about how I should tailor it to the people actually judging.
“Your hair looks really good.” Her words sounded almost accusatory.
“Um, thank you.” My hand rose involuntarily to the curls around my face, but I dropped my hand as I realized what I was doing. Mom had been clear that I shouldn’t touch my hair and risk messing it up. Without thinking, I added, “I can do yours this way, if you
want?”
Mary Moore just looked at me. “You’d really do that for me?” She sounded genuinely moved, and slightly confused, by the gesture. There was also a hint of distrust in her voice. I realized she might not think that I’d do as good a job as Mom had done on me.
“I’ve watched my mom do it a ton of times,” I hurried to add, hoping to assuage her fears. “And she made me practice it on myself just in case I had a hair emergency. I promise I won’t mess it up.”
The guardedness of Mary Moore’s expression relaxed. “That’s really nice of you.”
I walked over to her getting-ready station.
My fingers weren’t as practiced as my mom’s, and it took me a couple false starts.
But after a few minutes, I stepped back to admire my handiwork.
It didn’t look as picture-perfect as mine did, but it had a looser, more natural movement to it that I almost felt looked better.
Mary Moore looked at herself in the mirror, then turned to me.
“It looks really beautiful. Thank you.” Her voice sounded almost disbelieving, and it occurred to me that this had been sort of like a test. She probably hadn’t planned to keep her hair this way.
She’d just wanted to see if I was exaggerating my skill.
After all, her own mother was still circulating the room and could have fixed it for her if she thought I’d done a bad job.
“Of course,” I told her, pleased with myself that I’d passed her little test. “I can show you some more styles she’s taught me next time if you want.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. But something in my face must have convinced her to continue. “You know, everyone’s nervous. We’re all just faking it.”
I was startled for a second, before breaking out into a grin. She smiled back, and we both laughed softly. It felt like this huge secret she’d let me in on, in exchange for helping her. Or maybe it was a lie—but it was a lie I believed, and needed to hear.
Then, before we could say anything else, I got called to the main stage for my performance. The stage was set up in an adjoining ballroom.
Backstage, the hairstyle my mom had spent so much time on pulled at my scalp, suddenly too tight.
My head felt like it might tip all the way back if I didn’t make a concerted effort to keep myself upright.
My false eyelashes tugged at my eyelids, and the sequins of my costume dug into my skin.
The anxiety that I’d felt all morning began to peak.
When they announced my name, a stagehand shoved me gently onto the stage. I blinked against the stage lights and forced a smile to my face. The audience fell quiet.
The first few bars of my music started, and I launched into my routine.
My steps were on the fast side, my nerves propelling my body through the movements as I tendu’d and leapt and twirled.
I felt totally stiff as I moved from one step to the next—gone was the fluidity I normally felt when I danced.
I reminded myself to keep smiling, though, especially as I got to the most difficult section of the routine.
The music crescendoed as I sashayed across the stage, and somehow, the sashay carried me one beat too long.
For all the practice I’d done, I’d neglected to account for all the adrenaline coursing through me.
I was off by a full count. I’d finished my fouetté too late, and totally lost my place in the music. I froze.
I stared out at the crowd, suddenly mortifyingly aware of all those eyes.
My breath got tight in my chest, and I could feel myself starting to panic.
Then, through the lights of the stage, I finally spotted my mom.
She was right there in the third row. Her eyes were wide with concern, but she must have realized I could see her, so she gave me a thumbs-up and mouthed keep going.
Somehow, the simple reminder snapped me back to attention.
In that moment, I found my place again in the choreography and threw myself back into the steps.
As I caught back up with the music, I risked one more glance out at the audience.
Mom was watching every move, and this time, she was beaming.
A smile so genuine and bright and proud that I almost didn’t recognize it.
I hadn’t seen her smile like that in a long time.
I’d seen the fake one she gave to people when they asked how she was feeling or how her recovery was going, but this one was different.
It wasn’t strained around the edges. It just burst free, as easy as a wildflower.
And with it, that same easiness flowed through me, and the dance became organic again, like when I practiced it at home.
I finished with a triple pirouette into my final pose, and the sound of applause washed over me with relief.
THE PAGEANT WENT ON for a long time. After the talent portion, we had the evening gown portion.
By the time they were announcing placements, I was completely exhausted from the adrenaline crash.
The judges read off the second and first runners-up, and my name wasn’t called.
For a moment, I wondered if my screw-up might’ve gotten overlooked, and somehow maybe I was the winner.
My face muscles hurt, but I kept smiling even as my cheeks started to shake.
They called the winner.
It was Mary Moore Musgrove.
I hadn’t placed at all. Even though there were tons of other girls who didn’t place, either, I was still a little shocked. All that work… for nothing.
Mom met me backstage and pulled me into a hug. “You did so good, hon.”
I couldn’t help fishing for the correction though. “Even though I lost my count?”
Mom’s hands came to my shoulders, and she squeezed them with a smile. “Even then.” She looked past me to the winners still onstage getting their pictures taken. “That Musgrove girl had the same hair as you.”
“Yeah, I helped her with it.”
“That was very kind of you, Nikki.” Mom looked back to me with a small smile on her face. “But next time…” She paused as if fighting with herself. “Next time, maybe keep that edge for yourself.”
She curled an arm around me as we left the ballroom. “I’m proud of you. You know, those other girls have lots of experience. You just need to get a few more under your belt, and next time, you’ll be the one wearing that crown.”
Next time, I thought.
I’d have to do better next time.
I wanted to see that smile again.