Paris was the first runner-up at last year's Butter Queen pageant, just beating me out of it by one point. I suffered a slight humiliation during the talent portion when I missed my flaming baton on a double twirl, and it crashed to the stage. The important thing was I was quick enough on my feet to avoid setting anything aflame. Considering all of the industrial hair care products, adhesives, and taffeta on display at any given Butter Queen pageant, a fiery baton is a legitimate hazard.
Paris and I lost to Harley Jensen last year, who's been competing in pageants with us since we were babies. At age 23, this is my sixth year competing for Butter Queen, and Paris's fifth year trying for it. She's made it clear she wants to go on to compete for national and international titles and will stop at nothing. Me? Sure, I want to win. But I don't pin all my hopes and dreams on it. Being crowned Butter Queen isn't the end-all-be-all, and it sure isn't going to change my trailer-park existence. Pageants are my hobby. Winning is just icing on the cake. Or butter on my corn, as it were.
I reply to Paris nonchalantly, "It might seem silly to you, Paris, but my mama did say that to me. The judges love it, that's all I know."
The excitement in my gut over this, my second-to-last chance to compete in the Butter Queen pageant, is fighting with the thrill of meeting Lt. Jet Percy. That man could stare the stripes off a giraffe. No, wait a minute. That's not right. I mean zebra. Holy jeezus, he's even got my inner monologue tripping over words.
"All right ladies, line up!" Cameron herds us all to the back stairs where we wait. So much of pageant time is spent just waiting backstage. I take the opportunity to redo the knot in my scarf, and to push out a little extra boob flesh. Mostly, that's for Lt. Percy's benefit.
Paris, who's standing behind me, hisses, "That's all you know because that's all that'll fit inside that tiny brain of yours."
Ignore her. This is just pre-game trash talk.
I just can't stop my mouth, though. "At least my brain is filled out, which is more than I can say for your string bikini, which we both know is not allowed as a two-piece."
It's a ridiculous insult on my part to imply she can't fill out a bikini. Paris had her boobs done five years ago, the second she turned 18. Her new boobs could fill out a parachute. There's nothing wrong with a boob job—do what you gotta do to feel like the real you. But boob job or not, I have no idea how Paris is getting away with wearing that bikini. She's lucky the judge who's the biggest stickler for the rules, Shirley Solomon, got food poisoning this morning. A former Miss Butter Queen who went on to place fourth in Miss Universe, that lady has judged a handful of competitions I've been a part of, and she doesn't stand for anyone pushing any envelopes or threatening to bust out of string bikinis on stage.
Aleesha, the contestant in line ahead of me, turns around and comments excitedly, pulling me out of my thoughts. "Did you hear about Shirley?"
I nod my head. "So unfortunate. And all the other judges are men except for Harley Jensen, and only one of them is experienced at pageant judging."
Aleesha nods. "Shirley had my back last year when the state fair officials weren't going to let me compete. Honestly, it makes me nervous having a gallery full of good ol' boys other than last year's Butter Queen."
I open my mouth to reply, but Paris cuts me off with another uppity opinion. "You should be nervous, Aleesha," she says, using air quotes around the name. "Those good ol' boys might just be able to tell what you really are."
Aleesha does not indicate that she's offended. My blood boils, and I'm ready to whoop some fake-tanned ass. I whip around to face Paris head-on, my hands balled into fists.
"Listen. Your bougie ass can make fun of my trailer trash self as much as you want, but you will not talk shit to another contestant while I'm standing right here. Not unless you want to walk out on that stage with a bloody nose." Aleesha places a gentle hand on my shoulder to calm me down.
Paris raises an eyebrow. "Then you'll be disqualified."
The calming hand squeezes my collarbone gently. My blood pressure calms, and I reach up, squeezing her manicured hand in return. "It would be worth it," I say.
Aleesha lets go and I hear stilettos on the stairs behind me.
I say nothing more but wait for Paris to break eye contact first. I have no idea how much time passes, but she finally glances away with a roll of her eyes and a hair toss. "That's what I thought," I say to her.
"Rocket!" Cameron stage-whispers, trying to be quiet. "Get your butt up the steps. You're about to miss your cue!"
My hands sweat like my prize 4H pig in an August heatwave. As I climb the stairs, I pray to the gods of all pageantry to not let me roll an ankle in these heels.
As soon as I eye the judges—more specifically, that ruggedly masculine one in uniform—I feel as if I'm floating across the stage. The polite applause from the crowd isn't much, but I'll take what I can get.
I walk to the front edge of the stage and the applause swells gratifyingly. Looking down at the judges, I make eye contact with all
