Rebel McKenzie (18 page)

T
he air over the carnival grounds shimmered with excitement.

Toy pistols at the shooting gallery cracked and popped. Teenage boys in muscle shirts swung the mallet overhead, trying to hit the strongman gong. The merry-go-round played a tinselly tune as little kids ran to pick their horses.

Miss Odenia smiled wistfully up at the Ferris wheel. The ride wasn't moving, but the top car—the one her friend Ercel would rock to make her scream—seemed to touch the low, white sun.

“The stage is set up over there.” Miss Odenia steered me, Rudy, and Lacey Jane across grounds littered with straw.

My palms were slick, but I couldn't wipe them on the skirt of my pageant dress. “Miz Odenia, do you have a Kleenex?”

She glanced at me. “Uh-oh. We need to fix your melting makeup. Your face looks like a Hostess cupcake in Death Valley.”

Comments like that filled me with
all
kinds of confidence.

“How about my face?” Lacey Jane asked frantically. “Is my makeup okay?”

“You must tolerate the heat better than Rebel,” Miss Odenia said, blotting my forehead with a tissue, then giving me another to pat my hands.

The folding chairs in front of the stage were filled with picture-snapping parents. Also people we knew. Viola Sandbanks sat front-row center, flapping a funeral home fan. Her mouth twisted in annoyance, either at the sweltering heat or the sight of her daughter Palmer cozied up to Mr. Beechley two seats away. He looked a little green, but maybe he was the type that didn't do well in the heat either.

Rudy spotted the woman who won big at bingo every week and the man with the football-shaped thing on his neck. Rudy ogled the man until Miss Odenia said it wasn't polite to stare and that poor Mr. Lake couldn't help it he had a goiter.

In the very front, two men and a woman sat at a table with notepads, pencils, and grim expressions. I'd seen happier grave diggers.

“The judges,” Miss Odenia told us.

We found Mrs. Randolph, the world's oldest and smallest pageant director, scurrying back and forth onstage. A whistle swung from a lanyard around her neck.

“Sweet Peas over here!” she yelled, raising her arm to reveal a pit stain the size of North Carolina.

Little girls in poufy skirts and clackity patent leather shoes milled around like baby chicks. Their mothers fluffed curls and yanked dress-tails down over ruffled underpants.

Fweeeet!
Mrs. Randolph blew her whistle so hard, her face turned as red as a pickled beet. “Line up, Sweet Peas!” Her whistle shrilled again, and a couple of the little kids' faces puckered up.

A teenage girl with craterlike acne (obviously not a contestant) told us in a bored monotone, “All contestants wait under the tent till their group is called. There's cold drinks in the cooler. And a Johnny-on-the-Spot over by the Tub O'Fun if you have to go.”

The tent was behind the stage. Girls sat at picnic tables while their mothers fussed over them.

“I'll see to you girls,” Miss Odenia said. “Then Rudy and I'll go out front.” She checked the program the girl handed her. “Sweet Peas are first. They don't have a talent category. The Daisies go next—appearance and talent. According to this schedule, you Violets are on at twelve thirty. Lacey Jane, I'll give that girl your music.”

She kissed us both on the cheek and left with Rudy. I slipped around to the side so I could see.

Music blared from speakers on either side of the stage. Dressed in a white suit with a baby-blue shirt and baby-blue
shoes
, Mr. Randolph, owner of the pest control part of Better-Off-Dead, hopped up onstage like a flea on a hot greased griddle. His loose stomach jiggled as he danced around with his microphone, grinning at the crowd.

“All righty, folks, let's get the third annual Miss Frog Level Volunteer Fire Department beauty pageant
rollin'
!” He spoke so loud, spit sizzled on the microphone, which he didn't even need.

“This year's pageant, like last year's and the year before's, is brought to you by those fine people at BetterOff-Dead Pest Control and Bridal Consignment, owned and operated by yours truly and my mama, Mrs. Maybelline Randolph! Give Mama a big hand, folks! She's worked like a mule plowing potato hills to make this pageant happen.”

Everyone clapped and cheered.

“We'll begin with the sweetest young'uns this side of heaven,” Mr. Randolph yelled. “Anita! Music, please!”

The crater-faced girl pushed some buttons on the sound system and a song about the good ship
Lollipop
drooled from the speakers. The Sweet Peas straggled across the stage, not looking at the judges or where they were going. They started and bumped into each other like train cars switching tracks. Finally Mrs. Randolph got them herded at one end. The first Sweet Pea scuffed to the center of the stage.

“What's your name, sweetheart?” Mr. Randolph boomed.

The girl stuck her finger in her mouth.

“C'mon, honeypie, tell these fine folks your
name
. I bet it's as pretty as you are.”

The girl's mouth formed a square as she began to howl, mascara streaking down her heat-flushed cheeks. Her mother rushed onstage and hauled her off.

Mr. Randolph faced the audience and said, “She told me her life's ambition is to spread joy to everybody she meets. Give that little lady a big hand!”

I'd seen enough. I went back around to the tent.

Even though we weren't speaking, Lacey Jane turned to me and said, “This pageant has no place to go but up.” She was right about that.

The other Violets joined us. Four of them were so much alike—blond ponytails, blank blue eyes, and bland personalities—that I called them all by the same name. Chanel-Winter-Baylee-Shelbylynn. Definitely no threat.

Then Bambi Lovering's mother strode into the tent as if clearing trash from her precious daughter's path. The two glasses of milk I drank earlier churned in my stomach. Lacey Jane's eyes widened and the Chanel-Winter-Baylee-Shelbylynns gasped.

Bambi was a puredee sight to behold.

Her hair was impossibly golden, perfectly curled, and very big. A village of chipmunks could have lived in that hair. Her cheeks blushed a rosy color. Creamy shadow made her eyelids glow like pearls. Lynette would say Bambi was “overdone,” but the judges would think she was pretty from where they sat.

And her dress! Made of soft pink material that seemed to float, the long skirt stood out like a ball gown. Sparkly pink beads formed flower designs all over the top, which circled her neck in a halter style. Long see-through gloves like pink cobwebs covered her arms. Clear sandals with a strip of pink rhinestones peeked out from beneath the hem. Bambi's toenails and fingernails matched her dress.

Next to Bambi's dazzling outfit, Lacey Jane's dress was a pink nightmare.

Bambi's mother set a tote bag on one of the tables. A little furry head popped up and Kissy scrambled out. Her toenails matched Bambi's dress, too.

Bambi flashed me her famous pageant smile. “You
did
show up.”

“Why wouldn't I?” I said. She wasn't going to scare me off even if her Cinderella gown made me feel a little dowdy.

“For one thing, your face looks like it got caught in a blender—”

“Bambi,” her mother said sharply. “No talking to the other contestants. You need to save your voice. Now, hold still.”

She took out a box of dryer sheets from the tote bag.

The rest of us Violets gaped as Mrs. Lovering wiped each of Bambi's curls with a dryer sheet.

“So my curls won't frizz in this humidity,” Bambi explained. “It's one of the tips in my book—”

“Shh,” her mother said, whisking a tube of lip gloss from the tote. She applied pink gloss to Bambi's lips, then stood back and frowned, like she was grading a science project. “Good. Remember, don't sit down, don't drink anything, and don't speak to the other girls. Bare your teeth.”

Bambi pulled her lips back like a snarling wildcat. Uncapping a jar of Vaseline, her mother swiped a fingerful of the icky stuff over her front teeth. Then she scooped up Kissy, who was busy smelling everyone's feet, and plunked her back in the tote.

After her mother left, Bambi said, her lips sliding like ball bearings on ice, “Schkeeps your schmile from schticking.”

“Are you going to talk like that in your interview?” I asked.

“Schome of the schlickness will schwear off by then.”

We peeked out at the stage. The Sweet Peas were toddling down the steps. One dragged a huge ribbon sash like a too-big diaper. The Daisies filed onstage to their music.

While the Daisies answered questions from the judges, the Chanel-Winter-Baylee-Shelbylynns chattered about school and swim team practice and movies. The Rose girls—the teenage category after us—came in, tanned and gorgeous. They sat together and ignored us Violets.

Lacey Jane picked at her fingernails. I went over my recitation, neatly written out on notebook paper. To make sure I wouldn't stumble over the prehistoric names, those words were printed in red ink. Bambi tuned her ukulele.

Mr. Randolph announced the name of the winning Daisy. From where I sat I couldn't see the winner being crowned, only the disappointed backs of the losers.

Suddenly the whistle shrilled and Mrs. Randolph screeched, “Violets onstage! Line up in alphabetical order! Walk out and turn, then walk back.”

Lacey Jane shot me a look. I thought she might say, “Good luck,” but she silently took her place at the end of the line, behind one of the Chanel-Winter-Baylee-Shelbylynns. Bambi Lovering flounced in front of me. The other three C-W-B-S girls went ahead of her.

We pageant-walked straight across the stage. I remembered to keep my head toward the judges and smiled so wide the edges of my mouth cracked. The judges sat like crows on a fence.

I was doing great until the pivot turn at the far end of the stage. Bambi's long dress swished behind her like a fishtail, and I stepped on the hem. Her head jerked back, but she kept her balance, her smile never slipping as she hissed, “Nice going, klutz!”

Rattled, I reversed the pattern of the pageant-walk, balancing on my heel instead of the ball of my foot. I clumped back across the stage as if I were wearing army boots. Through her ever-present smile, Bambi went, “Hee-hee.”

I mustered up the nerve to check out the audience. Lynette sat in the second row, between Miss Odenia and Rudy. She gave me a thumbs-up.

“Now it's time to meet this bee-oo-ti-ful bunch of girls,” Mr. Randolph boomed. “Come on up, sweetheart, and tell the world your name and your life's ambition.”

Baylee, the first of the Chanel-Winter-Baylee-Shelbylynns, marched up, stated her name, and announced she wanted to save Canada geese from being endangered.

“Well, that's real nice, Miss Baylee,” Mr. Randolph said, “but I don't think Canada geese were ever in danger. I got so many in my back field, they look at me like
I
should be worried!” The audience laughed.

The next two C-W-B-Ss didn't do any better. They both giggled, and one of them couldn't remember her own name.

Then it was Bambi's turn. She glided to the front of the stage and dipped in a little curtsy.

“My name is Bambi Amberleigh Lovering,” she said. “Amberleigh is spelled with an
l-e-i-g-h
, not your more common
l-e-e
.” That settled, she added, “My life's ambition is to stop world hunger.”

The audience murmured approval, and Bambi's smile brightened another fifty watts.

But Mr. Randolph didn't let her off the hook so easy. “An
admirable
goal, Miss Bambi Amber-l-e-i-g-h. Do you have a plan?”

“Oh, yes!” she said. “It's so
simple
—all we have to do is make an extra sandwich. Say you're fixing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for school. Make
two
and send the other one to the hungry people!”

That was so beyond stupid I was amazed anyone clapped, but they did.

The woman judge jotted something on her notepad, ripped it off, and passed it to Anita, who gave it to Mr. Randolph.

He read the note, then said, “It seems we have one more question for you, Miss Bambi Amberleigh. Where did you get that very pretty dress?”

Wouldn't you know those hardhearted judges would think Bambi's dress was the fanciest?

“This old rag? It's been hanging in my closet for years.” She smiled so bright, I was surprised the judges didn't get sunburned.

It was my turn. I walked up to the front of the stage. Lynette and Rudy waved like mad.

“What's your name, hon?” Mr. Randolph thrust the microphone under my nose.

“Rebel McKenzie,” I said clearly. “No middle name spelled any which way.” Lynette and Miss Odenia tittered, and Bambi's mother turned around to glare at them.

“Miss Rebel, tell everyone your life's ambition.”