“It’s Christian pole dancing,” Tiara said softly.
“It’s abuse,” Petra said. “Making your third grader go for a spray tan instead of playing in the park just so Mom can outsource her failed dreams to her kid? So wrong.”
Tiara’s eyes filled with tears. “She only wants what’s best for me. She knows I love the pageants.”
“Do you, really?” Petra challenged, and Tiara was silent.
“Why did you enter Miss Teen Dream?” Nicole asked Petra. “I mean, that’s, like, suicidal.”
Petra let out a long exhale. “My parents always wanted me to be able to have the surgery. I got the therapist, had the electrolysis, went on the hormones and the androgen blockers. I did almost everything. But then my mom got cancer. The chemo was expensive and the insurance wouldn’t pay. Said it was a preexisting condition.”
“Breast cancer?”
“Breasts,” Petra said bitterly. “Long story short, we were massively in debt. So long, sex reassignment surgery.”
“What about all that money you made with Boyz Will B Boyz?” Nicole asked.
“Embezzled by our manager.”
“Harsh. Wow, I’m really sorry,” Nicole said. “So how’d you decide on Miss Teen Dream?”
Petra rocked back, still holding tightly to her knees. “It wasn’t my idea. Through my support group, I met these political activists from a transgender rights group called Trans Am.”
“Trans Am?” Shanti made a face. “Your transgender rights group named themselves after a cheesy 1980s car and you aligned yourself with them? That’s like picking a plastic surgeon out of the grocery circular.”
“Okay. The name’s stupid. But they wanted to make a statement. They got me my hormones and promised to pay for the surgery if I’d go through Miss Teen Dream, the ultimate female pageant, as a contestant. All I had to do was place and then reveal myself at a press conference afterward and people would have to question everything they think about transgender people and about gender itself.”
“So you’re making fun of us?” Tiara asked.
“No! Not at all,” Petra said.
“Why not do one of those drag pageants, win money that way?” Nicole asked.
Petra kicked the tree. “Because I’m not in drag! This is who I am. That’s why I want to make a statement, so people understand. It’s a stand against discrimination. Look, I don’t need to win. I just need to place and do the press conference, and then I’ll have enough for the operation. Can you just not say anything? Please?”
The girls exchanged glances. It was Shanti who spoke. “I’m sorry. You broke the rules. I have to turn you in.”
“He — she might not even place,” Nicole tried.
“And if he does, that’s taking away a spot that could go to you or me. It’s not like the pageant just loves women of color, you know.”
Tiara looked up. “I thought you said the pageant wasn’t racist.”
“Bitch, please,” Shanti and Nicole said in unison.
“Besides, the pageant’s already on shaky ground,” Shanti argued. “All we need is another scandal, and then it’s over and none of us gets scholarship money. I’m sorry. But I’m a rules girl. I have to turn you in, Petra. We should get moving while there’s daylight.”
Nicole was torn. She liked Petra and she understood what it was to be discriminated against. But this was different, wasn’t it? Petra had deceived them, and Nicole didn’t like being lied to. She honestly didn’t know what to do.
“Maybe there’s another way to get the money.” She patted Petra’s shoulder and fell in behind Shanti.
Petra turned to Tiara. “I guess you hate me, too.”
Tiara tried not to look at Petra. Her eyes kept slipping down to her non-girl region. “I’m so confused. I don’t know if you’re a girl or a boy.”
“I’m a girl who just happened to get the wrong body.”
“My mom says people like you are wrong.”
“I can’t speak for your mom.”
“I don’t know. I have to think about it,” Tiara said, and she hurried to join the other girls on the trail.
CHAPTER TEN
By day’s end, everyone had made it back to the camp on the beach. Jennifer introduced Sosie to the group and told everyone about their misadventure with (and eventual victory over) the giant snake, about the Lady ’Stache Off jars and the old ration kit. The girls took it as a sign that the island was known and there would be an eventual rescue, especially if Jennifer could get the radio up and running.
“I’ll give it a shot. I learned a lot when my mom used to work at the plant,” Jennifer said.
Taylor convened a meeting. The girls settled into their horseshoe formation. Taylor raised a baton whose ignitable ends had been reduced to stubs.
“Whoever needs to talk can ask for the baton. Parliamentary procedure will be followed.”
“Parliamentary procedure? Did you go to girls’ state? Because I did,” Adina interjected.
Taylor frowned and waggled the baton. “You’re out of order, Miss New Hampshire. I have the baton. As I was saying, if you need to say something, you raise your hand and ask for permission to speak. The speaker will recognize you and hand over the baton. If you speak out of turn, you’re gonna be hit with penalties. So,” Taylor said as she wiped a small spot of dirt off the baton’s glittery stick. “Now that we’re all back together, we need to talk about getting rescued and resuming our pageant practice.”
Adina’s hand went up like a missile. “Permission to speak!”
Taylor rolled her eyes. “Granted, Miss New Hampshire. Please try to keep it clean. Not all of us were raised in a traveling RV of foul-mouthed circus folk.”
She handed the baton to Adina, who started to say something in response, then thought better of it. “For as long as we’re here, we need to survive. You know, build some shelter, find reliable food and drinking water. We need to organize.”
Taylor’s hand shot up. “Taylor Rene Krystal Hawkins of the great state of Texas! Permission to speak!”
“What fresh hell is this?” Adina muttered. “Granted.”
Taylor took back the baton. “Miss New Hampshire is right.”
“You’re agreeing with me?” Adina blurted out. “What are the other signs of the apocalypse?”
“You’re out of order, Miss New Hampshire. I’ll issue a warning. Next time it’s a penalty.” Taylor stood and paced with the baton cradled in her arms like a winner’s bouquet. “You know what I’m thinkin’, Miss Teen Dreamers?”
“What?” Mary Lou asked.
“That was rhetorical, Miss Nebraska. I’m thinkin’ that when we do finally get rescued, we want them to find us at our best. And what could be better and more in line with the Miss Teen Dream mission statement than having them find that we have tamed and beautified this island? It’s like extra credit. And you know how the judges love extra credit.”
Shanti raised her hand and received the baton. “I wrote my junior AP science thesis on micro farming and sustainable agriculture. I could come up with some plans for planting a garden and constructing an irrigation system. And I know how to make a system for drinking water.”
“But can you also make popadam as your grandmother taught you?”
“Out of order, Montana,” Taylor tutted.
Miss New Mexico raised her hand. “My sophomore year, I took set design when I couldn’t get into interpretive dance. I’m pretty good at building things.”
“You are now the building committee, Miss New Mexico. What else do we need?”
The baton passed from girl to girl as ideas were discussed: Huts. Fishing lines. Rain-catching tarp. Zip lines. Tanning booth. By the time the baton came to Taylor again, the girls had a renewed sense of hope. After all, they were the best of the best. They had lived through the pageant circuit, which was no place for wimps.
“When they come to rescue us, they will find us with clean, jungle-forward, fashionable huts and a self-sustaining ecos
ystem. We will be the Miss Teen Dreamers they write about in history books,” Taylor said.
“Nobody writes about Miss Teen Dreamers in history books,” Adina scoffed.
“They will now, Miss New Hampshire. We will be the best ever. This is my new goal. And I am very goal-oriented. Also, penalty: You’re on first watch tonight. Is there anything else?” Taylor asked. It was quiet. “Then I’ll call this meeting —”
“Permission to speak?” Shanti raised her hand and glanced nervously at Petra. “I have something I need to tell everyone.”
“Shanti, don’t,” Nicole whispered.
“Miss Colorado? Were you speaking out of turn?”
“No. Just clearing my throat.”
“Then you have the runway, Miss California. Take your promenade.” Taylor passed her the baton.
“Well, we didn’t really get a chance to know one another before we left. And it’s just that some of us might not be who we pretend to be.”
Taylor gripped one end of the baton, sharing it with Shanti. “What are you saying, Miss California?”
“I’m saying —”
“That we should have a cutest hut contest!” Nicole interrupted.
“Miss Colorado, it was not your turn on the runway,” Taylor admonished. “Tomorrow, you will bring coconuts back from the jungle.”
“Sure,” Nicole continued. “It’s just that I’m sure what Shanti is trying to say is that it’s really hard when you’ve grown up feeling discriminated against, you know, because of your race or religion or because you just happened to be born a certain way… .”
“Like really pretty,” Miss Ohio said.
Miss New Mexico nodded. “Or naturally thin.”
“Or you have a third nipple,” Brittani said, shaking her head.
“Excuse me, I have the runway,” Shanti reminded everyone. “You need to know that Petra has been lying to us all this time. Nicole and Tiara can back me up.”
In her head, Nicole heard her mother’s voice, the million-and-one times she’d turned to Nicole with an “Isn’t that right, baby?” or “Nicole agrees with her mama, don’t you?” She heard her mother’s voice and she gave the response she’d always wanted to give. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Shanti turned to Tiara. “Tell everybody the truth.”
Tiara looked from Petra to Shanti to Nicole and back to Petra again.
“Miss Mississippi?” Taylor asked.
“Well … um … I … I …”
Petra stood. “Stop badgering her! Fine. You want to know the secret. I’ll tell you. Permission to speak.”
“Granted,” Taylor said.
Shanti raised the baton. “But I’m the only one who can grant permission.”
“Miss California. Don’t be such a douche nozzle. Miss Rhode Island?”
“I wasn’t … I haven’t always …” Petra took a deep breath. The baton trembled in her hands. She’d wanted her chance to compete like any other girl, to make a statement to the world that there was nothing wrong with her, that she was beautiful, through and through. But the hiding was too hard — harder than learning group dance steps or finding size-eleven heels that didn’t look like total ass. “I’m not technically a girl. Yet.”
Thirteen pairs of eyes stared back at Petra. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the whoosh of surf. Finally, Taylor raised her hand and Petra recognized her.
“Did you get hit on the head out there, Miss Rhode Island? Because I am a National Merit Scholar, and I know a girl when I see one.”
“Well, thanks for that.” Petra gave a wan smile. “I’m transitioning. Male to female. I was born a boy, but I always knew that on the inside, I am a girl. I’ve been taking the hormones — that’s what was in my overnight case and why I was so desperate to get it back.”
“She used to be J. T. Woodland from Boyz Will B Boyz,” Tiara said. “Sorry. Permission to speak before what I just said. No takebacks!”
Again, there was silence. Miss Ohio raised her hand and was granted permission. “Really? You used to be J. T. Woodland?”
Petra nodded.
“What is Billy Merrell really like? Does he like blondes? Do you think he’d like me?”
Taylor wrenched the baton away from her. “Miss Ohio! This is not about you sleeping your way up the pathetic ladder of D-list celebrity. We have a situation here.” She paced the narrow strip of sand. “The rules of Miss Teen Dream state, quite clearly, that it is a pageant open to girls between the ages of fourteen and eighteen. The rules also state that any Miss Teen Dream contestant caught with a boy who is not a blood relative in her room will be disqualified.”
“So we’re all disqualified?”
“You do not have the baton, Miss Ohio. Latrine duty tomorrow.”
“Balls,” Miss Ohio whispered.
“No. We didn’t know. We were duped. But now that we do know, we can’t continue to fraternize with Miss Rhode Island. It’s against the rules.”
Adina was on her feet. “What? That’s ridiculous! We’re on a deserted island, for chrissakes! We’re way beyond the rules of some stupid pageant here!”
“Rules are rules, Miss New Hampshire. They exist for a reason. For taking the Lord’s name in vain, you owe me another quarter. You also spoke without the baton. Latrine duty for you, too.”
“Yes!” Miss Ohio mouthed while making a small fist pump.
Adina’s hand shot up. “Permission to speak!” She wiggled her fingers.
Taylor let them hang there.
“Permission to speak,” Mary Lou said.
“Recognizing Miss Nebraska.” Taylor handed Mary Lou the baton, casting a triumphant glance at Adina.
“Well, um, I just want to say that I’ve read the rule book cover to cover and there’s no specific rule against a transgender contestant,” Mary Lou said in a halting voice. “Not a single one. So, technically, we’re not breaking the rules.”
“But … she’s a he! A guy!” Shanti growled.
“Says who? What makes a girl a girl? What makes a guy a guy?” Petra asked. Her eyes blazed in the firelight. Quickly, Mary Lou shoved the baton at her. “Do you have to be what they want you to be? Or do you stop and listen to that voice inside you? I know who I am. I’m Petra West. And I’m a girl. You want me to sleep somewhere else, fine. Whatever. But I’m not going to pretend to be somebody I’m not. I’ve done enough of that.”
Adina stood and linked arms with Petra. “If Petra goes, so do I.”
Nicole jumped up. “Me, too.”
“Word,” said Jennifer. “And I’ll be taking the radio.”
Taylor reached a hand out for the baton and Petra relinquished it. “I think this is a matter for the pageant officials to decide. But since there’s no specific rule against Miss Rhode Island being with us as dictated by the official Miss Teen Dream handbook, I move that we all stay together for the time being. All those in favor say aye.”
The ayes were strong.
“All those opposed.”
A few nays straggled in.
“Motion carries. Miss Rhode Island bunks with us. Let’s get some sleep, Miss Teen Dreamers. Tomorrow’s going to be a real busy day. And I, for one, do not intend to have puffy eyes. Miss New Hampshire, you’re on first watch.”
The girls filed out. Nicole and Adina gave Shanti dirty looks on the way past, and Shanti felt shamed and unfairly picked on.
“Look, I wasn’t trying to ostracize anybody. It’s just that she — he lied about who he was.”
Petra turned to her. “Everybody lies about who they are. Name one person here who isn’t doing that and I will drop out right now!”
Shanti felt that snake of truth coil around her legs, threatening to squeeze.
“I didn’t mean …”
“No one ever does,” Petra said, shoving the baton back at Shanti.
CLASSIFIED
THE REPUBLIC OF CHACHA
18:00 HOURS
MoMo B. ChaCha was not happy.
His favorite pajamas were not yet back from the cleaners. When MoMo was unhappy everyone was unhappy. With a sigh, he settled on a pair of cotton pj’s. In the morning, he would have the cleaners assassinated.
MoMo removed his custom Elvis-with-sideburns hairpiece and placed it carefully on the plaster of Paris wig form made to look just like MoMo, complete with long, fat mustache and oversize sunglasses. Without the wig, the dictator’s head was like a smooth pond covered by thin strands of brown floss, strands that had grown thinner during the fifteen years, four months, three days, and twenty-two hours he had been absolute ruler of the Republic of ChaCha. It was a small country, but rich in natural resources of the type that made other countries bend over backward to accommodate it. For this reason only, MoMo had a seat in the UN where, on more than one occasion, he had stood on the table in his platform shoes and ermine-trimmed bell-bottoms and danced out his protest against U.S. sanctions. He hated everything about the country of the Miss Teen Dream Pageant, except for three things: Elvis Presley, the greatest entertainer who ever lived; reality TV, especially the raucous Captains Bodacious; and Ladybird Hope.
For this reason, every night after dinner and executions, he would retire to his secret bedroom on his private yacht, which had been wallpapered ceiling to floor in photos of Ladybird Hope. He would don his Elvis Comeback Special black jumpsuit pajamas, crawl into his heart-shaped bed, and pretend that Ladybird was beside him, as if they were a couple on an American sitcom.
“Ladybird, why do we not have the sex? A little less conversation and a little more action, please.”
“You are so fresh, Peacock!” MoMo answered himself in a high, Ladybird Hope voice. “Let us to watch episodes of Captains Bodacious now, and in the morning, we kill defenseless animals with our big guns.”
“As you wish, Ladybird. Dreams come true in Blue Hawaii.”
With a sigh, MoMo settled into the enormous bed and watched the state-sanctioned news, which told of the army’s resounding defeat of the mountainside rebels. This was not entirely true. The rebels were a constant annoyance, an unlanced bunion on the foot of the country. But soon he would take care of that problem. Soon, he would travel by yacht to The Corporation’s private island, away from prying government eyes. The arms deal would be made with no trouble. He reached over and opened the desk drawer that housed the secret DVD he had made, his insurance policy that everything would go according to MoMo’s plans.