BARRY REX: Well. Is that … the Republic of ChaCha?
“It’s somebody’s Republic of ChaCha,” a camera operator murmured.
A half hour later, as Ladybird Hope left the studio, crowds had gathered again. But they were not cheering or holding up KEEP AMERICA PRETTY signs. No one shot play gun fingers at her with a wink. The faces were angry. Yelling. Ladybird Hope was not enjoying this moment in the spotlight. Still, she gave them a smile and a thumbs-up. “Keep your chins up. The truth will come out.”
“The truth just did come out, you murderer!” a woman shouted.
A bonfire billowed up. Some in the crowd tossed copies of Ladybird’s book into the fire while a librarian pleaded with them not to do that and grabbed a fire extinguisher.50 Ladybird Hope made her way through the angry mob to her car, where two federal agents in dark suits waited for her. If she squinted, she could almost pretend they were secret service and she was the president.
48Beena, the Bollywood actress and singer whose “Hindi Hindi Shake” made her a club sensation in 1999 before the “India-pop” craze was replaced by the “Pakistani Soul” sensation.
49Hip-Hopera’s La-La Boheme, the Jamaica, Queens-based urban arts collective’s hip-hop retelling of Puccini’s opera, which was protested by Concerned Citizens of America First for allowing more than ten black people on one stage at the same time.
50Really, being a librarian is a much more dangerous job than you realize.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
It was the most highly rated Miss Teen Dream Pageant ever. Though there were only thirteen contestants, the curiosity about seeing these survivors — fanned by an Internet ad campaign that hinted at unsavory sexual secrets and possible cannibalism — drew a record number of viewers. Sadly, without continued sponsorship from The Corporation, the program was canceled and replaced with new episodes of the reality show about Amish girls rooming with strippers, Girls Gone Rumspringa.
The media were calling LadybirdGate the sex scandal of the century. One tabloid referred to her as “Ladybird Ho.” Articles appeared in newspapers and blogs decrying the moral decay of girls in general. On TV, talking heads wrung their hands over a lack of traditional feminine values and wondered if girls’ sports were to blame. Then they cut to a commercial featuring a sexy college coed vacuuming her dorm room in her underwear.
Shanti shook her head. “All those crimes, and, like, all anybody can focus on is a sex scandal.”
“Yeah, The Corporation will probably only get a slap on the wrist and get to set up shop somewhere else. Everything’s being blamed on Ladybird. Typical.”
“She may be a D-E-W-S-H, but it’s not all her fault,” Tiara agreed.
“You’re uncharacteristically quiet over there, New Hampshire,” Petra said.
Adina wasn’t watching the continuing coverage on the yacht’s TV. Instead, she stared out at the sea. “Just thinking about Taylor.”
Nicole put a hand on Adina’s shoulder. “Hey, you tried to find her. We all did.”
It was true. They’d gone looking. They’d searched everywhere, with no luck. What Adina hadn’t told anyone was this: As she’d passed the secret cave in the jungle where Taylor had hidden for so long, she’d found the beauty queen’s sash and dress hung neatly from a tree, abandoned. And just beyond that, she’d thought she’d seen a flash of blond hair in the trees. But then it was gone.
The newscaster’s voice whined from the TV. “Do you think these girls, these Teen Dreamers, all those things they did — and Tom, we’re hearing about wild things now — do you think it has to do with sex ed in the schools? Or are girls just getting more brazen? And what does this mean for society in general? Should we be scared of our daughters?”
“They don’t get it,” Shanti said with a sigh.
“Do you think they ever will?” Nicole asked.
“Fuck ‘em,” Sosie said. She flipped off the TV and chucked the Miss Teen Dream manual into the trash can.
From her perch in the tree, Taylor watched them go. The orphaned snake slithered down from the trees and she let it rest upon her shoulders like a beautiful, iridescent boa.
“My stars, this sure is a big mess, isn’t it?” she said, walking over the ruined land near the volcano. It wasn’t terrible, really. Just needed some elbow grease and then it would shine and sparkle like a crown. The snake nuzzled her cheek and flicked its tongue. Taylor stroked its head gently and it settled.
She had a busy day ahead. There was an island to tame. Creatures to name. A world to build.
Whatever would she wear?
COMMERCIAL BREAK
OPEN ON: A group of sexy beauty queens running through the jungle, swinging on vines and knocking out ninjas. They stop beside a volcano, punch in a code on the keypad, and enter the secret compound, where they immediately go into the shower area and examine themselves in large mirrors.
BEAUTY QUEEN #1
Whew! This humidity sure is hard on a girl’s lips.
BEAUTY QUEEN #2
I’ll say. I may be a feminist fatale, but I can’t seem to do anything about these chapped lips.
BEAUTY QUEEN #3
Come on, girls — it’s time to slay those pooped puckers and amp up your shine with Bitchin’ Babes lipstick! Moisturizing. Vitamin-enriched. And full of shine and sparkle! This is one lipstick that can really stand up to whatever life throws at it.
CUT TO: Close-up of girl slicking a wand of gooey lip gloss over very full, collagen-enhanced lips.
BEAUTY QUEEN #3 VOICEOVER
Bitchin’ Babes is a can-do gloss — perfect for the beach or a jungle pool party. And it comes in four moisture-drenched colors: Lava Red, Pirate Pink, Mind’s Flower Mauve, and Sparkling Sand.
CUT TO: Beauty queens dressed in sexy spandex suits and ready for action.
BEAUTY QUEEN #1
These lips are survivors.
A red alarm on the wall goes off.
BEAUTY QUEEN #2
Uh-oh. Here comes trouble.
BEAUTY QUEEN #1
At least my lips aren’t a problem!
VOICEOVER
It’s a jungle out there — better look your best, with new Bitchin’ Babes lipstick. From The Corporation. Because —
The commercial stalls, then quits altogether. A loud beep can be heard.
WE ARE EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES. PLEASE STAND BY.
EPILOGUE
“Here we go, ladies! Dance us out, Teen Dream-style — hey-up!” Shanti growls into the mic. Decked out in oversize sunglasses, a (yellow) sari over a Run-D.M.C. tee, and glitter sneakers, she stands in the makeshift DJ booth working the turntables. The yacht’s excellent sound system blasts the killer Hip-Hopera groove of La-La Boheme’s overture punctuated by the danceable mix of tabla and sitar from Beena’s “Mumbai Love Song.”
“Y’all ready to do this?” Shanti asks.
“Yeah!” the girls respond.
“I said, are y’all, like, totally ready to do this?”
“YEAH!” The girls are loud.
“Here we go, here we go, here we go.”
Expertly, Shanti mixes in Beena’s vocal. The pop star’s high voice soars over the steady beat. “Give it up for our wild girl and pirate queen, Miss Nebraska, Mary Lou Novak!”
Brandishing a cutlass and wearing her Miss Nebraska sash around her head, pirate-style, Mary Lou takes the runway in long, loping strides. Her arms move completely out of sync with her feet. She will make a formidable captain, but god bless her, she still cannot dance. Let us cast our eye to her future now:
Mary Lou Novak — Adventurer. Pirate Queen of the Josephine. Wild girl. When not at sea, Mary Lou and her companion, Tane, live on a wind farm in Nebraska with their three little wild girls.
“Ch-ch-check your faboosh against hers! Straight outta Rhode Island, it’s Petra West!”
Like some alien goddess, Petra shimmies down the runway in a mod, sequined mini festooned with palm-frond fringe. Her makeup — smoky eyes and nude lips
— is fierce. At the end of the runway, she punctuates her Fosse-esque pose with the sharp snap of an open fan.
Petra West — Transwoman host of the popular nighttime chat show Go West. Married to Sinjin St. Sinjin, music producer and bon vivant.
They both look great in heels.
The fan snaps closed again. With a toss of her head, Petra swivels on her heel and exits the runway.
Shanti punches in an old-school drum machine sample. The groove is thick. Juicy. “Let’s make some Illin’-noise for Sosie Simmons!” she calls.
Jennifer signals to Sosie that it’s her turn, and Miss Illinois, resplendent in an edgy tutu made from evening gown remnants and airplane seat foam, executes a perfect grand jeté into four revolutions, a blur of grace and grit. And then she stops, arms spread wide toward the silent, powerful clouds.
Sosie Simmons — The new director of Helen Keller-bration! dance troupe, currently touring the United States and Canada. Was able to secure additional funding for an arts-based after-school program for children with disabilities. Dating a boy, for now. Still enjoys watching clouds.
Sosie does a backward flip into the wings, where Jennifer slaps her five down low. Sosie puts her thumb to her chest and waves the other four fingers. Jennifer mimes it back. “I think you’re awesome, too.”
“Watch out! It’s the original Flint Avenger, Miss Michigan, Jennifer Huberman!”
“Oops. That’s my cue,” Jennifer says.
“Go Jennifer!” Sosie whoops as her BFF takes the stage.
Snapping her fingers from side to side, Jennifer skips down the runway in satin harem pants and a Wonder Woman T-shirt whose hem she’s bedazzled with tiny shell fragments that catch the light and cast her in a pinkish glow. She reaches into a pocket and produces a golden lasso (all right, a thin, golden strip belt, but why quibble?), which she twirls above her head, disco-style, and quite frankly, she’s fucking fabulous. But what of her future?
Jennifer Huberman — Writer/illustrator of the underground comic Fiercely Fashionable Dykes. Co-owner, with her wife, Marguerite Espinoza, of Galaxy Comics, the best independent comics store in Flint, Michigan, and organizer of the annual Girl Con.
Jennifer presses the backs of her wrists together like clinking bracelets. Shanti imitates the movement and they share a laugh. “Wonder Woman herself, Miss Michigan, Jennifer Huberman!” Shanti calls.
Jennifer duckwalks her way back, earning the laughter and applause of her friends. Spirits are high.
Adina dons a pair of sunglasses and grabs the mic. “I hope you came to get down, because Miss Ade’s in town! Ladies and gentlemen — the girl who puts the rad in COLO-RAD-O! Nicole!”
Nicole’s long legs take the runway in gazelle strides. Her hair is a beautiful black corona tied off with a bright orange scarf. Her purple dashiki is accessorized with a flower-and-frond necklace. She shadow-boxes the air with hard, swift uppercuts before coming to rest in a champion’s pose, arms stretched overhead.
“Check it,” she says, and purses her lips.
Nicole Ade — That’s Surgeon General Nicole Ade, thank you very much. Implemented comprehensive public school sex ed programs credited with raising teen body awareness and self-esteem and lowering teen pregnancy rates. Manages anxiety with karate. Stopped biting her nails.
“You gonna moonwalk for us?” Shanti teases from the booth.
Nicole shoots her best friend the bird and everyone laughs. As she grooves her way back up the runway, Shanti’s hands swerve over the turntables, expertly blending dissimilar sounds that somehow, mixed together, make something new and hot.
“Tiara! Tiara! Tiara!” the girls chant.
Tiara slides out on the runway in a purple tulle dress over black knee-high, lace-up boots. A garland of blue island flowers is pinned to her hair. She launches into a hard-popping krunk routine, her body like a weapon, before dropping straight down into a split.
“Whoa,” Petra says. “That Christian pole dancing really limbers you up.”
While we linger on Tiara’s giddy, triumphant face, let’s peek behind the corner at her future.
Tiara Destiny Swan — Part-time interior decorator and full-time soccer mom to four kids. Recently let them use her old trophies to construct a fort in the backyard. Enrolled in a low-residency college program with a 3.75 GPA. Knows how to spell douche.
“Thank you, Miss Alabama!”
“Mississippi!” Tiara singsongs.
“Oh, Alabama — that’s me!” Brittani runs out onto the stage wearing a bikini and a metal cape made from salvaged plane parts. She turns to show off the cape and winks over her shoulder.
Brittani Slocum — Soap opera actress and celebrity spokeswoman for the Third Nipple Foundation. Accidentally married a European prince while making a music video. Now princess of that principality, but not really sure why.
On her way back, Brittani passes the foursome of Miss New Mexico, Miss Ohio, Miss Arkansas, and Miss Montana. They high-kick in contagion with Rockette precision.
Miss New Mexico — Experimental filmmaker, director of the acclaimed Palme d’Or winner Trayhead. Responsible for starting Vogue’s “Bangs are the new black!” trend.
Miss Ohio — Expert in constitutional law. Helped draft the new ERA legislation currently before the House.
Miss Arkansas — Math teacher and professional roller derby champion dubbed the Beauty Queen Bomber. Signature move? The smile-and-wave-’em-down.
Miss Montana — Runs a pet rescue on her one hundred-acre refuge in Montana. Philanthropist. Wife. Mother.
Miss Ohio gives her signature flirty, fingertips-only wave as the girls dance back.
Mary Lou motions to Adina to go next. Adina shakes her head, but she is overruled.
“Everybody takes a turn,” Mary Lou insists, and draws her out.
“Here comes trouble,” Shanti whispers into the mic.
“Trouble’s my middle name,” Adina fronts.
“I thought it was Painintheass,” Petra shouts.
“That’s my Hebrew name.”
“Slick!”
The girls cheer and clap. Adina shifts her straw fedora to a rakish angle. She wears biker shorts and a striped mini fashioned from their former rescue banner. She is a dancing advertisement for “It’s Miss Teen Dream, Bitches!” Snapping her fingers across her body and over her head, Adina marches down the runway, adding some arm rolls and pivot turns for fun. She freezes in profile, one hand on the brim of her hat, lips pursed.
Adina Greenberg — The youngest journalist ever to win a Pulitzer, for her reporting on the making of Lady ’Stache Off, which resulted in the product’s being removed from shelves. Currently enjoying dating with no compunction to settle down.
With a grin, Adina brandishes spirit fingers. “Sparkle Ponies! Lost Girls! Represent!” she shouts.
“OMG. I am, like, so embarrassed for you,” Shanti giggles into the mic.
As Adina struts off, Shanti adds bass. The turntables thump with a rhythm that cannot be denied. The earth shakes with it. Nicole leaps behind the booth and pushes Shanti toward the runway.
“DJ Shanti Singh, Miss California!” she shouts over the music.
It starts with the fingers, but soon Shanti’s entire body tells a story. Traditional Indian dance movements give way to hip-hop and jazz. She makes it up as she goes along; it’s her story to tell.
Shanti Singh — Owner of the Fortune 500 skincare company Shanticeuticals. Invests in microloans to female entrepreneurs in developing countries. Engaged to an awesome high school science teacher found by her parents. Weekend DJ of the popular Bollywood Boogie series.
Hands pressed together, Shanti takes her final bow, and now all the girls rush the stage. It is a delightful chaos of bodies. High-kicking. Hip shaking. Arm locking. Everyone contributing something. Mary Lou misses a step and the girls teeter near the edge, shrieking, but they manage to right themselves, and then they are laughing once more, leaning into one another in affection as much as support, a
great chain of girl.
Shanti gives the signal. “One …”
“Two …” Nicole seconds.
“Three!” Adina says.
As one, they leap, laughing, and that is where we leave them — mouths open, arms spread wide, fingers splayed to take in the whole world, bodies flying high in defiance of gravity, as if they will never fall.
A WORD OF ACKNOWLEDGMENT
FROM YOUR GRATEFUL AUTHOR
It takes a village to take a beauty queen book all the way to final runway. Therefore, I’d like to pay tribute to the many fine people who have helped to make this book possible. Whether or not the following wish to be acknowledged now that they have read same is another matter.
A huge thanks to my editor and uber-mensch,1 David Levithan, who, years ago, said, “A plane full of beauty queens crashes on a deserted island. And … GO!” David, some say your methods are madness; I say “genius.” And, unlike most, I say it without irony. Clearly, you were the inspiration for Sinjin St. Sinjin. That much cannot be denied. Well, you and your lawyers can always try. I got you, babe — thank heavens.
Likewise, I must thank AnnMarie Anderson, who said, even before David, “A plane full of beauty queens crashes on a deserted island!” Apparently, this phrase is said quite a bit at Scholastic, like some sort of art house reenactment of The Manchurian Candidate. I’m grateful for you, AnnMarie — and not just because you’re named after the seminal TV goddess of my youth.2