Chapter 8

“You blew it,” Greg said, as we drove home from the contest.

“What do you mean blew it?” Mom said. “Kit won, silly. I couldn’t have been more proud if it was me on stage.”

“I wish it had been,” I said. I was feeling very miserable.

“You looked beautiful,” Marly said.

“I felt beautiful,” I said. “That’s the killer. I felt like a winner. I didn’t want to, but I did.”

“It showed,” Mom said. “You looked like a champion, like you’d go all the way. Do the same thing for the state contest.”

“My God, the state contest,” I said. “I forgot all about it.”

“How could you?” Mom asked. “That’s what we have to prepare for. You can’t get away with anything any more. You’ll have to buy the right kinds of shoes, and get yourself some make-up. Your hair needs trimming too.”

“Can I wear the same evening gown?”

“Of course. You know we can’t afford another one. When you make it to the national contest, then we’ll get you a new one.”

“This is a nightmare,” I said. “Why didn’t they give it to a ventriloquist?”

“Ventriloquists never win,” Mom said. “Actresses win. Beautiful actresses with auburn hair, that is.”

It takes a lot to make me cry. Twelve years of failing, or close to failing, grades never made me shed a single tear. When Dad left, I cried a little, but mostly from relief. And even losing parts I really wanted, which happened twice, caused more embarrassment than pain. I cry only when I feel vulnerable, and I feel vulnerable when I’ve lost control of the situation, and it’s a situation I have to be in control of. When I couldn’t get a grasp on the character of Eliza, and no matter what I did she didn’t live for me, let alone anyone else, I cried. When, briefly, because of something cruel I said, I lost Lynn’s friendship, I cried. And when I won a beauty contest that I had been determined to lose, I forgot about sleep, and the courtesies of sharing a bedroom, and sobbed.

“Don’t,” Marly said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because it could be worse,” she said. “Just think about living with Mom if you’d lost. She wouldn’t have known who to blame.”

“She would have found someone.”

“Probably me,” Marly said. “The state contest isn’t that far from now. You’re bound to lose then.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I have this awful fated feeling. Maybe it’s silly but I can’t help feeling if I was going to lose, I would have already. And if I win the state contest, I’m really stuck. That’s a job. You can’t even go to college. And I won’t be me any more. I’ll be a beauty contest winner.”

“No, you won’t,” Marly said. “You’ll never win. You’re just not the beauty contest type. They’re bound to realize it eventually.”

“They haven’t yet,” I said. “I was there, giving them my best fourth-runner-up smile, and they picked me to win. And I know the same thing will happen again. Mom has me too well trained. I’ll go to the capitol for the state contest, and they’ll put me on stage with all the competition, and I’ll refuse to lose. I hate losing, Marly. I do it terribly. And I’ll sit there and say I’m damned if I’m going to lose, and then I’ll win, and good-by to peace and quiet and hello to the national contest. And chaperones. They have chaperones in the national contest, and all the money goes to scholarships, and with my luck I’ll win that too. And Mom’ll smile and say how proud she is. She’ll probably start a syndicated column on how to be the mother of a beauty queen.”

“I think you’re worrying too much,” Marly said. “Call Lynn tomorrow, and she’ll bring you back to reality.”

So I called Lynn and she said she was no longer speaking to me.

“I think it’s rotten,” she said. “You were a fool to enter Miss Great Oaks and an even bigger fool to stick with it. And then you had to win. You can’t possibly expect me to treat you with respect.”

“Respect has nothing to do with it,” I said. “But I could use a little sympathy.”

“I save all my sympathy for losers,” she said. “Call me when you come to your senses.”

Mom was very proud. “Did you see the pictures in the Clarion?” she asked, coming home for lunch.

“I haven’t been out,” I said. I didn’t tell her I was afraid I’d be booed if I did.

“Here,” she said. “I’m so proud. All the doctors congratulated me. And would you believe it, some of the patients did too. I don’t know how they found out about it, unless it was on the radio, but they all said what a beautiful girl you must be, and when I showed them your picture, they were very impressed.”

“That must have been a real thrill.”

“It was,” she said. “You may not understand it, but most of the time I’m nothing to the patients but a convenience, someone who makes the beds and takes their temperatures. Sure, the doctors know I’m a good nurse, but they’re busy men. They don’t have a chance to really notice me. Today I was someone. I was the mother of Miss Harrison County. Maybe it’s foolish, but it was a real thrill.”

I looked at her and realized how tired she was. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

“I said beauty wasn’t all you had,” she continued, ignoring me. “You had a lot of talent too, and the judges realized it. I didn’t know whether you were going to win at first. Of course, I wanted you to, and I hoped you would, but you can never tell how judges are going to react, and some of the other girls were pretty. None as pretty as you, but they were pretty. But then you read that speech, and I knew you had it. There was something in the way your face shone, and your eyes. There was such a feeling of beauty there. After that I knew you’d win. I wasn’t even surprised when they announced it. I just said to myself, of course, how could they not. I would have been surprised if you hadn’t won. I would have been shocked. You looked like a winner.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I tried to look like a fourth runner-up.”

“I can’t understand your attitude,” she said. “You know, I never realized what a good actress you were until last night.”

“You saw me in Anne Frank at the theater,” I said. “The whole thing. That was a lot harder than reading a couple of selections.”

“You didn’t do anything for me then,” Mom said. “I didn’t want to tell you at the time, you seemed so excited, and pleased that I was there, but the whole thing left me cold. Of course it could have been the fact you were calling two strangers Mother and Father. At least that’s what I told myself was the problem. But last night I saw what a good actress you are. I think it’s a good idea for you to continue with your acting, once you finish with the contests.”

“Contests?” I said. “There’s just the state one left.”

Mom smiled at me. “Don’t be silly, dear,” she said. “You don’t really think you’re going to lose, do you?”

“It had occurred to me.”

“You’re a winner,” Mom said. “I brought you up to be one. Your father’s a loser, and Marly’s a loser, and I’m the biggest of them all, but you were born a winner. They could even tell at the hospital. ‘This one’s different,’ they said. ‘This one is something special.’”

“They said that because you were a nurse there yourself,” I said.

“They said it because they knew,” she said. “They could see it as clearly as I could. And ever since then you’ve gone after what you’ve wanted and you’ve always gotten it.”

“There’s lots of stuff I haven’t gotten,” I said.

“Name it,” Mom said.

I thought about it, and she had a point. There were lots of things I didn’t have that other kids did, Barbie dolls and English racers, but I’d fussed over it more because I felt obliged than out of real desire. “There must be something,” I said.

“I don’t know what it would be,” Mom said. “Any boy you’ve ever wanted. Any part in a play. Even grades in school. It doesn’t just fall in your lap. You go after what you want, and you work for it. But you always get it. Marly can diet forever and she’ll never be pretty.”

“I wish you’d stop harping on Marly.”

“I’m harping on you,” Mom said. “If you insist on using that word.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” I said. “Harpists always win.”

“Only if they’re blondes,” Mom said. “Judges are suckers for blondes with harps. Makes them feel less lecherous.”

I laughed.

“Sure,” Mom said. “Don’t take me seriously. I could see how those judges felt about you. I could practically hear them sweating.”

“And you still want me to be in contests like that?”

“Why not?” she said. “They keep those contests very clean. There’s never any trouble. And if men are going to admire you anyway, you might as well get some profit out of it.”

“I don’t think I like what you’re saying.”

“It’s the truth, and you know it,” she said. “You’ve always had things easy because of your looks. There’s nothing wrong with it. But don’t think all those producers you keep dreaming about are going to hire you because of your talent. Maybe you have some, I don’t know. I do know you have a lovely face and a lovely body, and they’re much more interested in that. Even when they’re casting Shakespeare.”

“Nobody’s ever gotten anywhere on looks alone.”

“Actresses never get any place without them,” Mom said. “Actors maybe. Actresses never. Just remember that, and be grateful you have them.”

“‘Anatomy is destiny,’” I said.

“I don’t know about that,” Mom said. “All I know is that it never hurt a girl to be pretty, and there’s never been a pretty girl who didn’t milk it for all it was worth. Yourself included.”

After that, I definitely wasn’t in the mood to leave the house. I went upstairs to my bedroom, glad Marly had decided to spend the afternoon at the library, and I thought about what Mom had said.

I knew that girls who were really pretty, and very aware of it, used it for whatever they could. They tended to be cheerleaders, because cheerleaders were popular in school. They went out with football captains and class presidents. They did just as well as they wanted to in school; a few did really well, the rest just got along, but they all had the money for college, and they all planned to go. They were very popular with boys, and with each other. I never wanted to be part of that group.

Still, it was true I was good-looking. I’d always known it. Being really pretty is like being really ugly; you have to make peace with yourself or you’re miserable for the rest of your life. And I’d made my peace by ignoring it. I never worried about clothes. Except for a brief fling when I was twelve, I never wore make-up. My hair got cut when I had the money, and except for making sure I wasn’t bald, I didn’t worry about the style. I ate whatever I felt like eating, and I didn’t exercise daily. If I had a good face and a good figure, that was fine. I wasn’t going to pour acid all over me. But I wasn’t going to worry about it, or pamper it, or act like that was what was really important.

The thing was, and I realized then it was naïve of me, I’d never connected my looks and my acting. I was grateful I was tall and that was it. Short actresses had problems. Of course so did ugly actresses. And I wasn’t an ugly actress.

I went over every part I’d ever had, at the Red Barn, in high school, and at the college, and tried to decide if I would have gotten them with just talent. And then I remembered Anne Frank. The director hadn’t wanted to cast me as Anne because I was a redhead. I auditioned three times before he was convinced I could do it, and then I promised to dye my hair brown if he wanted. At first he said Yes, and then he changed his mind. And he would know. He was a professional and he respected my talent.

Except it didn’t work. It might have if I hadn’t gone out with him while we were working on the show. Nothing serious, because he couldn’t handle how much younger I was than him. It didn’t bother me, but I guess I went out more with older men than he did with younger girls. The point was that he couldn’t have been objective about my acting. If he thought I was pretty enough to date, he couldn’t have judged my acting all by itself. And if that went out the window, everything did. All the directors who’d ever cast me in shows probably cast me because I was pretty.

Of course it didn’t mean I lacked talent. There was never a moment after I’d first been on stage that I doubted my talent. It was there, it was real. But maybe there wasn’t as much of it as I’d thought. I’d never computed looks before. I’d never made those equations. I decided not to do so then either. Instead I called Greg.

“Hello,” he said. “What can I do for Miss Harrison County?”

“You can stop rubbing it in,” I said. “Greg, I’m really upset about things.”

“Like what?”

“Like winning. Like being stuck here. Like the way my mother’s behaving. Like the way you’re behaving.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“I want you to tell me what’s going on,” I said. “What’s the matter, Greg?”

“Everything,” he said. “You want the truth?”

“It would be nice for a change.”

“Okay,” he said. “I don’t want you to go to Colorado.”

I could picture Greg on the other side of the phone, sitting in his clean, comfortable bedroom, talking on his extension, and I knew how hard it was for him. Greg never interfered with my life, and I never interfered with his. That was how our relationship had lasted so long, even though he was away at school. We really liked each other because everyone we knew interfered with us constantly. “Why not?” I said.

“Oh come on, Kit.”

“I mean it, Greg. Why not?”

“Because I love you. Satisfied?”

I wasn’t satisfied; I was shocked. I tried not to sound it. “Oh,” I said. “When did this happen?”

“It’s happened all along,” he said. “I just never thought it was important enough to mention.”

“Not important! Don’t you think I’d like to hear it?”

“Frankly, no. I figured you’d run away scared if I ever even mentioned the word.”

Greg had a point. I wasn’t very comfortable with love. “I don’t know how I feel about you,” I said.

“I didn’t think you did,” he said.

“Well what were you hoping for?” I asked.

“I wasn’t hoping for anything,” he said. “Except maybe a continuation of the status quo.”

“Status quo?”

“You’d go to Morsly,” he said. “I’d see you vacations. If I still felt this way next year, maybe I’d start talking seriously. I figured that was my best bet. Play it casual. But it never occurred to me you might pack up and leave. That way I’d lose you, and I don’t want to.”

“Oh, Greg.”

“Do you want to be engaged?” he said. “If you do, I’ll propose. I don’t care. I just don’t want to lose you. I don’t want you to go to Colorado, and leave there and go to Alaska, or Minnesota, or Mississippi. I want to know where you are and be able to see you.”

“But you don’t want to get married?”

“Not now, no,” he said. “Not if I have a choice in the matter. If that’s the only way I’ll keep you, then I’d think about it.”

“This is great,” I said. “I called you to be reassured. You were supposed to calm me down. Now I’m a complete nervous wreck.”

“Don’t go,” he said. “If that’s why you’re calling, to have someone tell you what to do, then I will. Don’t go. It doesn’t even have anything to do with me. You could go out there and find nothing. You could lose all your money, and your scholarship to Morsly, and then you’ll be completely stuck. Stay here. Get your degree. Play it safe for a change.”

“I don’t play things safe well,” I said. “I’m not a safe person.”

“Maybe you should be,” he said. “Maybe it’s childish to take risks all the time.”

“If I don’t take risks, I won’t be an actor,” I said. “That’s what it’s all about. And I can’t not be one. That’s my life, Greg. My whole life. Everything else is just window dressing.”

“Including me?”

“No, of course not. But you’re part of the theater too. Greg, why don’t you come with me? We could go out together and see what it’s like.”

Greg was silent for a moment. “I can’t, Kit,” he said finally. “I like theater, but it’s not everything. I want my degree. And I don’t want to hurt my parents.”

I couldn’t even blame him. If I’d grown up in a clean, white living room, I might not be so eager to try Colorado. “Okay, Greg,” I said. “That’s it.”

“Dammit, Kit, why should I feel guilty?”

“I’m not asking you to,” I said. “It’s not your fault.”

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “Just because I won’t go to Colorado is no reason why you should. I’m sorry if you’re thinking like that. You do react that way to pressure, you know.”

“I know,” I said. “Thank you for knowing it about me.”

I could hear Greg take a deep breath. “All right,” he said. “There are a lot of sensible arguments for staying. Now before you start saying anything, I know there are reasons for going too, but you know them all by yourself. I’m playing devil’s advocate, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

“There’s college,” he said. “And your mother’s feelings. And the possibility that it’s a wild-goose chase. And the contest.”

“The contest,” I said. “It always comes back to that, doesn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a symbol,” I said. “It represents everything I’m not happy about.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“I won that stupid contest because I’m pretty,” I said. “That’s all. Just a face and a body. I want to be something more than that.”

“You are,” he said. “You’re a great deal more.”

“Greg, do I get away with things on stage?”

“You certainly do.”

“Because I’m pretty?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Because you’re pretty, and young, and very appealing on stage. It’s a winning combination, and it lets you get away with all kinds of mistakes.”

“It’s not fair,” I said. “I don’t want to be pretty.”

“That’s crazy,” he said. “Of course you do. It’s an advantage. People like good-looking people. Maybe they shouldn’t, but they do. It’s a lot easier to go through life attractive than ugly.”

“But if I was ugly I’d get judged on what I am, not what I look like.”

“No,” he said. “You’d get judged on being ugly. All it would be is a handicap. Really, Kit, be glad you’re pretty. It’s going to make your life one hell of a lot easier. It already has.”

“Oh, Greg, why aren’t things simple?”

“Things are,” he said. “It’s people that complicate matters.”

“I don’t know what to do,” I said. “Except don’t worry about marrying me.”

“Okay,” he said. “If I thought you’d take me up on it, I probably wouldn’t have brought it up.”

I laughed. “I’ll let you know when I decide something,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said. “Please, just try to be reasonable.”

“I’ll try,” I said. “And thank you for loving me.”

“No thanks are needed,” he said. “Just take care.”

So I hung up. I went to the full-length mirror and gave myself a thorough examination. I was a very pretty girl with red hair and long legs. If I were on TV, I’d admire myself. Especially if I were in color so that my hair would look the right shade. In black and white, it would just look brown. I resolved only to appear on color-TV shows.

I tried to laugh, but I started crying instead. I felt like a fool, standing in front of the mirror, hoping my mother had gone and Marly hadn’t come back, crying because I was beautiful. Other girls were happy when they looked good. I had to be the weird one.

The tears made my eyes look greener. I turned away from the mirror. I couldn’t stand it, staring at myself, looking like a beauty queen.