Chapter OneTEAGAN

I secretly hate tiaras.

They’re itchy, for one. The cheap ones have little scalp-killing claws that clutch your head like a praying mantis about to devour a sad, struggling fly (me). The slightly less cheap ones either strangle your brain within an inch of its life or fall off, taking twenty pins and half your hair with it. And the real ones? The worst. Heavy, and expensive, whispering in your ear like: Don’t screw this up. Aww, you want a scholarship? That’s cute. Now walk down these steep-ass stairs in four-inch heels and don’t look down, or everyone will think you’re a mess. Got it?

I don’t got it. But I’ll take a quick glance at the stairs over falling out of this bus, thanks.

The group moms have their hands full orchestrating the chaos of fifty-one competitors arriving simultaneously. Most of the girls are too busy meeting up with their roommates, hugging their pageant besties, or whining about the humidity to listen to the politely veiled orders, much less notice me. I’ve seen a few of the girls on the East Coast pageant circuit, but it’s mostly a sea of unfamiliar faces from all over the country.

There’s really only one face I’m desperate to see, though. I glance down at my phone to see if she’s texted … but no. Texts from my aunt and dad to make sure I got here safe and messages of support from my friends in the local pageant system back home, mostly. And of course, marching orders from my pageant coach, Rhonda. Scheduled check-ins, reminders about being discreet, and a demand for a phone call immediately after registration. I can never afford to pay her expenses to be with me at out-of-state pageants, though some girls certainly do that. It never stops her from reaching out in nearly psychic moments of scolding and reassurance, and I always find myself looking around to see if there’s some kind of spy drone buzzing overhead, watching my every move. I text back: Yes ma’am, orders received. *salute*

“Teagan!”

My head whips around at the sound of my name, and a giddy, honest smile breaks through my practiced facade. There she is. I turn just in time to catch Jess as she throws herself into my arms. The Florida air is like hot dog breath, moist and smelly, and I’m overly conscious of how damp I am after being outside for a whopping thirty seconds. Jess doesn’t seem to notice or care, thankfully.

“I missed you so much!” she says into my thick, near-black hair, her hug nearly cracking my ribs. I tighten my arms around her and squeeze, not trusting my voice to produce actual words. We talk online almost every day, and on the phone a few times per month, but it’s just not the same. We only see each other in person at pageants for the most part, whenever our regions overlap for competition. The five-hour drive from central Virginia to western Pennsylvania is just long enough to make it impossible, except for our annual summer vacation extravaganza. She pulls back to look me over, brushing her hands over my shirt and Miss Virginia sash to straighten out the wrinkles she caused.

“I scoped out our room already,” she says, flashing me her hotel key, bright-white plastic against warm-brown skin. “Solid view of a brick wall across the way. No judges spying from the pool deck this time.”

“Thank God,” I reply. “I needed something to go right. You know who’s right next door to us? North Carolina. She’ll be on my ass all weekend. In a bad way, obviously.”

Jess winces. “Ouch, bad luck. I think Oregon said she was rooming with her, though, so at least we’ll have friendly forces on the front lines. Have you met? You might like her, actually,” she says with a significant eyebrow waggle.

I roll my eyes and lower my voice.

“I don’t date pageant girls. Period. Been there, done that, never doing it again, thanks. Can we go register now? I’d like to have time to actually hang out with you before the first rehearsal.” I pause and glance down at the fair, Irish skin of my arms then up at the sun. “Also, I’m pretty sure I’m going to turn into a tomato if I stay out here.”

Jess looks for a moment like she doesn’t want to let it drop, but the bellhop interrupts, one hand on the cart piled high with my garment bags and cheap luggage. I peel off a five-dollar bill and tell him my room number with a thank-you, suppressing a cringe as the money disappears into his pocket and he rolls the cart away. The first of many expenses I forgot about when budgeting for this trip. I’ll have to be really careful this weekend.

Now’s not the time to obsess over worries, though. Now’s the time to focus on the best friend right in front of me and make the most of our brief freedom before the demanding pageant schedule takes over. I let the pure joy of the moment take hold: I’m finally here, at a national pageant, with a good chance of winning and my best friend by my side. What more could I ask for?

I hook my arm through Jess’s and tug her toward the enormous glass front doors of the hotel. Two attendants pull them open for us as we approach, but Miss North Carolina bursts through before we get there, her glittering high heels clicking aggressively through the tiled foyer.

“Oh my God. Wait until you see the freak show inside!” she calls to her groupies in her long, southern drawl. She breezes by without sparing either of us so much as a glance. “It’s like a nerd convention in there, y’all!”

Jess and I exchange the kind of glance we’ve perfected over years on the pageant circuit: small, charming smiles, twinkling eyes, and an eyebrow so barely raised that an outsider would never know. To anyone else, it reads as two polished young women sharing a moment of humor. To us, it means are you serious right now?

Miss NC may own the evening gown portion of every competition, but the first sniff the judges get of that attitude will knock her out of the top fifteen for sure. Along with the strict guidelines set forth in the pageant application (never married, never given birth, having good health and “moral character,” all totally unsubtle discrimination), they also expect you to live up to the organization’s values at all times. Meaning, don’t be an awful human being.

Some people have a hard time with that part.

North Carolina, though, she’s a master manipulator. The judges have never managed to catch her at any of the pageants I’ve seen her at. Or if they did, she somehow southern charmed her way out of it. All that shiny, blond hair must have a hypnotic effect.

On the other side of the entrance, the foyer opens up into a massive lobby with soaring pillars, glittering chandeliers, and velvety red armchairs in cozy groups. Floor-to-ceiling windows let the Florida sunshine spill over the room and its occupants, though the overactive air conditioner keeps it frigid. The people behind the front desk look like they could be pageant contestants themselves, with their polished smiles and well-fitted suits. It’s nice—a reasonably priced hotel that takes itself as seriously as a five-star. A bit gaudy in its attempts to look fancy, but nice all the same.

And then I look past the glam to the groups of people milling about.

Oh.

No.

Everywhere I look, I see badges, T-shirts, and accessories themed after one thing: The Great Game. My all-time favorite show, the latest in a long string of modern-day Sherlock Holmes remakes. My ultimate nerdy indulgence. Better than Elementary, better than the BBC one, even better than the one they kicked off last year on one of the big US networks. The Great Game is objectively amazing, and I’ll fight anyone who tries to argue. I read the fanfic, I draw the fan art, I’ve watched the episodes a dozen times each, and it’s everywhere. I knew GreatCon was happening this weekend—how did I not put it together that it was happening in Orlando? At this hotel?

That’s not even the worst part.

All throughout the lobby, there are amazingly hot fandom folks, laughing in groups and hanging all over each other. Brightly dyed hair, piercings everywhere, tattoos on arms and chests—the chests, wow—and all of them part of the fandom I love. I admit, I have a type, and it’s just about everyone in this lobby, dear God. Every chaperone at this pageant must be able to feel the waves of gay pouring off me right now.

There’s no way I’m going to make it through this weekend. I don’t stand a chance.

Jess coughs delicately. “Tea, I can see your lady boner from here. Put it away and get your smile back on before a judge sees you drooling,” she says, shifting to block me from the view of the pageant check-in table. “You’re here for one thing: to win some scholarship money. And to see the look on North Carolina’s face when you do it. And to help your charity. Okay, three things, whatever.”

She pauses, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “But none of those things include hitting up some fan convention where any judge can see you geeking out over a TV show and hitting on fangirls. You know I love and support you, but the only person I’m willing to lose this pageant to is you, so I’m gonna need you to get it together, Miss Virginia. You have a real shot this year.”

A real shot. Ideally, my last shot. I can keep competing once I go to college, if I have to. But every year I compete is a year I have to deny myself. I can’t be out and proud, can’t date openly. If I win this year, though, that’s it—the Miss Cosmic Teen USA pageant awards $25,000 to the first-place winner. Combined with the scholarship money I’ve cobbled together winning local and state titles, I’ll have enough to cover all four years of college.

I can finally be free.

I take a slow, deep breath in through my nose and fix my gaze on the ceiling. She’s right. I know. I love fandom, and as soon as I can, I’ll support it publicly until my last breath. For now, though, obsessing over femslash fan fiction isn’t exactly the sort of good, wholesome, all-American, pageant-acceptable hobby I can talk about during my stage interview. And the whole lesbian thing definitely wouldn’t help. Sure, there was a gay Miss America contestant back in 2016, but she came out after winning the state title and didn’t even get to the top fifteen at the final pageant. Maybe those facts are totally unrelated, but maybe they aren’t. I can’t risk it. I just wasn’t prepared—I never expected my two lives to collide like this, and definitely not on the most important weekend of my pageant career.

At my last meeting with Rhonda before leaving for Florida, she told me straight up that I’ll have to nail everything if I even want a chance at Top Five. This is a whole new level of competition for me. My first—and hopefully last—national pageant.

I have to focus.

I tear my gaze away from the curvy waist of a girl in a tight shirt with “I believe in Johnlock” printed on the front, skip right over the two boys kissing in front of a cardboard cutout of the lead actors, and close it all away to do a posture check, feeling the alignment of my spine, the tension in my neck. There will be plenty of time to date cute fandom girls once I’m at my fully-paid-for college of choice. The college I’ll never be able to afford any other way.

For now, I have a mission.

I lift my chin, adjust my tiara and sash, and turn the charm on full blast. I’ve been looking forward to this weekend for weeks, and I won’t let this hiccup stand in my way.

With practiced pageant smiles and swinging hips, Jess and I glide up to the pageant sign-in table, radiating confidence and grace as we take our places in line. Some of the less experienced girls are dressed down and makeup free, stale from their long travel, but we know better. The judges are always watching, every single minute.

I introduce myself to the woman behind the table, accept my welcome packet, and sign my name on the dotted line.

Time to win this thing.

The game is on.


Copyright © 2022 by Megan N. England.