I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
My chestnut hair is shined to perfection, whipped around the back of my head to form a spiral bun. My clear blue eyes are carefully lined in black, but only on the top; never the bottom. Mom says it’ll make my eyes look too small. My lashes are fake, nearing two inches in length. My complexion: fresh and flawless.
Leaning forward, my arms bearing the weight of me so I can look deep into my own eyes, I try to see who I really am.
“Nevada,” mom says. “Don’t lean on that counter like that. You’re gonna wrinkle your gown.”
Now wouldn’t that be a tragedy?
“Sorry,” I mutter without feeling. I straighten my posture and smooth the lilac-colored gown. Mom is in front of me, inspecting every aspect of my face for the hundredth time.
This is my third pageant this year. It’s only February.
It was fun when I was, like, 4. Now I’m 15. I’m over it. I’m over being commended for my looks. I’m over being the one with the perfect smile. I’m over having girls jealous of me. I’m over having all this attention. What does it really matter that I was blessed with physical beauty?
I tried to tell mom this. Let’s just say it didn’t go well. She was super quick to point out how lucky I am, and, of course, all the prizes and money I’ve won; and how now that I’m getting closer to college age, there may be college scholarships to win. Yeah, because I want to win a scholarship for being pretty. How does being pretty qualify me for a college scholarship? Bottom line: mom was not letting me quit.
These pageants were ruining my life. I just wanted to be a normal 15-year-old girl who hangs out with her friends on the weekends instead of this freak who has to either: A) Practice for a pageant, or B) Be at a pageant. Heck, I’d even enjoy studying on the weekend. Then maybe I’d be able to take college prep courses and qualify for a real scholarship. Or maybe I’d meet a guy who’d want to get to know the real me, not just the me he can see.
“Get ready, Nevada,” Mom said. “You’re next.”
I take my place and wait for contestant No. 5 to return back stage. When she passes me, her glowing smile fades immediately, and I recognize the hollow look in her eyes. It’s the same look I saw in my reflection just moments ago.
“Next up is Nevada Kelley,” the announcer bellows as I step onto stage. I turn on my smile and walk pointedly to the first X. “Nevada is 15 years old. She resides in Thomas City, Illinois, where she is a sophomore at Thomas County High School. She is the daughter of Stone and Nicole Kelley, and has two older brothers.”
I wave at the crowd, scanning the room of strangers with my sparkling eyes. Then I make eye contact with each judge. As I move off the X and make my way to the far end of the stage, the announcer continues. “Nevada’s favorite subject is biology and she hopes to become a doctor someday so she can be a medical missionary.” Mom didn’t want me to say that. She thought it would sound better if I said I like English because I like to read. It’s a girlier activity she said. Whatever. Why lie?
At the far end of the stage, I pause, and wave again, sharing my hundred-watt smile with anyone who would have it. “In her spare time, Nevada volunteers at her church’s food pantry. She regularly spends time at a local retirement home to visit with senior citizens.” The parts he leaves out are that my mom is in charge of the food pantry, not because she really cares about needy people, but because it makes her look good. And the retirement home? Yeah, my grandma lives there.
I used to get a rush from being on stage, taking in the admiring gazes of the audience. I used to hope I’d win. Like really, really hope. I used to cry if I didn’t place. Then there came a point when I would cry if I was anything less then Grand Supreme: The one with the biggest crown and the best prizes.
Tonight, I want to lose.
I want to mean more to my mom than this. I want our relationship to be about something more than pageant life. I want her to ask me about school and friends, find out if there’s a boy I like.
When I get back to the original X, I am handed a microphone. Speech time. I know it by heart. Mom would have nothing less. I smile and open my mouth to begin, but the words that come out are not mom-approved.
“I have been competing in pageants since I was 3 years old. My first crown was for Cutest Little Miss Farmer. My mom dressed me in cowboy boots and a denim skirt and sent me up on stage. I smiled my smile and waved my wave, and I won. It was that easy.”
I take a deep breath, and for a brief moment wonder if my mom had thrown up yet.
“I used to love being in pageants. The thrill of everyone knowing I was the fairest of them all validated me. It made me think I was someone just because I was pretty. No one at a pageant cared what my grades looked like. I was never asked what book I was reading. All that mattered was my dress, my hair, and my makeup. Everything on the outside mattered. No one cared what was on the inside.”
I place my hand over my heart and take a few steps forward, peering down at the stone-faced judges.
“What’s on the outside doesn’t make me who I am.”
I walk to the right a few paces.
“Right now, I know I look breathtaking. I look perfect. I could be on a magazine cover, or in a commercial. But who am I? Who is Nevada Kelley? Nevada Kelley has one friend because all her time is devoted to pageants. Nevada Kelley has never had a real boyfriend.
Sure, boys like me, but it’s because of my looks. They don’t know me.”
I take a deep breath and try to fight the pain that comes every time I think about the one boy I thought might actually like me.
“Society today has their set of ideas for how a girl should look and act. We are expected to look like,” I pause and look down at my size-zero body, “Well, like me. Girls who don’t fit the mold are shunned and exiled in their schools, in their families, even in their church youth groups. The pressure girls feel today to belong is agonizing. No one cares about your intelligence or if you want to be a medical missionary. People care about what you’re wearing and how you’ve fixed your hair. A heart and a mind carry no value today.”
I take a few steps to the left and scan the audience. This was not your typical pageant speech, and they were captivated.
“But tell me this: What does this physical beauty matter if no one knows me? I would much rather have 78 crowns at home for my character than for my looks. My looks mean nothing to me.”
I pause, debating if I should really take this where it needed to go. Yes, yes I should.
“If God appeared here on stage beside me now and said, ‘Nevada? You can have one or the other: Your physical beauty or the beauty inside you,’ I would gladly give up my looks.
"But you know what? Most girls will tell you they would give up just about anything to be attractive. People look at your appearance. God looks at your heart. And I’ll take God’s approval over yours any day.”
My smile had long since faded. I turn and hand the mic over and head offstage. After a moment of stunned silence, I hear applause.
Shocked, I look back. People were standing! I was getting a standing ovation! Really?
My spirit soared like it used to when I enjoyed this. I felt renewed. I was appreciated for being me!
“What was that?” mom snaps when I reached her. The scowl on her face tells me she wasn’t planning on commending my heartfelt speech.
“It’s what I wanted to say, Mom.”
“It’s not what we practiced.”
Tempted to retort in a way I’d regret later, I choose my words carefully. “Not everything in life has to be practiced.”
She snorts. “It does if you want to win!”
I shake my head.
“Don’t you get it? I don’t want to win. I’m tired of being this fake person. I just want to be me. I want to be normal.”
“Nevada, why on earth would you want to be normal?” She said it like it was a bad word. “You are beautiful! God has blessed you with this and you should use it to your advantage.”
“No, Mom. You’re wrong. God may have blessed me with looks that are pleasing to the eye, but He never intended for me to use them to my own advantage. Anything God has blessed me with I should use to benefit others. And my real gifts are in here,” I point to my head, “and in here,” I spread my palm across my chest. “I am done with pageants, Mom. Sorry.”
I turn on my three-inch heels and leave my mom to ponder what I’d said.
No matter her wrath, I had already won.
My true crown comes from above and it’s the only one I’ll ever need.
Now it's
your turn!
Stretch your wings and try your hand at writing! We know Mighty Strong Girls have stories of their own. If you would like to see your short story or poetry in the magazine or blog, email it for consideration to
editor@mightystronggirls.com
All submissions will be considered for publication, but special attention will be given to entries that show the realities of being a teen girl in today's world.
