12These words have been sanitized for your protection. An adjective and a noun, respectively.
13A part of the body. Not the knee or the nostril.
14A spectacular cursing display. Really, an absolute ten. And the dismount was spot-on.
15This is not cursing. This is delineating.
16This is also not cursing. This is … oh, all right. It totally is.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The river had carried Nicole, Shanti, Petra, and Tiara through the mountains and deposited them in a steaming spring surrounded by blackened rock that looked like burned-over cake batter.
“Wh-where are we?” Tiara asked.
“Some kind of lava fields, it looks like,” Shanti answered. Algae clung to her scalp. She’d lost her sash in the raging waters. They all had. They were covered in mud till all that could be seen were their eyes and mouths.
“I hate this place,” Tiara whimpered. “It’s super creepy. Like a haunted Chuck E. Cheese’s where the games all want to kill you and you never get your pizza.”
Shanti glared at Petra. She struggled to keep her tone even, but it was difficult. “Why didn’t you let go of that case? If you had just let go, we could have held on to the tree, and we wouldn’t be out here in the middle of some lava field with no idea how to get back to the beach.”
“I’m sorry,” Petra said. “It … the case was — is — important to me.”
“What do you have in there — a vintage Bermes scarf17?” Nicole struggled to her feet and offered Petra a hand.
“My medicine.”
“Bipolar Bears18,” Tiara said sympathetically. “My mom put me on those as soon as I turned thirteen. She couldn’t deal.”
“It’s not that,” Petra said. “I have a medical condition.”
“What kind of medical condition?” Nicole asked.
“It’s a hormonal thing,” Petra answered nervously.
Tiara’s hands flew to her mouth. “In health class, they told us there’s an or in whore because you always have the choice to respect your body and say no. You’ve got one of those STPs now, don’t you?”
Petra stared. “STP is a motor oil.”
“Oh. My. Gosh. We didn’t even learn about that one. It must be really bad!” Tiara gestured solemnly to her crotch. “Protect the citadel. Protect the citadel.”
Petra looked to the others. “Help.”
Nicole shook her head. “Public school Sex Non-Ed. When I’m surgeon general, I am so fixing that.” On the walk, she explained hormonal, and Tiara nodded, smiling.
“Ooh. It’s okay, Petra. When I get my monthlies, I need a handful of Advil and a chocolate donut. I’d give anything for a chocolate donut right now. I’m so hungry. Even hungrier than when my mom put me on that grapefruit and hot sauce diet before the Miss Tupelo pageant last year.”
“I’ve done that diet,” Nicole said.
Shanti nodded. “Me, too. Except without the grapefruit.”
Tiara’s eyes filled with tears. “All those years of starving myself and now I’m really starving.”
“All those pageants — local, city, state. The car rides with my hair in rollers,” Shanti echoed.
“Straighteners and extensions,” Nicole said.
“Teeth bleaching,” Tiara added. “Eyebrow shaping. Tanning booths. Bikini waxes. Lipo.”
“Pills. Injections,” Petra mumbled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Feels like we’ve been in training for the wrong pageant,” Nicole said with a sigh.
“What are we going to do?” Tiara asked.
Their bellies ached with hunger, and the earlier thrill of losing a few pounds before pageant time had been replaced with a terrible, desperate longing for food. To make matters worse, the rain had started again. It pounded wet fists against them.
“Let’s move on,” Shanti said. “I think if we follow the stream it’ll lead back to the beach and the others.”
They marched alongside the stream as it fattened into a river, alert all the while to the constant sound track of caws, shrieks, growls, and croaks. Birds flew suddenly from treetops, the slapping of their wings like gunshots. Things slithered, hissed, and cackled in the great unknown. Petra sang a Boyz Will B Boyz song softly to herself to drown out the noise.
“You have a really nice voice,” Tiara said. “Almost as good as the record.”
“Thanks,” Petra mumbled and blushed. “I was a big Boyz Will B Boyz fan.”
“Who wasn’t?” Nicole laughed. “When I was eleven, I had their posters all over my room.”
“Me, too!” Tiara said, smiling. “Who was your favorite?”
“Mmm, maybe Joey”
Petra let out a loud “Ha!”
“What’s wrong with Joey?”
“Nothing, if you like boys who tan like it’s an Olympic sport.”
“He was pretty orangey,” Nicole agreed. “J. T. Woodland was the best, anyway. He was so cute, with those big eyes and those curls. He was the most talented one, I think. I wonder why they kicked him out?”
“I’ll bet it was drugs.” Tiara batted away a dragonfly.
“It wasn’t drugs,” Petra said.
“How can you be sure?” Tiara asked.
“He just didn’t seem like the drugs type to me.”
“Boy band loyalty.” Nicole nodded. “I feel you.”
“Can we keep going please?” Shanti called back.
The girls picked up their pace. On the other side of the river, orange-and-pink birds waded on stalklike legs. Shafts of sun broke through the heavy trees. They lit patches of ground like the reflections from some tropical disco ball.
“What was your favorite song of theirs?” Tiara asked.
“ ‘Let Me Shave Your Legs Tonight, Girl,’” Petra blurted out.
“Ohmigosh, I LOVE that one!” Tiara said, clapping. “How about ‘I Only Want to Be with You’ or ‘I Just Need to Be Yours’ or ‘You, You, You’?”
Nicole chimed in. “‘I Gave Up My Hobbies So I Could Spend More Time with You.’ ‘I Love You Like a Stalker!’ Or — ooh, I know: ‘Safe Tween Crush’?”
“That one is so awesome!” Tiara began to sing. “Wanna rock you, girl, with a butterfly tunic. / No, I’m not gay, I’m just your emo eunuch. / Gonna smile real shy, won’t cop a feel, / ’cause I’m your virgin crush, your supersafe deal. / Let those other guys keep sexing. / You and me, we be texting / ’bout unicorns and rainbows and our perfect love. / Girl, we fit together like a hand in a glove. / Now I don’t mean that nasty, tell your mom don’t get mad. /I even wrote ‘You’re awesome’ on your maxi pads.” Tiara sighed. “My mom let me use that song for my Christian pole dancing routine.”
Petra sputtered. “Christian pole dancing?”
“Yeah. It was my talent for a while. I was a virgin bride on her wedding day — kinda like in that TiffanyJeanTiffany video? I wore this mini wedding dress and these white stockings with garters and some pretty silver handcuffs. It was a real fun routine.” She sighed. “But once I turned ten, my mom said I needed something new.”
“That is total crazytown,” Petra said.
“I know! I think I could have done it till I was at least twelve.”
Petra rolled her eyes and sang, “Let me shave your legs tonight, girl. Let me show you how it feels when your man …”
“Your man!” the girls sang.
“Can’t stand …”
“Can’t stand!”
“The stub-ble inside your heart, oh!”
Annoyed, Shanti walked a good ten paces ahead of the others. She liked being in the lead, and as she walked, she practiced.
“Hello,” she said, practicing her intonation, because tone was everything. “I am Shanti Singh, Miss California, land of opportunity! I am a junior at Valley High School, where I currently maintain a 4.0 CPA. My parents immigrated to America just before I was born, and I am so grateful to this country for giving me so many great opportunities. I hope to show my gratitude one day by becoming the first Indian-American president. And I also hope to work with children,” she added hastily. “And, um, animals.”
Shanti cursed her verbal clumsiness. Ums were deadly. Hadn’t her handler, Mrs. Mirabov, told her so? Keeping it together under pressure was what separated the winners from the losers. Shanti had been setting goals since she was four and won her preschool’s finger painting contest. By the time she hit middle school, she’d won just about everything there was to win — science fair, debate team, gymnastics, soccer, synchronized Tae Kwon Do. Winning was easy and addictive; the more she won, the more she felt she couldn’t risk failing. It was as if she were in constant competition with herself.
But she couldn’t control everything.
She looked back at Nicole — friendly, easygoing Nicole — with envy and unease. She knew the Top Five would not hold both a black and a brown contestant. No matter what they claimed, the pageants were not multicultural-friendly. It was funny to Shanti how her white classmates could distinguish between several white faces but would get confused when confronted with, say, two Asians, frequently mistaking one for the other as if looking at a spot-the-difference kids’ magazine puzzle and feeling stumped.
To win Miss Teen Dream, Shanti knew she would have to work twice as hard as the other girls. That’s why she’d hired Mrs. Mirabov, whose record was superb and whose drive matched her own. It was Mrs. Mirabov who’d evaluated Shanti through narrowed, steel-gray eyes and made her pronouncement: “Your problem, Comrade Singh, is a lack of likeability. No one wants to be your friend. You are efficient and ambitious, which is good for KGB agent; not so much for teen beauty queen. We must humanize you.”
Shanti had flinched slightly at Mrs. Mirabov’s assessment, as if she’d told Shanti that her personality made her look fat. “Tell me what you can do,” Mrs. Mirabov demanded. And Shanti dutifully recited all her talents. “No, no, no. Not what you can do like trained dog. What you love. What you have special passion for?”