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?
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 f**king 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.