Back in my 8th grade English class with Mrs. Samuels (who had

really bad breath by the way), we had to write an essay about our

dreams and aspirations. I don’t know why teachers are dumb enough

to make thirteen-year-olds decide what their life goals are, because

most of them don’t even know what they are doing on Saturday night

yet. I’m sure Mrs. Samuels wasn’t surprised when it came time to

share our work.

Bobby Walker’s essay revealed his desire to play professional

football and make a million-dollar salary. So did every other essay

written by a boy in my class. At least the girls went for a little

variation.

Sarah Myers cried when she shared that she felt her life’s calling

was to go to the jungle in South America to study fungus samples.

Everyone had always thought she was a little weird. And Gretchen

Reynolds, who sits in front of me in science class and is always

brushing her hair, told everyone about her dream to marry Justin

Timberlake and own a silver BMW. Mrs. Samuels hadn’t liked that

essay very much. I had been sure she was going to love mine, though.

“Allison Penn,” Mrs. Samuels called out from her desk, peering

out over her glasses at the sea of students. Excited, I had raised my

hand and hurried up to the front of the classroom. I hadn’t even

minded that most of the kids in class were drooling on their desks or

staring blankly out the window. I was just so eager to tell everyone

what I wanted more than anything else in the entire world.

“My biggest dream in life,” I began slowly, “is to be just like

Pamela Watkins.” I anxiously looked up from my paper and waited for

the looks of admiration and awe. Instead, the piles of drool grew

larger, and whatever was happening outside the windows seemed to

get more exciting. No one cared. Confused, I began to read once

more, a little hesitation evident in my voice this time.

“Pamela Watkins won the Miss Douglas County Teen Queen

beauty pageant in 1987, becoming the youngest girl ever to hold the

title.” There were still no looks of interest, no please for more or bursts

of applause. How could my classmates not be sitting on the edge of

their seats at the very mention of the most beautiful beauty queen in

the entire history of the state of Kansas? I just couldn’t understand.

“When I am old enough, I am going to enter the very same

pageant that Pamela Watkins won, and I too am going to win the

crown,” I said softly, looking back at Mrs. Samuels. She too appeared

to be sleeping, her eyes closed and her head resting on her hands. I

think there should be a rule that if a teacher isn’t even awake to hear

you read your essay, then you should automatically get an ‘A’. But

there isn’t a rule like that, and I got a big, fat ‘F’ instead.

If our grades had been based on whether or not our dreams

came true, then I’m sure I would have gotten the highest score in the

class. I’m positive that pretty, little Gretchen Reynolds never married

Justin Timberlake, and I know for a fact that Bobby Walker makes

French fries now, not touchdowns. I’m still going to be just like Pamela

Watkins, though.

Sharing my biggest dream in life, only to be ignored and poked

fun at later, was a near-devastating experience. I cried myself to sleep

for the rest of the third quarter that school year, but I finally came

around. Pamela Watkins wouldn’t let a bunch of middle school bullies

push her around, would she? Of course not. In fact, my lovely heroine

would hold her beautiful head up high and smile in the faces of her

relentless teasers. I did the same.

I spent the rest of my middle school career preparing for the day

when I too could strut around on stage and rattle off rehearsed

interview questions, all for the sake of being crowned the most

beautiful. Twice a week I went to Mr. Chung’s House of Nails to keep

my cuticles looking their best, and I missed dozens of sleepovers in

order to ensure that I received my eight hours of beauty sleep every

night. Monday afternoons were devoted to tap lessons, where I

endured two hours with Miss Frumple.

Miss Frumple smelled. She also weighed about three hundred

pounds and chain-smoked at least four packs a day. Every week, she

would begin the lesson by demonstrating all the latest moves she had

learned at some special dance convention she had attended. (We all

knew that in truth, she had just ripped them off from the “Dance for

Beginner’s” instructional tape at the public library). Without fail, five

minutes after we began our lessons, she would start coughing up a

storm and have to sit down. She always spent the rest of the time

sprawled out on her purple beanbag chair in the corner, dictating to

me what to do.

“Feet together!” Miss Frumple would whine in between long

drags from her drooping cigarette.

“I’m trying,” I would lament. Getting ready to be a beauty queen

was hard work.

“I bet Pamela Watkins never complained.” Miss Frumple was one

of the sacred few that understood my obsession with Pamela Watkins.

Miss Frumple even claimed to have witnessed the very pageant where

my idol had been crowned. I think this is why I suffered through so

many years of tap lessons with the old hag. And also, it’s impossible to

win a pageant without being able to sing or dance.

Sure, the judges like to encourage the girls who read dramatic

monologues or decorate cakes for their talent, but everyone knows

they won’t be successful. Chrissy Peters once demonstrated how to

kill a chicken and prepare it for Sunday dinner during the Miss Douglas

County Teen Queen pageant of 1994, and she came pretty close to

taking the crown. In the end, though, it went to Amanda Owen, who

had sung “Over the Rainbow.” Yes, she had been a little off pitch, but

her costume had been gorgeous. Everyone knows a flashy costume is

key.

I didn’t buy my costume until just two weeks before the pageant.

My steady diet of iced tea (without sugar of course) and Ritz crackers

had proved to be successful. I didn’t want to buy a dress only to find

that it was too baggy on my big day. That would be a nightmare!

Glamour magazine listed baggy clothes on their top ten list of fashion

don’ts . I had made my friend Lizzie swear to me that she would push

me off the sidewalk and in front of a moving car if I ever broke a

Glamour rule.

All my hard work and patience finally paid off. The Miss Douglas

County Teen Queen beauty pageant was to be held on the first

Saturday in June. I woke up that morning feeling as ready and

prepared as I ever could be. I’m sure I was the only girl competing

who had dreamt of this since the age of seven. My confidence was

soaring as I packed up my 1991 Honda Accord full of makeup and

hairspray. Backing out of my gravel driveway, I could barely stand the

excitement.

“Miss Penn?” one of the judges asked me as I checked into the

pageant. Technically, the judges aren’t supposed to have any contact

with the contestants until the interview session. In Douglas County,

though, there aren’t too many people amongst our population of 3,500

that are willing to sit through an afternoon of pink prom dresses and

upbeat musical arrangements from the 1980s. Mrs. Young, the

pageant director, was just so happy to find anybody to help out, that

she let some of the judges double for the check-in crew.

“That’s me,” I smiled brightly, handing over my $20 entry fee. I

think I might have looked a little overly excited, because the judge

seemed slightly taken aback. It could have possibly been the glazed

look that had crept across my face as I began to envision the sparkling

crown being bobby-pinned to my auburn locks.

“Miss Kortnee Kipnis?” Just like that, my dream was gone. There

standing next to me at the registration table was the most gorgeous

girl I had ever seen in my life. I mean, this girl could have given

Pamela Watkins a run for her money. And those are words that I

never, ever expected to enter my mind.

“The one and only,” the mystery beauty winked at the judge,

slyly looking my way as she let her $20 bill flutter down to the

tabletop. What a skank! How could this girl even be entering the

pageant? I had known every single human being living in Douglas

County since the moment I could breathe. There wasn’t any possible

way she could have been hiding from me this whole time.

“This weather is unbearable!” she whined, pulling on a thick

strand of her silky blonde hair. The little ringlet bounced right back

into place as she dropped her hands down to pick up her makeup

Caboodle. This girl was a definite Glamour do. How in the world was I

supposed to compete with this? Even endless hours of lessons with

Miss Frumple and hundreds of dollars in Suave hairspray could not help

me now. I began to see all my hard work fade away.

“Hi,” I stammered, “I’m Allison Penn.” I attempted my best

beauty queen grin. Kortnee barely glanced my direction as she tilted

up her perfectly rounded chin and quickly walked away towards the

dressing rooms, her hot pink Steve Madden heels clicking wildly.

Where had this magnificent creature come from and what was I going

to do now? My questions were quickly answered.

“I hear she just moved here from L.A.” one girl was whispering to

another as I entered the dressing room. Trying desperately to regain

any shred of confidence, I plunked down on my pink feather stool and

gazed into the mirror. There was no way my fair skin and shoulder-

length red hair could ever match the bronzed, highlighted, manicured

mass that was Kortnee.

“She gets her hair done by a girl who went to the same beauty

school as Jennifer Aniston’s hairdresser,” a contestant exclaimed,

sending a wave of envious sighs flying through the air. I let my head

drop to the countertop.

“Now girls, I hope you are getting ready,” Mrs. Young peeked her

head from behind the curtain. Her warning brought me back to reality.

This was it. My big dream was finally here. I couldn’t let Kortnee

Kipnis destroy my attempt to become the next Teen Queen of Douglas

County. She may have been prettier than I was, but surely she

couldn’t be as talented as I was, or have rehearsed the interview

questions as many times as I had.

I was very, very wrong.

“Thank you, Kortnee, for that lovely performance,” Mrs. Young

cried with happiness, hours later, as the conclusion of the talent

competition. “I’ve never seen anyone twirl a plate on their nose before

while jumping on a trampoline!” Yes, Kortnee had brought a

trampoline with her, and china plates too no less. There just wasn’t

any reason to go on. My tap routine that had started off the talent

portion had seemed spectacular at the moment, but no one

remembered it now. How could they? The judge’s interview didn’t go

well either.

“Miss Penn,” Judge Sampson began, straining to see the small

writing on the neon yellow index card he held in his hand. “Please list

all 50 states in the order that they entered the Union.” Was he

kidding? After eight minutes filled with more than a few generous

pauses, I finally finished. That question had definitely not been in the

practice packet.

“Now, Miss Kipnis,” Judge Sampson began again, only this time

with a bigger smile and a twinkle in his eyes. Sure, it was always easy

to be nicer to the prettier ones. “Please tells us your favorite color and

why.” What was this? Why hadn’t I gotten so lucky? I had been

preparing my answer for that question since the 6th grade!

“I love the color red,” Kortnee gushed, “because it reminds me of

the huge, ripe apples that my mother uses in her blue-ribbon apple

pies.” The judges erupted in applause, their eyes beaming with

amazement. This was no contest. Once girls started talking about

how much they idolized their mothers or how much fun they had

singing in their church choir, the judges automatically began racking

up the points.

After the interview portion of the pageant wrapped up, all of the

contestants were herded backstage to wait anxiously in the dressing

rooms. Mrs. Young stood alone on the stage, taking the audience back

through the years of the Miss Douglas County Teen Queen beauty

pageant by way of a video slide show set to the song “Girls Just Wanna

Have Fun.” During the first chorus, it finally began to hit me.

I wasn’t going to win. My dream wasn’t going to come true. I

had spent my whole life getting ready for this day, but it had all gone

to waste when Miss Perfect had shown up. With her platinum tresses

and those glittery, glossy lips, there was no way Kortnee could be beat.

She had executed her interview question without fault and gone

without mistake during her trampoline show. I dejectedly sunk into a

chair hidden away in the corner of the dressing room. It didn’t matter

anymore to me. My life was over. Even a $50 gift certificate to Mr.

Chung’s House of Nails couldn’t brighten my spirits now. I buried my

face in my hands and began waiting for the whole mess of a day to

finally be over.

“Excuse me dear,” my pity party was interrupted by a perky,

smiley voice. I let out one last sigh of complete despair before I looked

up. I swear I felt my heart skip a beat.

“P-Pamela Watkins!” I stammered. I think my jaw literally

dropped to the floor like it does in those stupid cartoons on Saturday

mornings. What was Pamela Watkins, the winner of the 1987 pageant

and my personal hero and role model, doing standing in front of me?

And especially now, at the lowest moment of my teenage life.

“That’s me,” she grinned.

“Oh, Pamela, I’ve dreamed of meeting you, like, my entire life!” I

cried, partly because I was so ecstatic to be talking to her, and partly

because I was still a little sore about the whole Kortnee thing. I let the

tears begin to flow as I continued to gush out. I didn’t even care about

the Maybelline mascara that had begun to create little black streams

down my cheeks. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to be like you! I

wanted to win the pageant so bad!”

“Don’t cry, Allison. I came back here to congratulate you on a

job well done. I’ve been watching you from the audience.” Pamela

pulled out a Kleenex from her leopard-print handbag and began

dabbling at my eyes. What a true beauty queen! Even in my moment

of great distress, she was making sure my makeup looked picture

perfect.

“You must have the wrong girl. I think the one you want to

congratulate is Kortnee Kipnis. She’s the prettiest girl here and I know

she is going to win the pageant.”

“You’re right. Kortnee is going to win,” Pamela replied. “I talked

to the judges a few minutes ago and the decision is unanimous.” So

much for being crowned the 2004 Miss Douglas County Teen Queen.

So much for spending my Senior year of high school traveling around

to local elementary schools and showing off my sparkling tiara to all

the kids while telling them the importance of bicycle safety. So much

for buying new costumes and going to the Kansas State pageant where

I could spend the night in a big hotel like the Ramada Inn. So much for

everything.

“Well, thank you for letting me know before I went out on stage,”

I said, not daring to look Pamela in the eye. Staring into her dazzling

baby blues was like looking at all of my broken dreams and wishes. I

just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

“Honey, I didn’t come back here to talk to you about who won or

who didn’t. I just wanted to tell you that you’ve really impressed me.”

Pamela explained as Mrs. Young burst into the dressing room, sending

all of the contestants into an excited frenzy. It was time to announce

the winner on stage. It was time to give that nasty skank her glittering

crown. Shoulders slumped, I began following the herd of underweight,

high heeled girls out the door.

“I think you should have won!” Pamela called out, grabbing my

shoulder before I could leave. Her last attempt to save me from my

misery caught my attention. Had I heard her right? “Yes, I think you

should have won. You may not have a $250 spray-on Los Angeles tan,

and you may not have connections to Jen Aniston, but you have heart.

You are the most dedicated girl out there.”

I couldn’t believe it - $250 for a spray-on tan? Sure, I might

spend that kind of money on a tap costume. Thousands of sequins and

hand-sewn rhinestones can cost a fortune you know, but that much to

have someone color you orange? And then it hit me. Pamela Watkins

has just told me that I was true beauty queen material. Suddenly, the

worst day of my life had become the best day of my life. What could

top this?

“You remind me of myself – a little Pamela Watkins.” Hmm,

maybe that. The crown didn’t matter anymore. Sure, it would have

been nice to have it sitting on my fireplace mantle at home, and being

on the front page of the Douglas County newspaper would have been

cool too, but this was better than that. This was way better than that.

“Miss Penn, we don’t have all day!” Mrs. Young screeched from

the door. I took one last look at Pamela and then smiled all the way

onto the stage.

Watching the silver tiara being pinned to Kortnee’s head didn’t

hurt as much as I had thought it would. Even when she strutted up

and down the aisle, waving her manicured hand furiously throughout

the air, I didn’t experience the sharp pains that I had expected. She

may have won the pageant, but I had received even more. My dream

had come true. I had finally become like Pamela Watkins.