Authors: Libba Bray
“Adina … Adina … Adina …”
Adina felt the slimy wetness of the bug in her hand. Her stomach lurched. The chants of her name grew louder. It was like falling, waiting for untested hands to catch her.
“Oh God …” Adina whimpered. In one quick gulp, she downed the white larva, then fell to her hands and knees, gagging like a cat with a hairball. The girls backed away, giving her space. Finally, Adina staggered to her feet and wiped her mouth. For a moment under the hot sun, she thought she might faint. Or hurl. Or both.
“Adina?” Mary Lou whispered. “You okay?”
Adina gave a thumbs-up, and the girls grabbed her in a group hug. They cheered.
For me,
Adina thought. They were cheering
her,
and she was hit with a sense of pride and camaraderie she would have found cheesy back home.
“You’re so brave,” Mary Lou said, hugging her.
“How was it?” Brittani asked.
“Not totally awful. It kind of reminded me of French kissing Jake Weinstein and his spelunker tongue.”
Taylor appraised Adina coolly. “Let’s all give some snaps to New Hampshire.” Taylor clicked her fingers like castanets and the others followed till it sounded like Cinco de Mayo night at the senior home. “All right, Teen Dreamers — start digging for worms. It’s what’s for lunch.”
Tiara heard singing, and for a moment she thought she was in her room back home listening to Boyz Will B Boyz and waiting for her mom to wake her for her daily weigh-in. Instinctively, she tried to shove her secret snack cake wrappers under the imaginary mattress, only to feel a caterpillar crawling across her hand, startling her awake. Nicole and Shanti were still passed out, and she definitely heard singing. She walked in the direction of the song, following it till she found a small, bucolic waterfall that fed into a turquoise pond. On the bank lay Petra’s mud-caked clothes.
Petra stood in the pond, her lithe back to Tiara. She was as skinny as a boy or a supermodel, or a boy supermodel, and Tiara felt a pang of envy that Petra would never have to endure daily weigh-ins or go on juice fasts. She felt bad for spying, though. It wasn’t very nice. Should she make a noise? What if she scared Petra? She was trying to decide the best way to announce herself when Petra, still oblivious to Tiara’s presence, turned and rose from the water, and Tiara made the only sound she could. She screamed.
“Oh. My. God,” Nicole said.
“You’re a … you’re not even …” Shanti stammered. “You’re really J. T. Woodland? From Boyz Will B Boyz?”
Nicole raised an eyebrow. “Not anymore.”
“I had your poster in my room when I was ten!” Tiara blubbered.
“I wrote to your fan club. You sent me a bandanna with your autograph.”
“I hated those bandannas. They were so cheesy.” Petra pulled her knees close and rested her chin on them.
“I think you’re missing the salient point here,” Shanti said. “Miss Teen Dream is a girls’ pageant. You are not a girl. Ergo, you are disqualified.”
“Who says I’m not a girl?”
“You have a wang-dang-doodle!” Tiara squeaked.
“Is that all that makes a guy a guy? What makes a girl a girl?”
And the girls found they could not answer. For they’d never been asked that question in the pageant prep.
Tiara’s expression was pained. “I don’t mean to offend you, Petra or J. T. or whatever, but my mom says that’s against nature and God.”
“Maybe you should ask God and nature why they put a girl inside a boy’s body?” Petra shouted to the uncaring sky. “And while you’re at it, maybe you should ask your mom why she thinks it’s not against God and nature to dress her little girl up in garters, spackle her face with makeup, and let her pole dance.”
“It’s
Christian
pole dancing,” Tiara said softly.
“It’s abuse,” Petra said. “Making your third grader go for a spray tan instead of playing in the park just so Mom can outsource her failed dreams to her kid? So wrong.”
Tiara’s eyes filled with tears. “She only wants what’s best for me. She knows I love the pageants.”
“Do you, really?” Petra challenged, and Tiara was silent.
“Why did you enter Miss Teen Dream?” Nicole asked Petra. “I mean, that’s, like, suicidal.”
Petra let out a long exhale. “My parents always wanted me to be able to have the surgery. I got the therapist, had the electrolysis, went on the hormones and the androgen blockers. I did almost everything. But then my mom got cancer. The chemo was expensive and the insurance wouldn’t pay. Said it was a preexisting condition.”
“Breast cancer?”
“Breasts,” Petra said bitterly. “Long story short, we were massively in debt. So long, sex reassignment surgery.”
“What about all that money you made with Boyz Will B Boyz?” Nicole asked.
“Embezzled by our manager.”
“Harsh. Wow, I’m really sorry,” Nicole said. “So how’d you decide on Miss Teen Dream?”
Petra rocked back, still holding tightly to her knees. “It wasn’t my idea. Through my support group, I met these political activists from a transgender rights group called Trans Am.”
“Trans Am?” Shanti made a face. “Your transgender rights group named themselves after a cheesy 1980s car and you aligned yourself with them? That’s like picking a plastic surgeon out of the grocery circular.”
“Okay. The name’s stupid. But they wanted to make a statement. They got me my hormones and promised to pay for the surgery if I’d go through Miss Teen Dream, the ultimate female pageant, as a contestant. All I had to do was place and then reveal myself at a press conference afterward and people would have to question everything they think about transgender people and about gender itself.”
“So you’re making fun of us?” Tiara asked.
“No! Not at all,” Petra said.
“Why not do one of those drag pageants, win money that way?” Nicole asked.
Petra kicked the tree. “Because I’m not in drag! This is who I am. That’s why I want to make a statement, so people understand. It’s a stand against discrimination. Look, I don’t need to win. I just need to place and do the press conference, and then I’ll have enough for the operation. Can you just not say anything? Please?”
The girls exchanged glances. It was Shanti who spoke. “I’m sorry. You broke the rules. I have to turn you in.”
“He — she might not even place,” Nicole tried.
“And if he does, that’s taking away a spot that could go to you or me. It’s not like the pageant just loves women of color, you know.”
Tiara looked up. “I thought you said the pageant wasn’t racist.”
“Bitch, please,” Shanti and Nicole said in unison.
“Besides, the pageant’s already on shaky ground,” Shanti argued. “All we need is another scandal, and then it’s over and none of us gets scholarship money. I’m sorry. But I’m a rules girl. I have to turn you in, Petra. We should get moving while there’s daylight.”
Nicole was torn. She liked Petra and she understood what it was to be discriminated against. But this was different, wasn’t it? Petra had deceived them, and Nicole didn’t like being lied to. She honestly didn’t know what to do.
“Maybe there’s another way to get the money.” She patted Petra’s shoulder and fell in behind Shanti.
Petra turned to Tiara. “I guess you hate me, too.”
Tiara tried not to look at Petra. Her eyes kept slipping down to her non-girl region. “I’m so confused. I don’t know if you’re a girl or a boy.”
“I’m a girl who just happened to get the wrong body.”
“My mom says people like you are wrong.”
“I can’t speak for your mom.”
“I don’t know. I have to think about it,” Tiara said, and she hurried to join the other girls on the trail.
By day’s end, everyone had made it back to the camp on the beach. Jennifer introduced Sosie to the group and told everyone about their misadventure with (and eventual victory over) the giant snake, about the Lady ’Stache Off jars and the old ration kit. The girls took it as a sign that the island was known and there would be an eventual rescue, especially if Jennifer could get the radio up and running.
“I’ll give it a shot. I learned a lot when my mom used to work at the plant,” Jennifer said.
Taylor convened a meeting. The girls settled into their horseshoe formation. Taylor raised a baton whose ignitable ends had been reduced to stubs.
“Whoever needs to talk can ask for the baton. Parliamentary procedure will be followed.”
“Parliamentary procedure? Did you go to girls’ state? Because I did,” Adina interjected.
Taylor frowned and waggled the baton. “You’re out of order, Miss New Hampshire. I have the baton. As I was saying, if you need to say something, you raise your hand and ask for permission to speak. The speaker will recognize you and hand over the baton. If you speak out of turn, you’re gonna be hit with penalties. So,” Taylor said as she wiped a small spot of dirt off the baton’s glittery stick. “Now that we’re all back together, we need to talk about getting rescued and resuming our pageant practice.”
Adina’s hand went up like a missile. “Permission to speak!”
Taylor rolled her eyes. “Granted, Miss New Hampshire. Please try to keep it clean. Not all of us were raised in a traveling RV of foul-mouthed circus folk.”
She handed the baton to Adina, who started to say something in response, then thought better of it. “For as long as we’re here, we need to survive. You know, build some shelter, find reliable food and drinking water. We need to organize.”
Taylor’s hand shot up. “Taylor Rene Krystal Hawkins of the great state of Texas! Permission to speak!”
“What fresh hell is this?” Adina muttered. “Granted.”
Taylor took back the baton. “Miss New Hampshire is right.”
“You’re agreeing with me?” Adina blurted out. “What are the other signs of the apocalypse?”
“You’re out of order, Miss New Hampshire. I’ll issue a warning. Next time it’s a penalty.” Taylor stood and paced with the baton cradled in her arms like a winner’s bouquet. “You know what I’m thinkin’, Miss Teen Dreamers?”
“What?” Mary Lou asked.
“That was rhetorical, Miss Nebraska. I’m thinkin’ that when we do finally get rescued, we want them to find us at our best. And what could be better and more in line with the Miss Teen Dream mission statement than having them find that we have tamed and beautified this island? It’s like extra credit. And you know how the judges love extra credit.”
Shanti raised her hand and received the baton. “I wrote my junior AP science thesis on micro farming and sustainable agriculture. I could come up with some plans for planting a garden and constructing an irrigation system. And I know how to make a system for drinking water.”
“But can you also make popadam as your grandmother taught you?”
“Out of order, Montana,” Taylor tutted.
Miss New Mexico raised her hand. “My sophomore year, I took set design when I couldn’t get into interpretive dance. I’m pretty good at building things.”
“You are now the building committee, Miss New Mexico. What else do we need?”
The baton passed from girl to girl as ideas were discussed: Huts. Fishing lines. Rain-catching tarp. Zip lines. Tanning booth. By the time the baton came to Taylor again, the girls had a renewed sense of hope. After all, they were the best of the best. They had lived through the pageant circuit, which was no place for wimps.
“When they come to rescue us, they will find us with clean, jungle-forward, fashionable huts and a self-sustaining ecosystem. We will be the Miss Teen Dreamers they write about in history books,” Taylor said.
“Nobody writes about Miss Teen Dreamers in history books,” Adina scoffed.
“They will now, Miss New Hampshire. We will be the best ever. This is my new goal. And I am very goal-oriented. Also, penalty: You’re on first watch tonight. Is there anything else?” Taylor asked. It was quiet. “Then I’ll call this meeting —”
“Permission to speak?” Shanti raised her hand and glanced nervously at Petra. “I have something I need to tell everyone.”
“Shanti, don’t,” Nicole whispered.
“Miss Colorado? Were you speaking out of turn?”
“No. Just clearing my throat.”
“Then you have the runway, Miss California. Take your promenade.” Taylor passed her the baton.
“Well, we didn’t really get a chance to know one another before we left. And it’s just that some of us might not be who we pretend to be.”
Taylor gripped one end of the baton, sharing it with Shanti. “What are you saying, Miss California?”
“I’m saying —”
“That we should have a cutest hut contest!” Nicole interrupted.
“Miss Colorado, it was not your turn on the runway,” Taylor admonished. “Tomorrow, you will bring coconuts back from the jungle.”
“Sure,” Nicole continued. “It’s just that I’m sure what Shanti is
trying
to say is that it’s really hard when you’ve grown up feeling discriminated against, you know, because of your race or religion or because you just happened to be born a certain way… .”
“Like really pretty,” Miss Ohio said.
Miss New Mexico nodded. “Or naturally thin.”
“Or you have a third nipple,” Brittani said, shaking her head.
“Excuse me, I have the runway,” Shanti reminded everyone. “You need to know that Petra has been lying to us all this time. Nicole and Tiara can back me up.”
In her head, Nicole heard her mother’s voice, the million-and-one times she’d turned to Nicole with an “Isn’t that right, baby?” or “Nicole agrees with her mama, don’t you?” She heard her mother’s voice and she gave the response she’d always wanted to give. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Shanti turned to Tiara. “Tell everybody the truth.”
Tiara looked from Petra to Shanti to Nicole and back to Petra again.
“Miss Mississippi?” Taylor asked.
“Well … um … I … I …”
Petra stood. “Stop badgering her! Fine. You want to know the secret. I’ll tell you. Permission to speak.”
“Granted,” Taylor said.
Shanti raised the baton. “But I’m the only one who can grant permission.”
“Miss California. Don’t be such a douche nozzle. Miss Rhode Island?”
“I wasn’t … I haven’t always …” Petra took a deep breath. The baton trembled in her hands. She’d wanted her chance to compete like any other girl, to make a statement to the world that there was nothing wrong with her, that she was beautiful, through and
through. But the hiding was too hard — harder than learning group dance steps or finding size-eleven heels that didn’t look like total ass. “I’m not technically a girl. Yet.”