Miss Wyoming

Susan was fourth out of her stall, having watched Miss Maine, Miss Georgia, and Miss Arizona come onstage before her. She left her booth, hearing the click of Plexiglas on plywood. She sashayed up to the green electrical tape strip that was her floor marker. She saw that the emcee was as handsome as Eugene Lindsay — Why is there never a woman emceeing these things? Why is it always some variation of a Qantas pilot crossed with a Pentecostal evangelist? His teeth, lips, Adam's apple and chin worked in symphony, and Susan heard: «Susan Colgate: A UFO lands in your back yard and a little green man pops out of it and says to you, “Hello, Earthling — please tell me about your country.” What do you tell this little green man?»

Susan thought about this question. Why would an alien even know about the concept of countries? Were countries a universal concept? Did they have countries on Betelgeuse or on Mars? She thought about what a ridiculous spot she was now in. How many times had she been in just such an artificial situation where she was put on trial with fatuous, clownlike questions like something out of the Salem witch trials? Susan looked into the emcee's eyes and she could tell he was hosting the evening's event because he needed the money. Gambling debts? An addiction to sexual novelties or to Franklin Mint collectible ceramic thimbles? What was with his hair? Was that a trace of a scar on his left eye? Oh God, there still remained this idiotic question to be answered. The audience was so quiet. The lighting was so bright!

Aliens… She thought of cartoon aliens endorsing presweetened breakfast cereals. Pictures of Mexicans flashed through her head. She recalled the moods she had when she was on the road, driving to pageants — the hotel rooms and freeways and taxis and forests and grocery stores and all of the people she'd ever seen across the country, churning, scrambling and going — going forth — into some unknown.

She replied, «I'd tell that little green man that we're a busy country, Ken.» Marilyn safety-pi

Her smile was clean, her eyes direct, and the crowd loved her.

Miss West Virginia was next. She was going to tell the little green man that the USA was a free country and that if he had a problem with that, he could leave, then and there. This was a negative reply and only garnered weak clapping, and sure enough, Miss West Virginia came in as fourth ru

A flash of kisses, flashbulbs and roses. A sash. A scepter. The previous Miss USA Teen, Miss Dawnelle Hunter, formerly Miss Florida USA Teen, emerged from the wings with a platinum tiara which she nested and pi

Marilyn was at their table, electrified. The ru

The floor calmed.

All was silent.

Susan wondered how to be truthful without giving offense. She said, «Thanks all of you. Thanks so much. As we know, this is an important pageant, and wi

Marilyn's tortured «No!» was drowned out in the applause as emcee Ken shrugged and escorted Karissa to Susan for a transfer of the tiara, sash, scepter and roses. Mission accomplished. Susan hopped efficiently off the stage and said to Marilyn, «Sorry, Mom, but this is a jailbreak. I'm no longer your prisoner.» She left the banquet room while a confused Trish, justifiably wary of Marilyn's wrath, darted after her.

A week passed in which Susan holed up at the home of Trish's aunt.

Marilyn and Don were back in Cheye

Susan could easily imagine Don fumbling with a roll of quarters in a booth beside a shoe store. She said, «You know, Don — what else is new? I mean, you're married to her, I'm born to her. Neither of us has any illusions, and I just can't take her anymore. I'm out of high school now. Do you really want me hanging around the house for weeks on end with nothing to do but bask in Mom's loving glow?» There was silence on Don's end, and a cash register kachinged in the background. «I thought so. For the time being I'm here with Trish and it's a harmless enough life. I've got a job flipping dough at Pizza Slut. It's a start.»

«Well, Sue, that sounds good to me.» Don possessed no initiative but considered any trace of it in others a good sign. «What else is new down there? I used to have a brother in Denver. He's in Germany now, Patches Barracks, outside of Stuttgart.»

Susan said, «I hang out with Trish by the pool at the Y. She's into numerology now. She's changing her name to Dreama.» Susan could sense every fiber of Don's body instantly spasm with boredom. «Not much else, I guess.»

«A guy called. From Los Angeles. An agent. Named Mortimer. Larry Mortimer. He says you should give him a call. He read about your chucking the pageant in the paper.» Susan took down the number and then she and Don exchanged polite good-byes, both happy to leave the business of what to do to calm Marilyn to some other call, another day.

A few hours later, Susan and Trish, armed with fake IDs and Trish's aunt's Honda Civic, whooped it up in keggery bars and hot spots, releasing sugary bursts of energy with the fervor and desperation of the young. The partying went on for two weeks, after which Trish's aunt Barb suggested the two girls accompany her on a road trip to Los Angeles in her car. They could share in the driving duties.