You wanted to be a beauty queen, you said. And walk up a runway with your hands on your hips, showing off that pretty ring. You wanted to wobble around in heels that you never thought would make you fall on your face. You should have been a model for Vogue. You should have won every prize. And you got in first for every pageant, except for two of them.
You wanted so badly to be able to take in a makeup bag to school, with a lipgloss and eyeshadow and mascara. Maybe a tiny comb, one with a mirror. You wanted to wear that short dress in. I let you. Being your older, realistic sister, but only your sister, what could I have told you? “No”? I don’t think so.
I detest those pageants you like to go to. Every girl is prettier than the next, with more glitter on their face than a teenager who was just given permission to start wearing makeup from her parents. I want to jump out of my front-row seat with a cardboard sign and protest.
But I’m not going to do that to you. When I look at your charming, smiling face, what can I say but “good job”? But the sadness, when I see that face, that you are expected to be so attractive to everyone at every moment, that you love this corrupt contest so much—it makes me want to grab you and get you out of there as soon as possible.
I still let you take my old makeup bag into school. How old are you? That’s right. Third grade.