CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It was a fine day of blue, cloudless skies and unhurried winds. The sort of day that inspires confidence in the state of the world. If Taylor had been back home, she would have considered it a perfect tanning day and gone for a fresh coat of color. But she had more important things to think about just now. She had work to do, and as she worked, she hummed an old show tune. It was a song she had used in a previous pageant, a song about how you couldn’t get a man with a gun, which was silly — of course you could get just about anything with a gun! But it calmed her to sing it now as she attached the red, blue, and white wires to the statue of Miss Miss.
Heavenly stars, but she’d had a busy few days! After attacking the guards, she’d relieved them of their weapons and buried them in a shallow storage pit beneath Our Lady. The trip wires had not been easy to rig. She’d had to go deeper into the jungle to find vines that were strong enough, and she’d had to make sure they were low enough to the ground so as not to be seen. One wrong step and that person would be hoisted high into the trees to dangle by a foot until they passed out or Taylor felt merciful, whichever came first. Probably the passing out. She’d dug two deep holes. These she covered with leaves and branches and marked with tiny crosses so that she would remember not to step there. But oh, there was so much to do still. It was just like getting ready for pageant time, and it filled Taylor with a happy sense of purpose. Ever since getting shot by those darts, Taylor had had a teensy bit of trouble organizing her thoughts. That’s what lists were for. When Taylor competed, she always made lists. They were very helpful. She made one now in her head. It went like this:
- Melt down jewelry for arrowheads
- Dig pit
- Surveillance
- Construct bows
- Practice!
- Interview portion
- Projectile launch/avocado mask
- Reassemble AK-47
- Construct bomb
- Moisturize
Yes, lists were essential if you were going to be a serious competitor. And nobody was more serious about competing than Taylor Rene Krystal Hawkins.
“Miss Texas, who’s got her wires crossed,” Ladybird Hope cautioned. She’d changed into a sarong and put a flower in her hair, which was, of course, just perfect.
“Oh my stars!” Taylor rethreaded the wires. She shook her head at her clumsiness. “That’s almost like wearing red for evening gown. Everybody knows the judges like pastels.”
“Amen.” Ladybird Hope peeled a banana. She had a French manicure. “You’re gonna need a what next, Taylor?”
“An accelerant.”
“That’s my girl.”
Taylor opened the jar of Lady ’Stache Off cream and put it in position. Under the label, the jar had a small radioactive symbol. “There. This Miss is ready to greet her subjects.”
Ladybird Hope patted Taylor lightly on the back. “I’m so proud of you, Taylor. You really are a Miss Teen Dream.”
“Just hearing that from you, Ladybird, well, it’s like I’ve already won.” Taylor’s eyes misted with tears.
“None of that, now. Save the tears for your victory walk. Otherwise it looks premature and the judges will think you’re cocky. Or emotionally unstable. Or premenstrual. None of that will get you a crown.”
“You’re so right. Buck up, Miss Texas.” Taylor dabbed at her lashes with her knuckles. Then she tested the digital watch she’d taken off the guard’s wrist. It was a standard issue military timepiece and it counted down just fine.
“It’s a whole new world of pretty. …” She sang the Miss Teen Dream theme song as she worked. She clicked the watch into place and closed Our Lady, smoothing out the wrinkles on her sash. With that, the sculpture was not only beautifully accessorized, she was fully armed.
“Who messes with Miss Teen Dream?” Ladybird Hope asked.
“Nobody,” Taylor answered. She smeared mud and tree sap to camouflage her face and arms till she seemed an outgrowth of the island. She almost sensed the black shirts before she saw them on their way to the beach and the other girls.
“I think they might be messing with our pretty. What do you think we should do, Miss Texas?” Taylor whispered. She wasn’t sure if she’d said it aloud or inside her head. It was hard to tell the difference anymore.
“A Miss Teen Dream doesn’t rely on others to solve her problems. She tackles her issues head-on, with a smile and a wave,” said her other self.
Tears filled Taylor’s eyes. “You’re so right.”
“Of course I’m right,” said her other self. “I wrote the book on right. Silent Somersault?”
“I think so, yes.”
When Taylor had won Miss Dustbowl County, she’d wowed the judges with her signature gymnastics move, the Silent Somersault, a series of revolutions that happened so fast, no one could hear her feet and hands touching earth. Now she flew in a beautiful blur of spandex and sequins, a girlish ninja star arcing through the air. And when she brought her feet down on the men, snapping their necks like cheap drugstore straws, they never heard a thing. Carefully, quickly, she pulled their bodies into a nearby ravine.
“Cover ’em up good,” said the other Taylor from her perch in a tree. “They’ll come looking. And take their walkie-talkies, too.”
Taylor nodded, but secretly she worried that the judges wouldn’t like this. It seemed a little overt. She might lose a point or two and have to make it up in swimsuit or talent. But it had to be done.
With a heavy sigh, Taylor examined the hands that had done this thing, her hands, as if seeing them for the first time. The long, slim fingers. The mud-caked knuckles. The strip of pale skin on her fourth finger where her sweet sixteen ring had been. She turned her hands over and over, palms to backs, backs to palms, marveling. She bent her fingers to inspect her nails and the frown returned.
No. This was all wrong. What had she done? When did this happen?
“Oh, no,” she said as her eyes filled with tears. “I broke a nail.”