Douglas Coupland - Miss Wyoming

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 winning means a great deal to me.» She paused here, looking for words. «And I think one of the traits we value most in any Miss USA Teen is honesty. So it's only fair I be honest with you now.» She looked at Marilyn, and waited an extra few seconds for full impact. «The truth is that I've got my nose in the books these days — I got a C- average in high school and I know I can do better than that — I'm even thinking of applying for college. I simply won't have the time to fulfill my duties as Miss USA Teen. To properly give justice to the role is a full-time job and requires a girl who can give it a thousand-percent dedication.» Susan was winging it now. «It's only from winning that I can see how sacred the role of Miss USA Teen is. And so, in the spirit of truth and pageantry, with a clear head and a happy heart I pass the crown on to Karissa Palewski, Miss Arizona Teen and now, Miss USA Teen. Karissa?» She turned around and beckoned Karissa who, so recently awash in loser's hormones, failed to immediately register her bounty. «Please come forward so I can pass along my crown to you.» The sound technicians sloppily cued up Vivaldi's Four Seasons.

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 Cheyenne, where Don was making pay phone calls to Susan, as he didn't want any telltale evidence of communiqués with Denver on the monthly phone bill. «I've gotta tell you, Sue, your mom's pissed as a jar of hornets on this one.»

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.

And so they left, and yet again Susan saw and participated in the country's landscape — hostile, cold and magnificent, dull and glowing. They pulled into Los Angeles around sunset, arriving in Rancho Palos Verdes on the coast just as a full moon pulled up over the Pacific. They were just in time for a dinner of sloppy joes at Barb's friend's house, and they watched the lights of Avalon over on Catalina sparkling in the distance. Dinner was almost ready and adults and teenagers scurried about. Susan found a quiet den and dialed Larry Mortimer's number. She connected to a personal assistant and then a few breaths later, Larry was on the line. «Susan Colgate? You're one brave woman to go and quit that pageant the way you did.»

Susan was flattered to be called a woman. «It wasn't quitting, Larry. It was — well — there was no way around it. You go and do a hundred pageants and then write me a postcard. We'll compare notes.»

«Such spark. You could really harness that — make it work for you.»

«I'm happy enough just having my mother off my back.»

«Have you ever acted before?»

«Have you ever been in a pageant with cramps before? Or the flu?»

«Touché. How old are you?»

«I'm out of high school, if that's what you mean.»

«No — I meant — »

«With a beret and a kilt I look fourteen. With makeup, cruel lighting and two beers in me, I can pull off thirty. Easy.»

«What's the most ridiculous pageant you ever did?»

«I was Miss Nuclear Energy three years ago. I had this little atom-shaped electric crown over my head. It was pretty, actually. But the pageant was dumb. It was organized by men, not women, and the only other thing they'd ever organized was a Thanksgiving turkey raffle. The whole thing was so — corny. Instead of sashes we had name tags.»

«We should meet. We should get together.»

Susan's stomach made a dip, like cresting a roller coaster's first and biggest hill. She was excited. She hadn't expected this. «Why's that?»

Barb passed by the door to tell Susan the sloppy joes were ready.

«You could really go places,» Larry said.

«Like where?»

«Movies. TV.»

«Be still my heart.»

«Come into town. Tomorrow.»

«We're going to Disneyland tomorrow.»

«The day after then.»

Susan had the sensation that this was just another emcee calling her up onto some stage where she would be judged again. After a few weeks of freedom from pageantry, she felt old strings being tugged and that spooked her. Trish, now answering only to «Dreama,» called Susan to the table. «Dinner time, Larry. I ought to go.»

«What's for dinner?»

«Sloppy joes.»

«I love sloppy joes.»

«It gives me cellulite.»

«Cellulite? You're a child!»

«I'm seventeen.»

« Ooh. I'll back off now.»

They were quiet.

Larry asked her, «Meet me?»

«What do you look like?» Susan asked.

«If I were in a movie, I'd be a sailor like back in the old days, with a sunburn and a duffel bag, and I'd be on shore leave wearing a cable knit sweater.»

Two days later Susan, Dreama and Barb met Larry for lunch at an outdoor café where the linen, china and flowers were white and the service was so good they didn't even realize they were being served. Larry was late, and when Susan saw him rush toward the table, her heart did a cartwheel. Larry was older, curly-haired, gruff and in a glorious twist of fate, a clone of Eugene Lindsay, the winking judge.

Susan fell into a reverie. She hoped that Larry's breath would smell like scotch. She realized that Larry was to be her devirginizer, and a wash of sexual energy and nervousness bordering on static cling came over her. She caught his eye as he approached, and sealing his fate with Susan, he winked.

«I'm late,» he said.

«You're just in time,» she said. Their eyes locked and they held each others' hand a pulse too long. «Larry, this is my friend Dreama and her aunt Barb.» They shook hands, and Barb sized Larry up in a manner that was blatantly financial, embarrassing and amusing.