Like Vanessa: Me and My Stupid Miss America Dreams–I Remember

I didn’t expect to spend my fourteenth birthday in a prison, locked away in a concrete room, forced to face it all: my family’s secrets; my foiled plans to find Mama and live happily ever after; my stupid, stupid Miss America dreams.

“What’s in the girly bag?” a voice yells out over the scuffle.

The reality of her betrayal cuts me right down to the white meat.

This is the norm when the police come to Grafton Hill. Nobody ain’t heard nothing. They ain’t seen nothing either.

His wiry, tar-black hair stands at attention.

All the negative words that ever existed in the English language. In this moment, I am every single one of them. Stupid. Careless. Impulsive. Irresponsible. Secretive. Sneaky.

Two cops enter the waiting room just as I’m about to spontaneously combust.

Well, call me a snitch and throw me on a plantation because I tell the cops everything I saw.

I told Beatriz about keeping the pageant a secret from Daddy. I told her about my dress. That heifer knew TJ was making it.

And the tears start all over again. Pop Pop rubs my hands. So delicate. So attentive.

Pop Pop’s idea of his good suit is his 1972, mauve-colored, bell-bottom ensemble with a tie-dye, butterfly-collar shirt.

First Mrs. Walton lathers my hair with a vanilla-almond scented shampoo.

The nutmeg blush complements the hint-of-pink lip gloss.

Each eyelash gets mascaraed in long, lush layers.

“Break a leg, little cuz!” His voice is raspy, weak.

I can hear his whimper through the phone, soft, wispy, begging to be hidden.

A surge of fear weighs down on me.

Adrenaline hovers like a storm cloud in the dressing room, and I can tell that my heart is not the only one racing.

Stephanie’s hand grows clammy as her eyes start to water up.

Mrs. Walton choreographed our opening number to “Dreamgirls,” a song from the Broadway show.

The crowd is going so crazy that I can barely hear her say, “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the inaugural Miss King Middle School pageant! Tonight one deserving young lady will make history by winning the title of Miss King Middle! Let’s hear it for the stars of the show—your Miss King Middle pageant contestants!”

One by one, each of us steps to the microphone to state our name, grade, and ambition in life.

My intestines are all bundled up inside of me, and a slew of thoughts run through my head.

“Good evening, ladies, gentlemen, and distinguished judges. I am an eighth grader on the high honor roll here at King Middle School, with dreams of studying music when I attend college. I will one day grace the Miss America stage. I am fourteen-year-old Vanessa Martin.”

Spit flies out of my mouth as I do my lip trills, but Mrs. Walton tells me not to worry.

My mouth opens and begins the song a cappella.

“Now, Vanessa, don’t forget. Speak as though you are reading one of those beautiful books of yours or writing one of your poems that would make Toni Morrison jealous. Be yourself: charming, witty, intelligent,” Mrs. Walton reminds me.

Even when my teacher and family encouraged me to do this pageant, I was afraid. But here I am. Facing my fears. Breaking stereotypes.

“You should wear this pin close to your heart. Because more than anyone here, you are destined to be a star. I have no doubt that you’ll be on that Miss America stage one day.”

My grandfather isn’t standing there, though. It’s Daddy. Tall, blue-black dark, and dressed in cargo pants, paint-stained boots, and a tattered brown sweater.

The stage lights flicker colors of red, blue, and yellow, and my rhinestones shine from wall to wall.

The emcee calls all the contestants back onstage, where she announces: “Our prize package for the overall winner of the Miss King Middle School pageant is quite extensive. She will win a two-hundred-fifty-dollar cash award sponsored by the Newark Municipal Council, an all-expenses-paid trip to the Miss New Jersey pageant in Cherry Hill, a one-hundred-dollar gift certificate to Brick City Books..."

Beethoven’s “Für Elise” is blasting through my headphones as I’m putting on my cap and gown for today’s graduation ceremony. The melody is sweet and thunderous and intoxicating all at once.

I see it every time I walk past the bodega and see her sitting on the stoop.

I used to think that karma would taste sweet, but the bitterness it leaves on the inside ain’t sweet at all.

As the class valedictorian, I have special front-row seats for my family.

In her heart, does she truly forgive me for choosing Beatriz’s sham of a friendship over her?

In the jungle, there is life. There is beauty. There is abundance.

My beaten, tattered Darlene. What a beautiful image of my unraveling! A year in my life that I won’t soon forget.

I remember the many nights of being lulled to sleep by the hypnotizing rhythms of hip-hop and salsa hovering over Grafton Hill.