The Girl in the Mirror(19)

The day after the sleepover, Mrs. Buckingham was running the inaugural Wakefield Beach Junior Beauty Pageant, for girls under sixteen so that Letitia could take part. Three sashes, gold, silver, and bronze, waited by the front door of the Buckinghams’ house, along with a gold tiara. Mrs. Buckingham had them on display as if she’d won them herself.

I pictured Mrs. Buckingham wearing the tiara. Her first name was Celia, and I relished the contrast between this name—classical, ethereal—and Mrs. Buckingham’s great slab of a face, her body as square and slow as a bus. She was easily ten years older than Annabeth, and they would have had nothing in common if their daughters weren’t thick as thieves. Annabeth, still slender and tragi-beautiful, was the sort of woman you’d expect to be running a beauty pageant, not a middle-aged monstrosity like Celia Buckingham.

Celia was drinking cappuccino in her vast kitchen, watching us girls eat breakfast and droning on about the weather forecast (windy), which presented a problem for all those floaty ball gowns and delicate coiffures. I suggested relocating to Wakefield Mall “and leaving the beach for people who like being outdoors.” Celia glared at me.

Annabeth had told us we were not to come home till afternoon, but that didn’t mean I had to hang with the Buckinghams all day. I would head for my usual spot at the far end of the beach. I didn’t need company; it’d be me and the ocean.

But when I tried to make my escape, I learned there were other plans for me. “Your mother has paid your entry fee,” Celia announced, standing at her front door, impassable as a rhinoceros.

I dragged out every excuse from a bad case of stage fright to “beauty pageants exploit women,” but Celia steamrolled over my words. Even Summer betrayed me, refusing to join my rebellion. “Let’s go and have fun,” she said. “Do it for Mum. You know how hard this move is for her.”

At the beach, marquees flapped in the breeze, like a flock of giant gulls about to take flight. For now, though, the elements seemed to be held in check. I caught glimpses of sparkling ocean, free and wild, but the marquees obscured it, which was no doubt how Celia Buckingham liked things to be.

There was a long line of girls waiting to register for the pageant. They fell silent as Summer, Letitia, and I walked past, the insiders who didn’t need to queue. Most of them were about our age, maybe a year older. Pretty, but not that pretty.

I couldn’t resist a smirk at the battle Celia must have been fighting. Letitia, lithe and bronze, would have had this contest in the bag if it weren’t for her houseguests.

Now Summer and Letitia were filling out the registration forms. I read mine. “What’s this about tasteful swimwear?” I asked. Like there was anything tasteful about a beauty pageant for underage girls.

“No bikinis,” said Celia.

There was already a flock of perverts settling into the sand around the catwalk, so it was a relief to learn that none of them were going to see any bare teen torsos. But Summer and I had only brought bikinis. We had to go home and fetch one-piece suits. Summer phoned Annabeth as we walked along Beach Parade, since we’d been ordered not to turn up unannounced.

I was surprised to hear Summer trying to get out of the pageant. “I’ll help you pack, Mum, I promise this time,” she said. “I’m sorry we’ve been . . . not the most helpful . . .”

I could half hear what Annabeth was saying. Of course we should do the pageant. We were the prettiest girls in Queensland.

It was a glittering hot morning, and Summer’s hair was molten gold, rippling over her tanned shoulders and down to her waist. She was wearing skimpy white shorts, and her legs had just enough muscle and grace to rescue them from being called skinny.

It was a recent transformation. I don’t know whether Summer had noticed, but I had seen the way boys looked at her. And men. Neither of us had our period yet, but Summer looked like a woman. Her bra was a size bigger than mine, and her hips flared more, although we still fit the same clothes.

“That’s the problem, Mum,” she said, blinking back tears. Summer cried a lot these days—she was all tenderhearted over lost puppies and that sort of crap. “We can’t both win, can we? And it will be so horrible for whichever one of us comes second.”

She hastily added, “Not that I’m assuming anything. There were some very pretty girls back there.”

Annabeth’s laugh resounded through the phone, so jubilant, exulting in Summer’s modesty. Why did I never think of lines like this? I was dreading the same thing as Summer. We were twins, after all; it was scary how often we had the same thoughts, although it would never have occurred to me to pretend that my concern was unselfish, that I was worried about hurting my sister’s feelings.

But that was the thing. Summer wasn’t pretending.

“Of course they won’t split you girls up!” Annabeth exclaimed when we got home. “Even I can’t tell you apart these days. You two are going to share that crown!”

Nice is dumb. Annabeth really believed this. And perhaps Summer believed it, too, because she was about to do the nicest, dumbest thing of her life.



Living at the beach as we did, Summer and I owned a lot of bikinis. The only one-pieces we had were our school swimsuits, which were modest, white and, of course, identical. Summer was going through a long phase of refusing to dress alike, even at home, so I was surprised she didn’t complain.