Revenge of the Girl With the Great Personality Read Free

and get her picture taken with Alyssa, the Ultimate GrandSupreme winner. This small victory will give Mac and Mom the motivation to get ready for the next pageant. And from our little Dallas suburb, there’s one that’s within driving distance practically every weekend.
    The whole pageant thing started innocently enough. I guess most addictions do. Shortly after Dad left, we were at the mall and there was a modeling contest for ages sixteen and younger. I refused to take part, since I was in my rebellious-child-of-divorce stage at the time, which isn’t something I’ve entirely grown out of. So Mom decided to sign Mac up, and she won her age group. Never mind that she was the only kid under the age of two to enter. Mom loved the attention, the validation she got that her child was the best at something. Another one of the mothers suggested pageants to her, and Team Mackenzie has been doing them ever since.
    At first I happily went along, to cheer on my baby sis. But soon I started to feel like the third wheel. The older I got, the more I realized how much these pageants objectify young girls, and how much the price of the pageant was more than we could handle financially and emotionally. But there was no way to protest. Nothing else made my mother happy. We’re a pageant family.
    Sometimes I do get sad, though. Not because Mac doesn’t win, but that we spend all this time and money (that we do not have) to come home with nothing more than a cheap plastic crown. The one she got today is already broken.
    “Mama!” Mac screams from the backseat of the car. “Fix it!”
    “Honey, I can’t, I’m driving.” Mom glances in the rearview mirror and starts to sweat. I’m sure she’s not happy that their prized possession hasn’t even survived the car ride home.
    “PULL OVER!” Mac screams.
    I look at my watch and it seems that Mac’s normal post-pageant breakdown is right on time. I can’t really blame her for being crabby; we’ve been up since five this morning getting ready. She’s had people poking at her all day with makeup wands and curling irons, plus Mom feels the need to remind her umpteen times to smile on stage. Sometimes I want to throw a fit, but alas, someone needs to be the calm one in the family.
    “Sweetie, I can’t pull over,” Mom calls out to an increasingly agitated Mackenzie. “We’re on a tight schedule. Lexi has to get to work. Give your crown to her and she can fix it.”
    Mac reluctantly hands me her crown.
    “Lexi, fix it,” Mom orders, fatigue from the day showing in her face. “Just do this one thing for your sister.”
    This one thing? I resist the urge to remind Mom that I gave up my entire weekend to drive with them to Livingston. That I spend hours each week sewing Mac a new costume or driving her to dance lessons. That I have to do insane, completely abnormal things like apply butt glue to my sister.
    But it’s been a long day for us all, so I keep quiet and examine the crown. The tiny side comb used to hold the crown to the head has snapped off. “Can you please hand me my sewing kit?” I ask Mac.
    She fishes for my kit in the back of the car, which is jammed with crates and hanging bags filled with all her pageant gear. She gives a little humph when she finally hands it over to me. I take fabric glue and apply it to the crown, willing it to hold so we don’t have to listen to a tantrum for the remaining three hours.
    While Mac’s being grouchy now, she usually thanks me the next day when she’s been able to get her beauty sleep. I know she’s appreciative to have me there as a sane person to go to when Mom goes into one of her Pageant Panics. (One time, Mom suggested that Mac have mascara tattooed on her to save time each pageant — I wish I were joking.)
    I turn my attention toward the broken tiara. As I hold the comb in place, I notice that the sequins are starting to fall off. “This thing is beyond cheap,” I say. Then I can’t help asking, “How much money