Little Miss Tri-Counties
The call, when it came, wasn’t totally unexpected, so I didn’t fall to pieces or nuthin.’
In fact, I handled myself quite well, considering I was right in the middle of my morning beauty routine, which required eight specific steps and no small amount of concentration. Wouldn’t want to double-up on the moisturizer and risk a shiny forehead later.
“Hello?”
“Morning, Waunzie. I’m sorry to be calling you so early, but I know you have to get up for that school of yours, anyway.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” A teacher’s work was never done. “Who’s calling please?”
The last part was a formality. I’d know Bernadette Thibodeaux anywhere. The woman was born with a head cold, if you asked me.
“Why, it’s me. Bernadette.”
My caller followed two grades behind me at Millbanks High School. Whereas I gained no small measure of fame twirling for the Tigerettes, Bernadette was stuck wearing polyester and pleather in the clarinet section of “That Swingin’ Band from Tigerland.” Bless her heart.
“What can I do you for, Bernadette?” I scootched the moisturizer closer so I wouldn’t forget my place.
“Rumor has it you’re fixin’ to retire from that middle school. Some folks at the agency were talkin’ about you. Wondering if you might want to come back.”
She cleared her throat, or coughed—I couldn’t tell which—when I didn’t respond.
“Patty told me to call you,” she continued. Bernadette did errands and such for the owner of the modeling agency. “See if maybe you’d like to come in tomorrow for a little talk. Would that be alright?”
I quickly nodded, although she couldn’t see me over the telephone wire.
“Well?”
“Of course, Bernie. That’d be fine. Tell Miss Patty I’ll look forward to it.”
So, that was that. By the time the call ended, I was so excited, I forgot to buff and polish. I smoothed cover-up on the scar instead and dashed over to Ben Franklin Middle School as fast as my legs would carry me.
My best friend, Albert, was right where I knew I’d find him: sitting in the teachers’ lounge with his nose behind the latest issue of Garden & Gun. The man’s a fool for that magazine.
I plopped next to him on the divan and thumped the cover for good measure. “Guess what? They want me to come in tomorrow!”
“Um, hmm.” The cover got all catawampus, but Albert barely noticed.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Not really.” Only then did he set aside the dad-burned magazine and gave me his full attention. “Okay. Now who wants you to come in?”
“Why, the agency, of course. Miss Patty Picklemire’s School of Modeling. And after all these years.”
While Miss Patty’s last name was unfortunate, it wasn’t her fault. Just like it wasn’t Albert’s fault he was born to people named Seaman. Although, to be honest, I sometimes wondered why he chose to become a middle-school teacher, since kids could be so cruel.
“Oh, the agency,” he said. “Wonder why?”
An eyeroll itched behind my lids, which I ignored. “Why do you think? They want me to start modeling for them again. I do hope I remember my walk.”
That was just me being coy, of course. I practiced my modeling walk every night before bed, twenty minutes, come rain or shine, from one end of the doublewide to the other. Practice Makes Perfect is the first entry in my “Dream It & Achieve It!” lifetime planner, and if I ever wanted to get back on the agency’s roster, I knew I’d have to earn it.
“But, honey. It’s been so long,” he said, gently. “Are you sure that’s the reason?”
I instinctively touched the scar on my cheek. “What’re you trying to say, Al?”
“Nothing. Never mind.” He sighed and rose from the lumpy divan. “Guess it’s time to face the natives. Who’d you book for Career Day?”
“Why, me. Of course.” I tossed him a look, since he should’ve known better. I always let my class interview me about my modeling days on Career Day. They do enjoy it, I find, and I think it’s important to inspire the next generation to greatness.
“Good luck with that,” he mumbled.
“Now, don’t be such a gloomy Gus. We only have a few days of school left. Then you’ll get three whole months off. You might as well enjoy it.”
But that would be like asking a fish to climb a tree, since Albert was born sour.
I joined the throngs in the hall once we said goodbye, and then I swam upstream to my classroom. I normally liked to get to my desk before the little heathens, but today was an exception. Today, I wanted to make an entrance. So, I waited in the hall and practiced a few positive affirmations, courtesy of the “Dream It & Achieve It!” ten-month workbook.
Once finished, I threw open the door and gave the kiddos an eyeful of my signature modeling walk, all the way to the front of the class. They were speechless, of course.
“Now, kids. I have a special treat for you today. I’m going to present a little talk I like to call, ‘My Life as a Model… Part One.’ God bless you, Brendon.”
Why the hooligan felt the need to sneeze in such a dramatic fashion—at least, I thought it was a sneeze—was beyond me. But that didn’t mean I’d let him steal my thunder. “Anyway, as I was saying, I used to work for some of the finer department stores here in Wichita Falls. JCPenney, Joske’s…you name it. Everyone wanted to ‘book’ me.”
I used air quotes to let my audience know I was giving them inside information. It’s important to use modeling jargon early-on, so people know they’re dealing with a true professional.
“That was before I joined the teaching profession, of course. Sadie, could you please shut that door? It’s louder than a swarm of cicadas out there in the hall. Now, I know what you’re thinking. How can someone like me, who’s only five-foot-three, even think about becoming a world-class model, like Twiggy?”
The class stared at me slack-jawed, like a bunch of cows chewing their cud, so I knew I’d stumped them.
“Well, here’s the thing,” I explained. “There’re a lot of different opportunities in the modeling world. It’s not all about ‘working the catwalk.’” Again, with the air quotes. “They mostly paid me to work as a catalogue model. That means I used to be in advertisements, fashion catalogues, etcetera. Yes, Brendon?”
“Was that before you got that thing on your face?” he asked.
My cheek automatically twitched. I never liked that Brendon McWhirter to begin with. The boy can be downright ugly. Thank goodness for my “Dream It & Achieve It!” word-of-the-day calendar. Today’s word was Benevolent.
“As a matter of fact, it was,” I replied, using my most benevolent tone.
My cheek continued to throb. While doctors did their best after the accident, and Lord knows they tried, the coverup couldn’t quite hide the scar. It helped if I stood on the left-hand side in pictures and adopted a downward tilt of the jaw.
The scar was pretty much my only souvenir from senior year at Millbanks High School, since I spent most of my time then at Wichita Falls General Hospital, a floor above Bernadette’s older sister, Tammy. Strangely, I don’t remember much about the crash that brought us both there, although I do recall a jelly jar full of Everclear and Tammy getting all worked up about something or other on the road. How was I to know a baby deer would stumble into my car like that and pitch Tammy clean through the windshield?
The accident like as broke my momma’s heart. The noise in the hall gradually softened as I remembered it. Momma was the one who got me started in the modeling business to begin with. Apparently, she got bored sitting around the apartment complex, what with Daddy being at the base all day, so she started sewing rhinestones onto my pinafores.
From there, it was only a hop, skip, and a jump to the Little Miss Tri-Counties beauty pageant, which they held every year at the Holiday Inn.
I not only won first place, which was a shiny trophy made of silver nickel, but I got a free year of classes at Patty Picklemire’s School of Modeling. Ten years later, the woman finally signed me to her agency. I never did ask Momma how she paid for all those lessons.
A voice broke through my thoughts and completely derailed the memories.
“Miss Waunzie, have you ever met Kendall Jenner?”
“Come again?”
It was Ashley Burnett, a sweet creature who sat in the front row. Outside of a nasty overbite, and thank goodness for orthodontia, she showed real potential. Not like that horrible Brendon McWhirter.
“You know…Kendall Jenner,” she said. “She’s a Kardashian. But I guess she’s a lot younger than you.”
Then again, maybe the overbite was uncorrectable. Either way, this presentation was running off the rails, and it was my job to right it.
“Please hold your comments until the end.” I once more used my most benevolent tone. “We’ll never get through the information if you don’t.”
By the time the bell rang, the children were so excited, they jumped to their feet. No doubt inspired by my little talk to run off and achieve great things for themselves.
The rest of the day turned out to be spectacularly uneventful. I tidied my desk after the last class, flipped over the word-of-the-day calendar, and then I prepared to head home for the weekend.
Couldn’t help but check my reflection in the rearview mirror a time or two as I drove. At least I still had all my faculties, even with the scar. Not like that poor Tammy Thibodeaux, who ended up in assisted living with a crushed spinal cord.
Bless her heart.
By the time I reached the doublewide, night had fallen. I made a big, juicy salad for dinner with plenty of cucumbers and broccoli, since I still remembered most of my beauty tips from my modeling days.
Come morning, my skin glowed like someone who knows the power of vitamin K and a full night’s sleep. I carefully set the eight bottles in the Kustomized Mary Kay Kollection on the vanity while I waited for the tap water to warm. It’s important to modulate the temperature to avoid scalding one’s skin. Halfway through, the gol-darn telephone rang, but I ignored it, since I wasn’t about to ruin my routine for one ill-timed telephone call.
Once finished, I backcombed my hair to high heavens. It’s true what they said: The higher the hair, the closer to God. By the last stroke, I felt downright angelic. I carefully shimmied into a leopard-print blouse and kicky little twirl skirt I made from an old shower curtain. This time, I was ready for it when the blasted telephone rang again.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Waunzie. Why didn’t you pick up before?”
“Bernadette, I’m trying to get ready for the interview. Surely whatever you ever have to say to me can wait until I see you at the agency.”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling.” Apparently, she couldn’t tell from my tone that today wasn’t the right day for chitchat. Some people can be so thickheaded when it comes to dealing with others, I’ve found.
“Fine,” I said. “What’s so gol-darn important it couldn’t wait?”
“I thought you might want to drive over to the agency together. I figured it’d be better if you had someone with you. On account of the nerves, you know.”
I was about to inform her that I had my positive affirmations for that, but something about her offer made sense. I could even practice my deep-breathing exercises if I didn’t have to worry about stoplights and such.
“Hmm. You might be right. Okay, then. But please pick me up right away. We don’t want to be late.”
“Of course.” For some reason, she didn’t sound nearly as sunny now. Maybe it was because Miss Patty wanted to talk to me about modeling opportunities, whereas Bernadette got stuck answering telephones in the front office. I wouldn’t be surprised. Reminded me of all those times in high school when other girls talked ugly about the Tigerettes because we got all the attention at football games.
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” Bernadette said. She didn’t even wait for me to say good-bye before she hung up, which only proved my theory about the jealousy.
“That outfit sure is somethin’,” she said, as soon as she saw me.
Bernadette owned one of those new-fangled silver Volvos that beep at you for every little thing, and this one practically screamed at me to attach my seatbelt as soon as I slid onto the cushion.
“No need to use the belt,” she said. “You’re gonna crease that pretty silk blouse of yours.”
She tapped a button on the console and the beeping stopped. Maybe she was right. I had enough to worry about without wrinkles and such.
“Now, drive slowly,” I insisted. “I spent an hour with the backcomb this morning and I don’t want to ruin my hair.”
“Only one hour?” She gave me the side-eye as she drove. “Say, by any chance do you happen to remember what today is?”
“Today?” I wasn’t really listening, since I was more concerned with fixing my lipstick at the moment.
“Yes, today. Do you know what today is?”
“Hmm.” I tried to picture the word-of-the-day calendar on my desk at school, with no luck. “Can’t say as I do. What’s today?”
“Why, it’s the anniversary of the accident. The one with you and Tammy. It was exactly forty years ago.”
For some reason, she hung a left at the first stop sign, whereas she was supposed to turn right. I’ve taken this road often enough to know, since I cruised by my old stomping grounds every chance I got.
“What did you say, Bernie?”
“The accident. Today’s the anniversary.” Now Bernadette kept her gaze on the road and her foot on the gas petal. The car veered toward the freeway onramp, which made no sense at all.
“Bernie, you’re going the wrong way.” I craned my neck gently, so as not to smash the updo. “The agency’s back there.”
“Is it? Well, doctors said it’s finally time to let Tammy go. Said it would be kinder for us all to pull the plug. Forty years on a ventilator and they wait ‘til now to tell us that.”
The needle on the odometer wobbled to fifty. Then, fifty-five.
“Please slow down, Bernie. No need to rush.”
“Yessiree.” She had a far-off look in her eye that told me she was nowhere near the inside of the Volvo now. “You and my sister had that accident forty years ago. That’s a long time, Waunzie. A very long time.”
I swallowed hard. I guess I’ve should’ve sipped water while I worked through my beauty routine, because my throat scratched. “Today? Really? My, how time does fly. But you know it was an accident, Bernie. If that baby deer…”
“That ‘baby deer’ was a twelve-point buck,” she said. “Police officer said so. Said there’s no way you should’ve missed it.”
I cleared my throat, which wasn’t easy with the dryness and all. “You can’t blame me…”
“Your blood-alcohol level was point-one-nine. You’re lucky the jury felt sorry for you on account of your face or you’d have gone to jail.”
By this time, trees whizzed by the window in a never-ending loop. “But…but Miss Patty—”
“She doesn’t even know I called you.” Now Bernie sounded downright mean. “You’re fifty-seven years old, Waunzie. Did you really think she’d want you to model for her?”
I snuck a glance at the odometer, where the needle stretched to seventy. Seventy-five. If Bernadette didn’t slow down, she was going to get us both killed. My fingers trembled, but I managed to curl them around the door handle without her noticing. Or, so I thought.
“Oh, no.” She pointed to a button on the dash; the same one she’d clicked earlier. “Don’t you just love child-safety locks? Airbags, too. Course, there’s no telling what’ll happen with yours, since I already disabled the one on your side.”
It was the last thing I heard before the accident. The last thing before Bernie drove the car clean into a concrete barrier and everything went quiet. She disappeared into a pillow of white, while I sailed headfirst into the great unknown.
Wonder what I’d find on the other side?
Sandra Bretting is the author of a bestselling cozy mystery series that ran for five years with Kensington Publishing, as well as several standalone titles. A graduate of the University of Missouri School of Journalism, she began her career writing for the Los Angeles Times, Orange Coast Magazine, and others. From 2006 until 2016, she wrote feature stories for the award-winning business section of the Houston Chronicle.
