“But you, Lila,” she’d say to me at night, as she tucked me in after making me recite my prayers, “are American. There’s no limit to what you can accomplish here. You can be so much more. And I know how to get you there.” These memories of my mother always stirred up something uncomfortable in me, both tender and resentful.
She’d been gone so long that I sometimes forgot what she looked like. The sound of her voice. The feel of her hand stroking my hair. The warmth of her smile when I won another competition. Yet all the memories I didn’t want to keep stayed, jagged pieces lodged into my brain and heart. The rivalry she constantly stoked between me and Bernadette. Her blind faith in the lie that was the American Dream. The narrow way she defined beauty, and her belief in its power. Her desire to mold me into whoever she thought she should’ve been—and my yearning yet constant failure to be the girl she wanted me to be.
I shook my head. It didn’t have to be that way. I wasn’t a kid anymore, my mom was gone, and Bernadette and I were friends. Joining—and winning—the pageant as a teen had been more about using the scholarship to get out of Shady Palms than anything to do with my mom. Just like back then, I needed to stay focused on my goals and away from the drama of that world. This pageant had no power over me. I repeated that last statement over and over to myself like a mantra as I drove to the community center, but it took two more turon before I started to believe it.
* * *
? ? ?
The Shady Palms Community Center was newly renovated, one of the pet projects of the illustrious Thompson family, and housed a swimming pool, basketball court, gym, craft room, meeting rooms, a party room, and an auditorium. This last room was where the pageant committee was meeting. It was also where we’d hold the majority of the contest, with the big final event taking place at the town square’s Main Stage on Founder’s Day.
I arrived right on time, a first for me, but everyone else had already assembled. William Acevedo, the head of the chamber of commerce, was in conversation with a tall White woman, who was dressed like she was about to go hiking and looked to be in her mid-to late fifties. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her. A few paces away from them were Rob Thompson and Mayor Gunderson, both of them laughing it up like two good ol’ boys, dressed in matching outfits of crisp, tucked-in white button-down shirts, slacks, and navy blazers. A gorgeous Black woman I’d never seen before kept an eye on the proceedings from a distance. She was also turned out in business casual attire, but her blazer was a shade of coral I’d never wear （dark color palettes were more my thing） that glowed against her lovely dark skin. She’d paired it with form-fitting capris, and her matching suede open-toed booties completed the look.
Mr. Acevedo noticed me coming down the aisle and waved me over. “Lila! So glad you could make it!”
The mayor flashed his campaign smile and made his way forward with his hand out as if for a handshake. He must’ve realized that was impossible since my hands were full, and smoothly changed his gesture to seem like he was helping me with the tray.
“How lovely! Did you bring us a treat from your restaurant? It’ll be nice to have something decent to eat during these meetings. For once,” he added under his breath. A small table near the stage held a couple of carafes as well as a fruit salad and a box of donuts.
“Oh? It looks like there’s plenty of food for a group this small,” I said, as he set down the tray and pulled back the foil. “My grandmother’s special turon, fried shortly before I got here. The spring rolls are stuffed with saba banana and a strip of jackfruit.”
I waited until everyone had helped themselves, then grabbed a paper plate and piled a bit of fruit salad on it, as well as a chocolate cake donut and another piece of turon. I’d had more than my share already, but I couldn’t help myself—the crisp, sweet coating and firm-yet-creamy inside were wonderful. The donut, in contrast, was not quite so wonderful. Dry, with an odd, crumbly texture and not a bit of chew. I tried to set it aside discreetly, but the mayor noticed and laughed. “See what I mean? Valerie brings those things to every meeting and she’s the only one who’ll eat them.”
Valerie, the woman who’d been talking to the head of the chamber of commerce, lifted her chin. “Well, I’m sorry that my gluten ataxia is so trying for you, Mayor Gunderson.” It was then that I noticed the mobility device propped up against the stage next to her. She turned her gaze to me. “I’m Valerie Thompson. Lovely to meet you, Lila.”