Queen for a Night

This is a piece I wrote my sophomore year of college. I've always enjoyed it for its humor. Thought I'd share.

Out of twenty-six letters in the English alphabet, twenty-two appear in my full name, Elizabeth Anne Neiheisel. But nowhere is there a “p.” Every time I wrote an acrostic poem in elementary school, I was eccentric, zany, brainy, and nice, but I was never pretty. With each poem, I would consult the dictionary and thesaurus for additions to the list. Soon I was esoteric, zealous, brash, and naive. My teacher quickly banned my use of these resources, and restricted me to the narrow confines of a third-grade vocabulary. I told Mrs. Conrad she was being “d for despotic,” and stared across the room at Hope. She was pretty. I was not – at least, not in my mind.

I was, however, a tomboy. I wore my hair in braids and pigtails, refused to wear dresses except to church, wrestled with my brothers, tramped through the woods, burped at the dinner table, and refused to wear a bra until absolutely necessary. My mother berated me through my teens for hitting boys. Surveying my scarred legs, she would tease me that I had “ruined my career as a pantyhose model.” For my sixteenth birthday, she hauled me off to the nearest Clinique counter to buy make-up. I still have most of that original make-up in my drawers. In high school, the homecoming committee banned me from the sophomore powder puff football team after I nearly injured the star basketball player in powder puff practice and made her cry. As scholarship and admissions interviews rolled around, my parents pleaded with me to act more feminine. To this day, I loathe sitting with my legs crossed or wearing high heels.

My closest friends have always have been boys. They didn’t care if I painted my nails, wore my hair down or pinned up, or ever put on a skirt. Their acceptance and inclusion of me had nothing to do with appearance – until high school. Puberty hit, hormones raged, and suddenly I wasn’t as important a friend as I used to be. Chick flicks accompanied by the latest skinny cheerleader soon replaced Saturday night action-movie flicks with the guys. Conversations that formerly dealt with football soon turned to relationship problems. “Girls are all so difficult,” a friend lamented. “They spend so long doing their hair and getting dressed, they don’t want to do anything fun for fear of ruining the their outfit.”

“Not all girls,” I countered. “I never do that.”

My friend smiled knowingly and said, “You’re not a girl, you’re Liz.” The comment, intended as a compliment, told me the rules had changed. To be noticed required being feminine, being pretty. I had to prove I wasn’t just one of the guys.

During my junior year of high school, I dated my first serious boyfriend – the first of two in the past nineteen years. Mike rarely told me I looked pretty, even on those few occasions when we dressed up. He rarely noticed anything, though, especially my appearance. Before the night of the prom, I instructed Mike he was to arrive, knock on the door, and, when I answered, tell me I looked pretty. The scene went off according to script, and I smiled to pretend he really meant it.

During my final year of high school, I made a last ditch effort to “act like a girl.” Maybe then I could regain those friends I’d lost so long ago, and prove to them I was more than just one of the guys. I decided to enter the Miss FTS Pageant, an annual event at Fayetteville Terry Sanford High School. The pageant raised money through contestant sponsorships to pay for the junior/senior prom, and I figured the event, though a bit out of character, would be fun. I bought a dress, my first store-bought formal ever, and paraded to the seamstress to have it hemmed. Then I scooted down the main boulevard in town to the local Pic ’n Pay to order the required high heels, dyed to match the dress exactly. The dress cost over three hundred dollars, the shoes just twenty, and I thought I was going to die. Never had I imagined spending so much money on one night, on looking pretty. The law firm where I worked paid my sponsorship fee. The partners smiled, a bit surprised, as they wrote the check and wished me luck with my endeavor.

The night before the pageant, I tramped across our hardwood floors in my shiny purple shoes, twisting and contorting my ankles with every step. My mother yelled, “Quit walking like a boy!” while my sister borrowed my mother’s heels to demonstrate. I was seventeen, she was thirteen, and she walked like a professional. She taught me to turn, to gaze, and to stand, all skills I mistakenly assumed I had already mastered. After tripping on the metal strip between the carpet and hardwood, causing yet another bruise to be hidden by the long chiffon skirt, we sat down to practice for the question-and-answer session. Holding the bottom of her brush as a microphone, Laura asked, “If crowned Miss FTS, how will you serve your school?” I responded in a calm, even tone, “If crowned Miss FTS, I promise to get rid of the incompetent idiot who currently holds the position of principal in this fine institution, and replace him with someone who has a clue as to how to run a school. Thank you!” My mother sighed, my father laughed, and Laura pulled me off the couch to return to practicing my walk.

The following afternoon, after a full bottle of hairspray, a case of bobby pins, and an inch of make-up at the beautician’s, I readied myself for the night ahead. Returning home, I unveiled the purple-sequined gown from its dry-cleaning cover and put it on. I zipped it up, stepped into the matching shoes, and groaned as I realized the gown was still two inches too long. The seamstress had failed to hem it short enough. My mother, a seamstress herself, was furious, and told me to hold my shoulders high and try not to rip the skirt. I obeyed and steadied myself down the stairs to the garage.

I arrived at the school in high spirits, carrying my skirt in one hand and balancing myself with the other. The band room, the “holding pen” for contestants, was filled with girls in breezy, colorful gowns. I surveyed the room and released an inward groan. Girls ran around fretting over their starched hair, adding more hairspray to the already immovable mass situated on top of their heads. They clipped, tucked, dabbed, and blotted, then wished each other luck. Never in my life had I seen so much Vaseline – smeared on the teeth for that sparkling smile – or insincerity. The room looked like the backstage of a Westminster poodle-breeding contest. We even had numbers pinned on our fancy dresses to identify us. All that was missing was a leash to lead us onto the stage. I took a seat and looked again for a friendly face. A friend from church and school had just arrived, Christina Cronrath. She looked gorgeous and was in great spirits. Everyone stopped her and told her how wonderful she looked. Why hadn’t anyone told me that, I wondered.

The evening played out as expected – horridly. I considered running on stage, mooning the crowd, and making a spectacle of myself (as if I hadn’t already). My better judgement overcame me, though the results would probably have been the same. Not only did I miss the coveted crown, I missed the first cuts. Waiting backstage, a girl on the yearbook staff took a picture of me, my elbows on my knees and my fists beneath my chin, pouting profusely. I glared.

My loyal supporters – mom, dad, and little sister – were waiting outside to greet me when I emerged. My eyes surveyed the scene before me – beaming faces, a boquet of flowers chosen to match my dress – and then began to cloud. As is the case with all women in my family, high levels of stress and distress invariably end in tears. So I cried. The mascara so neatly applied just hours before ran down my checks and collided with the pink blush. My parents herded me to the parking lot to avoid stares. My mother put her arm around my shoulder and whispered, “I understand.” My father did not – there were no visible wounds, after all – but did his best to be supportive. We climbed into the family van and headed home.

At the time, even I did not understand why I cried. The pageant was a joke after all, wasn’t it? Now I know. That night I shed the world’s preconceived notion of me, the notion that I just wanted to be smart and athletic and one of the guys. That night I wanted to feel pretty, to remind those guys that I was in fact female. I wanted to punish them for turning on me just when I needed them most. I wanted to punish the girls who had stolen my friends from me. Yet oddly, at the same time, I sought these girls’ approval. I had imagined walking into the room and, in an instant, capturing everyone’s attention and admiration. “The diamond in the rough,” they would call me. That night I had expectations, and those expectations were never achieved. My tears were tears not of defeat, but of disappointment.

Since that night, I have avoided fancy dresses and beauty parlors. Denim overalls, t-shirts, and tennis shoes constitute my favorite outfit, complemented by a neat ponytail and a matching bow, my one indulgence in vanity. I’ve met another guy since Mike, and this one notices me. He tells me I’m beautiful, and I know he means it. So do my parents. They tell me I have a beautiful spirit, beautiful attitude, and beautiful smile. “B is for beautiful,” and there is a “b” in Elizabeth.