Chapter 1 - Stalling

Ask a toad what is beauty? ... a female with two great round eyes coming out of her little head, a large flat mouth, a yellow belly and a brown back. ~Voltaire

I selected a fresh daisy from the purple vase that sat in the corner of my window seat, and pushed aside the sheer curtain to gaze out over the back lawn and patio. I had a perfect view of the pool and grill area. Both were overflowing with people.

Music hummed and vibrated it's way through my window pane and seemed to land on my hands. The curtain settled back into place as I sat on the window seat and stared at my shaking hands. The daisy vibrated unnaturally. It was unsettling to look at so I let it fall to the carpet.

I would allow myself a moment.

But only a miniscule moment of panic.

Panic was fear. Weakness. Insecurity.

I was Rosalie Hale, after all. I showed no weakness, fear or insecurity.

I also tried to show no slouching, bloating or panty lines...but those were more for the sanity of my very own Mommy Dearest.

Chuckling to myself, I walked the few steps to my full length mirror. In a moment of rebellion, I cross my eyes, bend my knees a bit, hunch my shoulders, try to pooch out my tummy and snort like a little piggy a couple of times at my reflection. I fell on my bed in a fit of giggles, thinking how much my brothers would've loved to see that. Acting silly always seemed to relax the three of us. I knew they would be tense today. My parents are usually short with them when we something going on at the house.

With a sigh, I retrieved the daisy and sat down at my vanity table. I used a blond colored pin to hold a curl in place and tucked the daisy behind my ear. Then reapplied my glittery lip gloss.

Tilting my head I struck a pose, including a pinky in my nose, and nearly blinded myself with a perfectly straight, sparkling white smile. Enough silliness. Maybe mother had been correct when she said at sixteen I should've been acting more mature.

I wasn't stalling. I was told several times not to make an appearance until mother sent one of my brothers to let me know most of the guests had arrived. She was favorable of dramatic entrances. Still looking in the vanity mirror, I rolled my eyes. Correction, she was favorable of me making a dramatic entrance and favorable is an understatement.

So there I sat examining the positions of the small white triangles covering my boobs. I didn't mind showing skin. Competing in beauty pageants from the age of four didn't allow for modesty. However, I was seriously concerned about the twins making an uninvited appearance. I dug around in the drawer for double sided body tape; just one of the many products of necessity derived from competing regularly. I placed small strips of tape to the inside of the cups and positioned them a couple inches away from my cleavage on each side. When I had the placement just right, I shimmied and bounced on my seat. They remained covered.

With a firm look I pointed my finger at them in the mirror. "Stay."

I was a late bloomer; mother's words. I'm taller than average, at 5'9, and apparently taller girls "bloom" a bit later than girls of average or shorter height. It was as if I had a visit from the boob fairy. I went to bed not filling a small B cup and woke up the next morning popping out of a full C. Not really, but it happened fast. I could admit to being a bit self conscious at first.

However, I had always known I was beautiful. My parents and most adults had fawned and gushed over my looks for as long as I could remember.

Maybe it's unfair, but society favors the beautiful…and apparently the parents of the beautiful, as well.

My father considered any beauty maintenance an investment so I was often treated to the best spas and salons upstate New York had to offer. Not that we could afford such luxury. On the contrary, my parents were in debt up to their finely plucked eyebrows. However, it was usually me who received the country club invitations to help with fund raisers and of course, the pageant requests.

Being a minor my parents would accompany me to all events. My father probably earned half his salary by schmoozing businessmen and investors at the annual Rochester Beauty Pageants. Not to mention the state fair and local festival competitions.

Crowns and plaques were proudly displayed in our family room from competitions including Tiny Miss, Petite Junior, Little Miss Lafayette Apple, Junior Miss Harvest, Junior Miss Teen Rochester and the newest had been Miss Teen Rochester. The crowns sat in a lighted display case atop a blanket of white satin. Engravings were made on silver tags stating the details of each "victory", including the three second place plaques. In all honesty, I didn't mind competing; I loved it, actually. If there was anything about it that bothered me, it would have to be the display case. I hated the thing and I'm not even sure why.

My parents experienced sheer undiluted ecstasy when I was asked to ride in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

When asked if I would be riding a float or in a car my father answered, "Rosalie will be riding atop a new Red BMW Convertible. It was going to be a sweet 16 birthday surprise but her mother and I will give it to her a few months earlier than planned."

I squealed. A lot.

Now, somewhere in a very back corner of my mind I knew we couldn't afford that type of car and that absolutely no plans had been made for my birthday… However, the front of my mind, which was undoubtedly the more selfish location, decided that I deserved a ridiculously expensive car. Just for being me…obviously.

I would later find out that it was at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade that Royce King Jr. decided he wanted to know me.