The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly in the worn-out dressing room. The air was thick with the scent of hairspray, sweat, and desperation — a true cocktail of beauty pageant essentials. Patty Bladell sat at the long mirror, her reflection glaring back at her with that familiar mix of determination and anxiety. Her curls were too tight, her lipstick a little too red, but Bob Armstrong stood behind her, smoothing down her shoulders like a seasoned trainer prepping a fighter before a match.
"Alright, sweetheart," Bob cooed. "Deep breath. You got this. Just remember, it's not about winning."
Patty's brows furrowed. "It's not?"
"Well, it is," Bob corrected. "But it's also about controlling your impulses." He adjusted her sash with a firm tug. "You need to prove to yourself that you can handle pressure without… well, you know."
Patty sighed. She knew exactly what Bob meant. Not eating. Not bingeing. Not snapping and decking someone across the face when they inevitably pissed her off — like the last time she competed in a pageant. Bob was trying to turn her life into a story of redemption, a Phoenix-rising-from-the-ashes kind of thing.
"I don't know why I'm doing this," Patty mumbled. "I'm not even prepared."
"Sweetheart, you don't need preparation," Bob smiled, his teeth practically glowing under the vanity lights. "You have the story. The tragedy. The drama."
Patty's gaze shifted to her reflection. Bob wasn't wrong. Her weight loss journey was an entire narrative arc — a dark, twisted, trauma-filled Oscar bait of a backstory. If this were a reality show, the producers would already be editing her sad violin montage.
"Besides," Bob's smile sharpened. "This will show everyone how far you've come. How much you've changed."
Patty bit her lip, conflicted — until the door to the dressing room flew open. A gust of cold air swept in, followed by a screech of indignation.
"Oh. My. God."
Patty tensed as the sound of designer heels clicking on linoleum echoed behind her. In the mirror, a figure stepped into frame — a cascade of jet-black hair, perfect eyeliner, and an expression dripping with condescension.
"Why are you here?"
Dixie Choi.
Patty's stomach dropped. Dixie was dressed like a Barbie in battle armor — a custom lavender ball gown that managed to be elegant and slutty at the same time. A small tiara sat on her perfectly curled hair, reminding everyone that Dixie was the reigning queen of the pageant. And based on the way her eyes narrowed at Patty, it was clear that Dixie viewed her as a direct threat.
"I could ask you the same thing," Patty snapped, rising from her chair. "This isn't your pageant."
Dixie gasped, clutching her pearls like the Southern debutante she was raised to be. "Excuse you — this is literally my pageant. I won last year, babe. That makes it mine."
"You don't own it," Patty shot back.
Dixie smirked. "Oh, honey." She leaned in so close Patty could smell her Dior lip gloss. "I don't have to own it. I am it."
Bob's hand landed firmly on Patty's shoulder. "Not now," he whispered in her ear. "Save it for the stage."
Patty's eyes narrowed. "Oh, don't worry. I will."
Dixie flicked her hair over her shoulder and strutted toward the exit. But before she left, she paused, twisting toward Patty with a syrupy smile.
"Good luck out there, babe," Dixie said sweetly. "You're gonna need it."
The auditorium was packed. Rows of overdressed mothers and over-invested fathers lined the seats, clutching Playbills and iPhones, ready to document their daughters' rise to glory — or their public humiliation. The stage was lit like a Hollywood premiere, and Patty stood in the wings, heart hammering in her chest.
"You okay?" Bob asked, standing beside her.
"Nope."
"Perfect." Bob beamed. "That means you're ready."
The first round was the interview. The contestants sat in tall white chairs on stage while the judges fired off questions. Dixie was already seated at the far end of the stage, smiling smugly at the audience.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Patty Bladell!"
Patty walked onto the stage, plastering on her best pageant smile as she took a seat. The interviewer — a balding man with square glasses — adjusted his microphone.
"So, Patty," he began, "tell us about your journey to this pageant."
Patty's chest tightened. She could feel Dixie's eyes drilling into her skull from across the stage. But Bob's words echoed in her head: Use your story.
Patty took a deep breath and smiled. "Well… a year ago, I wasn't exactly in the best place. I was overweight. I hated myself. I felt invisible." Her voice trembled just enough to seem sincere. "And then… I decided to take control of my life. I started eating healthier. I worked out. I stopped letting people define me. And now, I'm here."
The audience aww-ed softly. One woman wiped a tear. Even the judges leaned in, hooked on the emotional bait.
Patty's gaze flicked toward Dixie, who was staring blankly at her nails.
"Wow," the interviewer said. "That's an incredible story. So, Patty, would you say that this transformation was—"
"Babe," Dixie's voice cut across the stage. "Crying doesn't make you interesting."
The audience collectively inhaled. Patty's head snapped toward Dixie, who smiled sweetly.
"It makes you weak," Dixie finished, adjusting her tiara.
Patty's smile vanished.
"Don't let her get in your head," Bob's voice whispered from the wings.
"She won't," Patty muttered under her breath.
Dixie tilted her head. "Sorry, am I not allowed to comment? I just think it's a little pathetic, don't you? Turning your personal trauma into a pity parade?"
Patty's eyes flashed dangerously. "What's pathetic is how seriously you take a beauty pageant."
Dixie's eyes narrowed. "Oh, sweetie. The only thing worse than taking it seriously… is losing it."
Patty's teeth clenched. "Well, you better pray that doesn't happen."
"Or what?" Dixie's smile sharpened. "You gonna eat me?"
Patty's nails curled into her palms.
Bob's hand touched her arm. "Breathe," he hissed.
Dixie flipped her hair over her shoulder. "I mean, it's kind of funny, right? You're up here talking about how you've 'changed.' But deep down, you're still the same pathetic little loser who tried to burn me alive last year."
Patty's smile froze.
Bob's hand tightened.
"Oops," Dixie purred. "Did I say that out loud?"
Patty's vision blurred. Her whole body was vibrating. Somewhere, Bob was telling her to calm down — but all Patty could think about was Dixie's smug face, her smug voice, her smug tiara —
Patty smiled. And then she said, sweetly:
"Actually, you're right. I am the same girl."
Dixie's brow lifted.
"The difference is," Patty added, "this year? I'm going to win."
Dixie's smile flickered — just enough for Patty to know she'd scored the first hit.
Patty turned back to the judges with a flawless smile. "Thank you for your time."
The audience exploded into applause as Patty walked off the stage. Dixie sat frozen in her chair, her smile twisted in a dangerous sneer.
Bob was waiting in the wings. He grinned proudly. "Now that was pageant strategy."
Patty's smile sharpened.
"Oh," she said, "we're just getting started."