Don wanted nothing more than a quiet, peaceful weekend. Maybe a little studying, a little video gaming, a trip to the bowling alley. But, really, what did he expect? It was April. Of course it’d never happen.

There she was, sobbing again, for the second time that morning. Deadline. He couldn’t stand it, really. But he hated to see her cry, and he didn’t know whether to tear that damn gown on the hanger to pieces or comfort her. Curled up on her purple fleece blanket and hugging her pillow, she looked like a little girl. And, God, he couldn’t stand this. Her make-up was draining away and he could see the freckles they shared once more, not that she’d ever let them show for long.

“Hey, Julie, hey…” He tried, coming closer, playing the big-brother-role he’d grown into long before. “The fuckin’ dress is peach, alright? Under those lights, you’d look like a blowfish or somethin’. You did good, okay?” Her sobbing began to slow, and he tried not to roll his eyes. “Mom ain’t the one goin’ on stage, is she? She shouldn’t be tellin’ you what to wear, anyway.”

“Yeah.” She sniffed, indelicately rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. “Yeah, I know.”

“She’s just bein’ bitchy ‘cause she’s nervous.” Kneading the flesh of her shoulder, he sighed. “Typical Pag-”

“Peach Dress, Julia! I Mean It!” Their mother’s riotous voice bellowed up the stairwell. “You’re Not Wearing That Teal Thing!”

Sitting up immediately, rail-thin form twisting into an over-crouched pose that Don thought he’d remembered from some old issue of National Geographic. Wiping her eyes with a loud sniff, she yelled back almost immediately, skin glowing scarlet with rage. “Yes I Am! You Can’t Stop Me!”

“You’ll Look Terrible On Stage!”

“WILL NOT!” Wincing, Don stepped back, covering his ears. Absolutely Typical…

The O’Keefe household was always a phenomenon during pageant week. The last three days before the show, mother and daughter alike were wound up so tight, they were almost ready to murder each other. Mother O’Keefe would hound her daughter, telling her to practice her vocals, try on this outfit or that, remember her walk, wave, and smile. Daughter O’Keefe would agonize over interview questions, reviewing her entire résumé to make sure she knew everything and anything the judges could ask her, and snap, cry, and scream at her mother, within varying intervals. And, of course, Father and Son O’Keefe would watch dumbly, carry things, and try to dodge the flying pheromones.

Don wished Freud was alive to see this.

“I’m Packing The Peach!”

“No You’re Not!” His sister leaped off the bed, tearing the peach monstrosity off the hanger and whipping it into her arms. Her hair swung out of its poorly practiced chignon as she stormed out the door.

Once she was gone, he finally sat down on her bed, taking a quick, unstable breath. One of these days his mother would say the wrong thing about the wrong dress, and Julie would start throwing china. Of course, he wasn’t an expert on the art of pageantry, but that peach fluff-ball would swallow her whole if she was forced into it for the show. No judge would give her anything above a six with a dress like that, even if she got the walk perfect. Hell, she wasn’t in the teen division anymore.

Her First Miss… Shaking his head, he lifted the month old issue of Pageantry from her bureau and began flipping through. It was one of those transitions every pageant devotee would have to go through, just to prove themselves worth it. The transition from Teen to Miss was the difference between fluffy puff-ball gowns and sexy, curve-hugging dresses. The difference between being recognized as a sweet little girl, and being seen as a sophisticated woman. And while Julia said she was ready, her behavior was proving otherwise.

His hands stopped on the well-fingered page their mother had shown every family member and friend she could get her hands on. He and Julie, taking the stairs step-by-cautious-step as he escorted her to the floor, spotlight blinding the camera as it bounced off every rhinestone on her gown. Smiling, she waved at the crowd, and he remembered the way they cheered for her as she glided to her place. She looked like a carrot-curled angel in white, and it took the audience a moment to stop gawking and start clapping. She was graceful, beautiful, and every bit as perfect as she looked.

She took third runner-up that month.

He heard her flip-flops hit the stairs as she stomped back into the room, slamming the door and throwing the peach dress in a wrinkled heap. Sounding positively indignant, she completed the drama with a spirited kick, smashing the pathetic ball-of-a-dress into the wall.

“I Hate Her!” She hissed, glaring at the dress as if its sequins were spawned from the very depths of Hell.

I noticed… Gulping timidly, he wondered if he should even try to console her. “Sis, listen…” He stopped, not sure what would make her calm down. Short of horse tranquilizer, that is.

“I’m not wearing this dress. I’m Not!”

“Just cool it, okay? It’s a stupid dress, no reason to scream your head off-”

“If I wear this dress, I’ll look like an Orange Rhino!”

“Yeah, yeah. With red hair.” He quipped, trying to lighten the conversation. No Dice.

“Oh My God!” She wailed, throwing herself onto her bed next to him. Trying to remind himself that this was still his sister, he patted her back and hoped she wouldn’t start crying again. “And Priscilla’s gonna compete! What the Hell am I gonna do?!”

Fuck… Brushing her loose hair over her shoulder, Don tried not to flinch as he heard the name. With the business slowly dwindling, pageantry had become a small community, to the point where everybody knew everybody. And everybody knew Priscilla Middleton.

In every issue of Pageantry since age fifteen, Middleton had immediately hooked herself up with Ron Jerard, the ‘It’ Coach of the industry, and taken the title of Miss Teen Bucks County. Since then, she’d made a career out of placing at least first runner-up in every competition in the tri-state area. By the time she won the New Jersey title, most other competitors would back out at mention of her name.

Sighing, he turned the issue to the cover as he tried to console his sister, and stared at the woman gracing it with distaste. Shining teeth and high rhinestone crown, manicured nails and salon-styled hair brown hair, tan darkening her already Southern Italian skin. Priscilla was the perfect picture of what everyone thought this business was all about.

“I just don’t understand how I’m supposed to do this with mom hanging over my shoulder!” She cried, curling against his back.

“Don’t worry about mom, alright?” He grinned down at her, that big-brotherly grin that always took care of everything. “I’ll distract her. You just make sure you know your stuff.”

“Oh God!” She jumped up immediately. “My interview packet is downstairs with mom!”

“I’ll get it.” Offering was as good as saving her life. Standing, Don rolled his shoulders back and stretched. “You look like a goth, by the way.”

“Shut up!” She giggled, trying to wipe the damp eyeliner away.

“A really pathetic one, too.” Laughing, he was about to throw the magazine aside when a small brightness caught his eye. Some kind of blue… There. In the edge of the shot. A stiff young man, dressed in a crisp blue suit and holding her hand with an odd tenderness Don had never seen. As though her entire arm was limp, and he was trying to make her fingers move. The connection was more awkward than affection, and he stared even harder, trying to place a name with the face. His eyes were wide and brown, skin a bit lighter than Priscilla’s, and hair in jet black curls that looked straight out of a 1950’s movie.

“Hey, Julie,” He asked his sister, already less than happy with this clown. Anyone associated with Priscilla was probably toxic to humanity. “This her cousin or something?” Pointing at the picture, he waited for a response.

“Boyfriend.” She sighed, staring at the picture. “Name’s Aaron. He goes to Temple with her. They’re supposedly engaged, but I don’t see a ring. Do you?”

Throwing the magazine on her pillow, Don gave up on the conversation immediately. “Whatever. Look, I’m going to get your interview file, and you’re going to repay me with…?”

“Much sisterly affection?” She offered, looking at him with eyes that would’ve worked him over, had he not taught them to her in the first place.

“I’m twenty years old, Julie. Nice try.” He winked, turning his back on her laughter. “You’ll make it up to me at Thunderbird Lanes tonight. How’s that?”

“Fine.” She pouted. But he was already downstairs.

Yes, Ladies and Gents. I'm back, and I'm going to try to keep it that way.

I suppose I owe you all an explanation, but I can't say much except 'SORRY!' to all of you. I missed FP, but due to a lack of drive, creativity, and time... Well, I kind of... ((sweatdrop))

Anyway, hope you havent forgotten about me by now. It sucks when I'm not writing, so... I'll try to get the next part out soon.