At the moment, I hated my mom. No, I absolutely despised her. She had announced a trip to the largest bigender beauty pageant in the world, given my five minutes to pack, then practically dragged me outside to a limo that the pageant had sent, gave me a hug, said goodbye, shoved me in the limo, shut the door, and waved me off, like she was excited to see me go. She very well might have been, though probably not because she didn’t want me at the house, but because she wanted me at the pageant. She would never admit to it though.

  At least the limo was nice. I would have hated to show up to the event in a beat up jeep. That was one bright spot, though that was dimmed by the thought that if there was a crowd, I would be in front of them in my jogging clothes, a get up designed to be helpful, not to look good. That was a trivial worry compared to what I was soon going to face, but at the time, showing up in front of the reporters for some of the biggest newspapers in less than my best was my ultimate demise. Though in my defense, that would be the same thought for a lot of other people as well.

  They had a mini bar in the limo, but as I was under my parents very strict drinking age, and never planned to drink alcohol at all anyways, I drank sparkling water instead as I contemplated how I was going to respond to this startling turn of events, and how I was going to meet my mom when I returned home. I thought up a few ways of getting revenge, none of which I was actually planning on carrying out, except possibly signing my mom up next time. She was pretty enough that she could hold her own in a pageant if she wanted to.

  As I was pondering the fictional fate of my mom, the driver of the limo spoke up. ”So, you're planning to set the record for youngest entree to make it in The Starlight Beauty Pageant, eh?” That brought me back to the present real quick. I had no idea that I was the youngest ever to enter.

  “Wasn’t there a 14 year old that entered? Near the beginning of the pageant's history?” I remembered hearing about it back when my parents were originally planning on putting me out in public. It had surprised me that anyone would want to do that at such a young age.

  “Yea, she entered, but she didn’t make it past the auditions, therefore she didn’t make the record beyond public memories. I said you would set the record for youngest to make it.” That gave me hope. If there were auditions, maybe I wouldn’t have to participate. Due to unconscious and constant self-deprecation, I was sure that I wouldn’t make it past them.

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  “There are auditions, you say?” was my hopeful response.

  “Yeah, and they have the lowest acceptance of any public audition out there. But I’m sure they won't be a problem for you.” I thanked him for the indirect compliment, but I withheld my desire for them to be difficult, so I wouldn’t have to participate in it at all. Out of courtesy I asked him for his name, and he said to call him Mykle. I gave him my name, and then zoned out, pondering whether or not I should actually try to get myself kicked out of the pageant.

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  I seemed to be having a streak of luck, because before I had to go show up at the entrance for a public arrival, they took me in privately so I could prepare for it, sparing me the humiliation of arriving in the state I was in. Using the pageants extensive supplies, I was able to prepare to what I worried would only just be enough. I wasn’t yet sure whether or not I actually wanted to do it, but I figured I might as well go along with it for now.

  After I was done, I was introduced to my mentor, who would guide me through the behind the screens process of the pageant. She was a former winner, they all were, and they always have been since there has been enough. At the beginning, the creators mentored. The entrance was actually going to be really easy. They would sneak me out the back, drive out a bit in an inconspicuous car, switch cars, and then drive up, when and where the reporters suspected I would appear.

  They said they had some incognito reporters for all the biggest news stations and papers. This was so the participants could prepare, and to make the reporters feel good about themselves for getting it right. So it was a win-win situation, and we were both happy.

  The plan was to drive me up to the entrance in this really nice limo, and I would saunter down the red carpet, with an uncaring attitude, ignoring the reporters, and maybe throw some smiles or grins, and slip through the tinted doors that would already be open, wave goodbye, and then the doors would close, and I would be done. Really quick, and really easy. At least it was supposed to be. It went well right until the doors opened.

  The limo was nice, though some makeup artists and fashion stylists were fussing over me until I had to go out the door. They were as nervous as I was. I stepped out the door, not tripping, thank goodness, and started down the carpet. I smiled, and did everything I was supposed to, and gained some courage because of how well I was doing. When I reached the doors, I turned around to wave, and that was when it happened. Practically the moment the doors left my sight, they exploded open, and a wave of fire burst out from the doors, in a storm of devouring flame.