The Folding Chairs Behind the Curtain

My sister Jazzy was a beauty queen.

Not in theory. Not in personality. In actual sashes and trophies.

There were always curling irons plugged in somewhere. Aqua Net hanging in the air like humidity. Sequins catching light from the kitchen fixture. My mother crouched with safety pins in her mouth, adjusting something that had already been adjusted twice.

I knew where to stand.

Behind.

Behind the curtain at the VFW hall. Behind the folding chairs. Behind the other moms who clapped louder than anyone else.

Jazzy walked across stages in shiny shoes. She smiled like it didn’t hurt. She waved like she’d practiced it in the mirror.

Maybe she had.

I don’t remember wanting to be on stage.

I remember studying it.

The judges at the long table.
The other girls’ dresses — pastel, ruffled, loud.
The way applause sounds different when it belongs to you.

There’s a rhythm to pageants. Introductions. Talent. Question. Smile. Crown.

Even as a child, I understood something important:

There is a script.

And everyone follows it.

The girls who won weren’t always the prettiest. They were the most polished. The ones who knew how to answer without saying anything too real.

I learned early that there are places in life where you perform.

And places where you observe.

I was better at observing.

I noticed how nervous Jazzy’s hands were before she walked out. How she’d exhale once she crossed backstage again. How trophies are heavier than they look when you carry three at once.

Jory was athletic. Jazzy was crowned. I was… there.

I don’t mean that in a sad way.

Just factually.

I sat in metal chairs and swung my legs and wondered how some people seem to know exactly how to stand under lights.

I also wondered what happens when the lights go off.

We moved a lot — Virginia to Kansas to Louisiana to Texas. Each new town had a new stage. New teachers. New hallways. New ways to introduce yourself.

Watching pageants prepared me.

I learned posture without trying.
I learned how to read rooms.
I learned that applause fades fast.

I also learned something else.

The crown isn’t the story.

The girl carrying it is.

And I’ve always been more interested in who people are when no one is clapping.