Imperfections by Bradley Somer Read Free Book Online Page A

other hopeful little gentlemen in the Little Mister Beef Cattle Pageant. Mother, dressed delicately in anxiety, had an open and hopeful look on her face.  
    I hadn’t seen her take a pill in a week.
    I didn’t remember having ever seen that look on her face.
    In the past week, she had read three Dr. Sloane books. It seemed she was always reading his books.
    The pageant started fifteen minutes ago with the first pairs of kids disappearing through the canvas onto stage. None of them came back. My stomach knotted each time two new contestants were called.
    The Little Misses competing for the Little Miss Beef Cattle crown were on the other side of a splintery corral fence being subjected to last-minute preening and being fussed over by grown-ups. Sheets of fabric had been draped over the fence, seemingly at random, in order to offer a little privacy to both sides. The fencing led from the corrals to the split in the fabric that shielded us from the stage.
    â€œLittle Mister Forty-Seven and Little Miss Sixty-Two, please report to the stage,” the call came over the PA.
    â€œThat’s you,” Mother squealed.
    My stomach flipped.
    Mother pushed her way through the crowd to the back side of the stage, dragging me behind.
    I was next. I stood beside a little girl in a striped dress that made her look like a bee. Each Little Mister was paired with a Little Miss for their walk across the stage.  
    From our vantage, through an opening in the backdrop, we could see another nervous Little Mister and Little Miss stomp across the plywood stage. They barely interacted. The Little Mister rushed from one end of the stage to the other, missing the part where you are supposed to face the crowd, smile and wave while the announcer in the auctioneer’s booth read bits about your life from a questionnaire that was submitted with the entry fee. The Little Miss stood alone, front and centre stage, her eyes wide open and her hands clenched into fists by her sides.
    â€œLittle Miss Paige Green’s favourite classes include Art and Drama. She enjoys painting portraits of her dog, Princess, and wants to be an actress or dressmaker when she grows up,” the tinny voice of the announcer squeaked though the speakers.
    Paige glanced over her shoulder to see her Little Mister disappear stage right and she smiled like a terrified monkey. She grimaced to the audience and hurried off the stage.
    â€œOur next stunning couple,” the PA squealed for a moment, “is Little Miss Abigail Spencer and Little Mister Richard Trench.”
    Four judges were positioned in front of the stage at a folding table draped in a white plastic tablecloth. Three women in ball gowns and one gentleman in a suit sweated elegantly onto plastic folding chairs. They made quick notes after brief scrutiny of each contestant. Those chosen from this first round moved on to the talent portion. The winner was crowned after that.
    I was not paying attention; I had been watching the judges. Mother shoved me onto the stage, already two steps behind the giant bee. A hollow mix of Kenny Loggins’ “Footloose” and the announcer’s commentary blared over the PA system, keeping a beat that confused the Bee. I caught up to her, my heart racing two beats for each step I took. I made it work; I walked naturally, recovered the distance between us gracefully. The Bee and I stopped at the front of the stage, smiled and waved. I put my arm around the Bee’s waist and she put her arm around my shoulder.
    The crowd, dimmed by the spotlights aimed at the stage, was a bumpy silhouette against the red and white canvas stripes. The heat under the spotlights was intense. I thought to look for Father but worried that I would lose my concentration. I was even more worried that I would find a disappointed look on his face were I to spot him.
    The judges scribbled on their notepads.
    The Bee and I looked at each other and nodded: a consensus was reached.