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Diego that she could be whatever he wanted. Because when she found the note, she realized that he didn’t think her pure, did not think he had her virginity, did not think her a girl who’d first-runnered-up pageant after pageant by her own merit. But that he’d known all along that she was a fraud. And he’d loved her a fraud, when she’d thought she’d had him loving her pure. Thinking that his love made her pure, because he said he loved her as if she was like the Virgin Mary herself. Anyway.
    Well, you saw it. She won. She’d sung for the talent competition something about God, and our people love that. And for the historical segment she’d been the bridge, the thing to connect us; friends to family. While the other girls wore masks of famed teachers and religious leaders on all sides of their heads or boxes of the legislature building around their waists, the judges and the audience thought Guadeloupe was so innovative to bring the present into such significance by making it history. In the question and answer portion she talked about connectivity, diversity in unity. Despite her light skin, despite the obviousness that more of her ancestors had owned slaves than had been them, how could she lose? We’re open like that. We like to know that people love us; we don’t care how they look.
    She’d competed without aid in pageants before. First with Carlos McEntire, when they’d been Carnival Prince and Princess. You remember that? Then in middle school she’d been Miss Junior May Fair Queen. Who could forget that one? She mimed for her talent. She was good, too. But then winning became serious, the prizes became substantial. She’d done what was needed to place first runner-up in Miss Talented Teen, Queen of the Band, Miss Parks and Recreation, Lady Alpha. Incantations, meditations, all kinds of tations to win, to not lose. She competed in things she didn’t even qualify for, like Mistress of Housing, though she didn’t even live in the projects. And now she’d won Miss Emancipation. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t prepared, like, her whole life. All the singing lessons, and the walking lessons: until she figured out that learning to walk and learning to sing were the same. (Both required breathing and a straight back and hands clasped before the torso. Like so. She could tell a singer by the sway in the hips, though if you ask me you can tell a slut by the same thing.) Finally, she’d won all by herself.
    They sat the skimpy little tiara on her head and her first walk as Miss Emancipation was announced. Her blue gown was covered in sequin stars and she really looked good, as if she was a piece of the sky. Her arms shimmered with the glitter her chaperone had applied carefully before releasing her to the formal gown segment. Strutting down the catwalk she was only aware of herself. The spotlight does that. It blinds you, you know. So bright she couldn’t see the audience, not even Juan Diego, in the front beside her mother. Both of them looking at her so proudly. She could only clutch the red roses tight in her hands, letting the few thorns prick her fingers but not the delicate dress. She felt her chest swell with heat while the darkened faces below smiled—well, they seemed to smile.
    Backstage, the other girls congratulated her stiffly, their lips not touching her face at all. And somehow winning without seducing a judge or casting obeah on the other contestants still felt fraudulent. Maybe, like being a fraud might be her true self? She got kinda crazy thinking about that then. She took off her heels in the changing room and put on her sneakers, still in the panty hose and sequined dress. And she ran. No joke. The people parted as she ran by because no one recognized her without her tiara on. She ran to the last place she should have. The Bridge. She had no food and no water but wanted to make it to the other side. She didn’t know how long it would take. She didn’t know why she chose this as a