Pass Me My Tiara

Sophomore year of high school is always an awkward year, but I believe that my year was more awkward than most. I’ve mentioned before that I never won the popularity contests as Inchelium, and my 10th grade year of school had its ups and downs for sure.

I had plenty of braces and zero sense of fashion. While other girls were busy doing their hair and wearing the latest trendy clothes, I’d show up to school with my bangs pinned to one side and some non-descript outfit from the closet. Obtaining fame as a fashionista was definitely out of the question.

Obtaining fame as a talented ball player was out of the question too. We had athletes in our school, skilled athletes that made the rest of our league’s best players look like a bunch of playground goobs. Unfortunately for me, I was not one of our school’s famed jocks.

I truly believe that everyone’s estimate of my athletic abilities was determined when (in the winter of my Sophomore year) I dribbled a basketball at break-neck speed from one end of the court to the other and made a fabulously stylish basket…in the wrong hoop. I didn’t realize that I had just scored for the other team until AFTER I did a little enthusiastic fist pump and dance of joy right there on the court. It felt so good to score, and so terrible to find out that I not only just added two points to the opposing team’s score but I also made a complete fool out of myself in front of my own hometown crowd.

Finally, seasons changed from Basketball to Spring and the school carnival loomed on the calendar. It was my classes’ turn to vote for who they wanted running for the famed Inchelium Carnival King and Queen position. I seriously don’t even really know what happened that day because somehow I was selected to run for queen with the uber-popular David Tonasket running for King. When it was announced that I, the epitome of awkwardness, was to try to win the title, my legs nearly gave out and I am pretty sure I had to go home early.

Weeks passed and I sold raffle tickets like hotcakes. (The couple who sells the most tickets wins the title). David sold tickets too, and if I remember correctly, I think his Mom did some selling as well (legit, I promise).

The night of the carnival arrived on time and I remember strolling in the school with a home-spun hairdo, a shiny purple gown, and a large manila envelope filled with tickets. A few hours later, the carnival drew to an end and the tickets were counted.

Summoned to center stage, David and I ascended the steps and stood with the freshman, junior, and senior couples who, just like us, had feverishly sold raffle tickets to poor unsuspecting community members for weeks.

Standing up there, in front of the carnival crowd, I decided to take a sneak peek at the coveted tiara that the winning queen would don after. My eyes saw it: a thing of beauty, a shiny collection of rhinestones and silver, it looked like it had been designed just for me. Just looking at it made me shake with sheer excitement- to think that I might get to wear it.

Finally, after many tense minutes of waiting, the head-ticket counter turned on the mic announced the winner:

“This year’s Inchelium Carnival King and Queen title goes to...”

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For weeks, I kept that tiara on the kitchen table. I’d look at it and remember the moment when the previous year’s Carnival Queen tried to calm me down enough to get the bobby-pins through my hair and placed the rhinestone encrusted prize on my head. Whether at breakfast, lunch, or dinner, I made sure that that crown stayed in sight.

Whenever things got too depressing or discouraging at the table, I’d look at my shiny jewel and remember that, for one moment, I was at the top. Recalling that moment made me want to put it on:

“Mom, could you pass me the pepper?
While you’re at it, please pass me my tiara.”