Pretty Is by Maggie Mitchell Page B

were pretty strictly chaperoned as a rule, but our guardian for the morning had decided it was safe to let us off the elevator on our own floors without actually walking each of us to our rooms. Most of the girls had a mother with them, anyway. But Gail had stayed behind, much to my delight, complaining that she had a headache.
    I got off the elevator on the ninth floor of the Sheraton and took my time strolling down the hall. In general I liked hotels because they made life seem clean and simple and uncluttered—as if you could just open the door, walk in, hang up your coat, and start fresh. But I knew our room that day would be stuffy and overheated, with some stupid soap opera blathering in the background. That was Gail’s headache routine. Feeling in my pocket for change, I stopped at the vending machine in an alcove off the hallway. I bought a Coke, which I wasn’t supposed to have. (Bad for the skin and the figure, said Gail the expert.)
    As I turned away from the machine, popping my soda open, a man suddenly rounded the corner. I almost ran right into him. Most of the pageant girls were pretty paranoid; we had to listen to constant lectures about the dangers of strange men. I felt weirdly superior to the other girls in this respect; I’d already had my strange-man experience. Sort of like lightning not striking twice: I was immune. What was most disturbing initially about this man was that he seemed so unsurprised to see me , which made me suspect he had been watching me and had deliberately engineered the near collision. He had the kind of face I’ve always hated: full, wet lips and a sinister mustache, pale narrow eyes, flushed cheeks. He looked sort of hot and damp , like he had just gotten out of the shower, only not as clean.
    “You must be one of those beauty queen girls,” he said. Which was harmless enough because it was true and also obvious; the hotel was totally overrun with us, and I was carrying a dance costume over my arm. But maybe it was just his stating of the obvious that gave me the creeps. Act normal, I thought, and took a sip of my Coke.
    “Think you’ve got a chance?”
    I shrugged. “You never know.” Which was true; you never did. The judges had issues of their own.
    “Modest, too!” he leered, pretending to be impressed. And he knew that I knew that he was pretending, which meant that he knew that I knew that this was a weird encounter, not actually normal at all. Which made it all the more messed up.
    The man stood between me and the hallway; I was basically trapped in the vending nook. “Well, wish me luck then,” I said, mustering all the poise I had. I was very well trained, after all. “I’ve got to get back to my mom.” You have no idea who you’re fucking with , I thought. I reviewed self-defense techniques: Knee to the groin. Go for the eyeballs. I watched him carefully, waiting.
    He didn’t move. In some way I couldn’t explain, he seemed to widen, to fill the space more completely. To try slipping past him would be to admit that I knew I was trapped. “Tell you what,” he said. “You let me have a sip of that Coke, I’ll wish you luck.”
    This caught me off guard. I stared at him in horror for about a second too long. It was like he had asked me for a kiss. His lips would be where mine had been. I couldn’t imagine anything more disgusting. “You worried I got cooties?” Behind his wet smile he seemed to be laughing at me.
    “No, here,” I said, coming to my senses and thrusting the can at him. He kept his eyes on mine as he lifted it to his lips. As he swallowed, I darted past him, unable to avoid brushing against him. “Keep it, asshole!” I called over my shoulder. He was raising my Coke to me in a mock toast when I turned and ran.
    When I got to room 914 I pounded on the door, not willing to waste time digging in my bag for my room key. Gail didn’t answer right away. When she did, she looked pissed. She was still in her robe. “You’re back