Variations Three by Sharon Lee Page A

the thing to do is to keep the AfterImage in
the front brain. She said to look in the mirror and tell myself,
’This is the last time I’m going to have to appear in public like
this, ever.’ "
    The blonde laughed. "Pretty good."
    She faced her mirror, hands on jiggling
hips, thrust out her barely-restrained tits and announced, "This is
the last by-God time I’m going to have to look at that fat bitch in
my life. Amen." She laughed again and blew a kiss to her reflection
before turning back to Brandi. "Your turn, sugar. Kiss that puppy
good-bye."
    Reluctantly, Brandi aligned herself with the
mirror; looked up and caught the reflection’s dark gaze. Nice eyes,
she allowed. I’ve always had nice eyes. Not that anyone could see
them through the glare of her glasses; not that she could see
anything without the glasses. She was among the rare half-percent
of the world population with eyes too sensitive to tolerate contact
lenses. Nano-tech could have repaired the myopia in three weeks.
But nano-tech was fabulously expensive.
    The Miss-New-You Beauty Contest was cheaper.
Even if you did have to make the BeforeVid. You got to keep the
new-you as consolation for that embarrassment, even if you didn’t
take top prize.
    "Harvard Business School," Brandi whispered
and glared at the woman in the mirror, with her horsy face and
draggled, unmanageable hair. The spandex top of her bathing suit
showed two bulges the size of chestnuts. Her waist was thick, her
hips thicker, her thighs pale and pocked with cellulite. Sturdy
legs tapered slightly to thick peasant ankles, and the feet in the
chic gold sandals were stubby and hammer-toed.
    "God, what a wreck!" Brandi cried, with a
passion that surprised her. "This is it! The last time I have to be
seen like this! The next time I stand in front of that camera, I’m
going to be gorgeous!"
    "That’s the ticket," squealed the blonde and
quashed her in a fragrant, wriggly hug just as a chime sounded
through the dressing room. "That’s the line-up call. Let’s knock
’em dead!"
    * * *
    THE MUSIC WAS honky-tonk, a strut-your-stuff
sexbeat out of vogue in even the steamiest dance-houses on
Baltimore’s Block.
    From her position as Miss New-You Maryland,
Number 21, Brandi watched each contestant walk the 50-foot ramp,
the vidcameras following every step.
    Miss Alaska, a tall, unremittingly plain
girl with flat pinkish hair, went, head up, eyes straight and
shoulders back, at a stately military march totally removed from
the grinding music, reached the end of the ramp and stood at parade
rest for the count of five, letting the studio audience look their
fill before turning and marching off, stage left.
    Hawaii, short, brownish and tidy, glided
down the ramp on plump, perfect feet, face averted, until a
piercing hiss from her manager jerked her head, puppet-like,
straight up, showing the vidcameras and the audience pock-marked
cheeks and blue eyes nearly hidden within the epicanthic fold.
    "Look at those dummies," muttered the
blonde, who had turned out to be Miss Louisiana. "Don’t they know
how to give the marks a show?"
    The music ground on, the cameras recorded,
the audience stared. Occasionally, a manager would cuss or
hiss.
    "Number 19," the announcer called, "Miss
Louisiana!"
    The blonde thrust a jiggling leg forward,
paused to catch the beat and swung out with the music, hips
grinding, shoulders moving, tits bouncing. She threw her head back
and shook her hair, executed a jouncing pirouette and came to rest,
still ticking time with her hips, at the end of the platform. She
threw two fat handfuls of kisses to the stunned audience and made
her exit, stage right, at one with the music.
    "Wick-ed," breathed Miss Maine as Brandi
gulped for air. "My meme always said southern girls were
shameless."
    "Number 20," the announcer wheezed, dabbing
at his temples with a blue kerchief. "Miss Maine!"
    Her turn next. Brandi took a deep breath,
then another, as she stared at, but did not see, wiry Miss