Alexis Barton

That was a piece of cake, I thought.

She win.

Till I got down to the local dance studio for the first of many pageant practices coordinated by a local choreographer.

And I sized up my competition, and I realized, Lex, you in danger, girl.

Because they were prepared.

They were talented, these other young ladies.

They were leggy.

They were confident.

One of them had performed on a cruise ship as a singer.

And here I was, a tall, awkward, ugly duckling,

Looks, eight on a good day.

Dance, negative three.

But if anything, I'm not a quitter, so I needed a graceful exit, right?

And I hadn't told my parents yet that I'd signed myself and their credit cards up for this opportunity.

So when I told them, I was shocked because they were all in.

My dad turned into a madman, literally.

He turned into Ron Draper.

He sold every ad that I needed for the pageant program, and he wrote every line of copy.

My mom, Miranda Priestley, had nothing on her because she prepared my wardrobe like I was going to the Ebony Fashion Fair or, for those of you who are younger, Rush Top.

She even enlisted my aunt to design and put together my opening number outfit, a crimson organza jumpsuit with a big bow because southern girls love bows.