Louise Flynn was afflicted by the plight of the middle child. She had never broken a bone or been mistaken for a celebrity, had never done something to warrant a medal, certificate, or plaque. She did not have a sense of individual style. At school she wore a uniform and on weekends her sister’s hand-me-downs. Even her mother Catherine bragged about the ease of easy Louise’s labor. While her elder sister had wrapped herself in an umbilical noose, and her younger sister’s urgency for autonomy — who could blame her; nine months tied to Catherine was a lot — resulted in an emergency cesarean, Louise came into the world in all of fifteen minutes. She didn’t even cry. Louise failed to inspire fear or awe in those around her. She swore that the guidance counselor had stifled a yawn in their last session.

Her younger sister Harper’s penchant for violence and overall derangement garnered a lot of attention. Her elder sister, Abigail, was taller, smarter, and more beautiful and while Abigail never looked down on her sister — except for in the obvious physical sense — jealousy and inferiority brewed inside Louise. Her posture was that of an animal in anticipation of threat. She did not receive much validation from the opposite sex. Once Hobo Bahman had loudly expressed a perverse fantasy to Louise while she passed him in the square, but she could not seem to access any libidinal attention from men her own age. Louise was in a prison of her own mundanity. She’d taken to intentionally throwing out the metal forks with the food scraps when she scraped her dinner plate, just so that she might feel a momentary rush.

There was something that was uniquely Louise’s, a slight speech impediment that her sisters called Wide Wight Tuwns. It only came out when she was nervous or frustrated. They discovered the impediment when, late to soccer practice, her sisters asked on which side of the street to pick Louise up and, flustered, she said the side with the sign reading “wide right turns.” Or rather, she tried to. By her age, Abigail was turning heads, Jesus was turning water into wine, and Louise was turning Rs into Ws. Hardly a character trait.

“Go to the activities bulletin board,” Abigail had said a few weeks ago when Louise had sought her social guidance, “and sign up for something. Anything. Then curate your entire personality around that thing.”

Louise went to the activities bulletin board after school: auditions were being held for the school play — a student-written musical based on Dad University. Father Andrew was hosting a French film marathon at the church. The quarterly fundraiser to fix the church bells needed volunteers. There was astrology club, ballet, metal detecting, self-defense, Youth Government, still life painting, neo-Expressionist painting, Peace in the Middle East through Painting, Save the Seals beach clean, onigiri cooking class, restoration of medieval weaponry, Abstinence-Only Alliance, chess championships, Call to Prayer, and a lecture series by the CFO of an environmental organization that made meat out of stem cells. How was Louise to know which of these activities would define her? She plucked one of the flyers at random. It was pink with a scalloped border: Our Lady of Suffering’s Spring Inner Beauty Pageant. Perfect, she thought.

“I don’t know, Lou,” Abigail said. They looked over the flyer.

“What don’t you know?” said Louise.

“What about something more fun, like… parasailing?” 

Louise felt a wave of exasperation. “Pawasailing?”

“It’s just, beauty pageants are kinda dumb.”

But this was an inner beauty pageant, Louise thought. She imagined girls judged for their stomach lining, immaculate aortas, their perfect pink organs. A little liver in a tiara.

 

When Louise got home that afternoon, like most afternoons, she took the family computer, the communal laptop, as she was not yet permitted to have her own, into the backyard and up the makeshift ladder to the tree house, where she signed into a private server and waited for new messages from her Canadian lover yourstruly to appear on screen. Louise met yourstruly a few months ago in a chat room for middle children. They were amid a theological conversation about an esoteric religious text yours had sent her.

YOURSTRULY: Have you considered what I have said about the immutable divine law of God?

Never had Louise’s opinions been so valued. Yours was sensitive. A good listener. He saw potential in Louise. She spent hours immersed in their discourse. It was often the highlight of her day. He reminded her that life was worth living because there were things that needed to be done, though he hadn’t gone into specifics about what those things were. It didn’t matter. She loved him for, and not in spite of, his flaws. 

LF: my family can be so unsupportive

YT: I have also been persecuted for my beliefs.

LF: i am thinking about signing up for the beauty pageant at the church

YT: Do you remember what i have told you about the prophetic mythology?

LF: i just need an extracurricular

YT: Silent prayer.

LF: mayb it will be fun. there is a whole big ceremony

YT: A large gathering of christians in one place?

LF: ya

YT: Do it.

YT: I will lead you to victory.

It was an unconditional acceptance that Louise so craved. She was not alone in this world. Yours’s icon flickered like a heartbeat. What a strange and singular thing it was, she thought, to be in love.

 

The next evening, Louise went to the church. One doughy cloud hung overhead, threatening rain. The humidity set Louise’s hair into peak puffiness. Father Andrew was sweeping the channel and speaking to Miss Winkle, the church lady, or rather Miss Winkle seemed to be speaking at Father Andrew excitedly as he attempted to sweep the channel. Miss Winkle was a town staple. Though she was likely no older than Louise’s mother, she seemed to be and have always been an old woman. She was swinging a potted orchid wildly as she spoke. A stray cat darted by. The stray cats despised Father Andrew because he clapped loudly at random to kill idle gnats, in turn making a loud percussive sound that startled them. Louise remembered there were also some rogue parrots in the rafters. A regular zoo.

“Just take it!” insisted Miss Winkle.

“I don’t want to take it,” said Father Andrew.

“It will cheer people up,” Miss Winkle further advocated for the flower. “And isn’t that why one comes to church in the first place? For a little cheering up?”

“People come to church for many reasons,” said Father Andrew, “primarily to praise God.”

“I don’t see what harm a few flowers do.”                                                

“There is a feedback section on the church’s webpage.”

Miss Winkle persisted. “I simply cannot comprehend what you have against orchids! God’s little paintbrushes!”

“We’re trying to keep the flora and fauna to a minimum,” said Father Andrew. “It attracts insects.”

“I’ll say. You really should do something about the flies.”

Louise could have sworn she glimpsed Father Andrew make a fist, then release it.

“They’re gnats.”

“It’s just so dreary in here! And since you won’t fix the bells…. ”

“We don’t have the budget to fix the bells. Hence the quarterly fundraiser.”

“It has been over a decade,” said Miss Winkle. “There must be some — ”

“Sorry to interrupt,” interrupted Louise.

Miss Winkle and Father Andrew shifted their attention to Louise. Louise thought Father Andrew might have looked relieved. She pulled the pink flyer from her backpack.

“I’d like to sign up for the Inner Beauty Pageant, please,” said Louise.

“Oh,” said Father Andrew. “That’s great, Louise. But unfortunately sign-ups are closed. Have been for some time now. The first round starts tomorrow.”

“Oh,” said Louise, crestfallen.

“Do you have any interest in our wind instrument workshops? We were just donated a lovely sixteenth-century pipe organ.”

“No, thank you, I’d just really like to be in the pageant.” 

“It’s just that — ” Father Andrew clasped his hands patiently “ — as I’ve said, sign-ups are closed and it wouldn’t be fair to the other girls if I were to show you preferential treatment.”

“Please!” Louise said, surprising herself with her own urgency. “I need to do this!”

“Louise — ”

Her voice wobbled. “I can’t go unnoticed fowever!”

“Are you sure a beauty pageant is right for you, dear?” Miss Winkle interjected. “There are harsh realities us women have to face, one being that we’re not all beauty queens.”

Louise and Father Andrew glared at Miss Winkle. She gave an exaggerated sigh and strode off with her orchid.

“Come into my office,” said Father Andrew. Louise followed him, curtsying before the crucifix as she passed.

The priest produced a pen from his desk and a pink questionnaire. The pen read JESUS LOVES THE HELL OUT OF YOU. 

“It was a gift.” Father Andrew clicked the pen. “I get them all the time.”

“You’re letting me sign up?”

“I say, everyone should have a chance to express their inner beauty.” He winked at the Flynn girl. Then immediately regretted it. Winking at children must have been covered by the very lengthy tome of prohibited behaviors to which the church now adhered. He’d just meant to convey that he understood Louise. Going unnoticed was a terrible thing.

“Thank you, Father!” 

“Name?”

“Louise Flynn.” 

“Age?” 

“Fifteen.”

“Height?”

“Five foot, two inches.”

“Religious affiliation?”

“I have been experimenting with Islamic fundamentalism.” 

“I am going to put other.”

“Okay.” 

“Biography?”

“Louise Flynn is fifteen and lives on Side Street.”

“You want to evoke a certain pathos with your biography. Show the audience that you have overcome adversity and are stronger for it.”

“Well, my dad lives in the car and my mom is dating our neighbor.”

“That may be a tad modern. Something along the lines of: you fell off your horse but climbed back on.”

“I once caught salmonella from my pet turtle.” 

“Alright. Dream?”

“I have this one where I’m on fire, burning alive from self-immolation right in the middle of English class, and everyone just keeps going about their business, not paying attention to me, no one stops, they just keep doing their worksheets while I’m burning.”

“Sorry, more like your aspirations for the future.”

“Oh! To win the Our Lady of Suffering’s Inner Beauty Pageant.”

“And any long-term goals?”

“I’d like to marry the love of my life.” 

“Love is an admirable goal.”

“And I’d like to own a car like our neighbor Jim Doherty.”

“Ah, an STX Class.” 

“That’s the one!” 

“And talent?”

“What do you mean?”

“In what area does Louise Flynn excel?” 

“Um, could you give me an example?”

“Well, Harriet Longhorne is playing hymns on the recorder. And Genevieve Malkov — now this is dear — is making a nativity out of balloon animals.”

Once again, Louise was faced with her mediocrity. 

“I don’t think I have a talent,” said Louise.

Father Andrew wrote TBD in lieu of a talent. 

“Okay, see you tomorrow at 4 p.m.”

“I made it to the next round?” 

“This is more of a formality.”

“Thank you, Father! I won’t let you down.”

Father Andrew found himself hoping that she wouldn’t. Louise left the church with a new sense of purpose just as the cloud broke open and it started to pour. She was drenched by the time she arrived home. Drenched but determined. She walked around the house balancing an encyclopedia on her head. She found her dad in the minivan and asked him for four hundred dollars. Bud asked why Louise needed four hundred dollars and she said she needed to buy a swimsuit and an evening gown.

“You need a swimsuit for a child’s beauty pageant at a church?”

“This is totally standard.”

“Can you borrow one from Abigail?”

“She’s four inches taller than me!”

“We don’t have money for four-hundred-dollar dresses. I have to put you and your sisters through college.”

“Who’s going to college? Abigail will marry rich, Harper will go to prison, and after high school I have to surrender my life unto God.”

“Unto what?!”

“This is w — ” Louise composed herself. “Really important.” 

“I hate saying no to you, kid, but here we are.”

Louise retired to the tree house. Her initials were carved in the plywood beams. Ants collected on the remnants of a rope swing. The tree house was now used for storage and filled with the family’s old belongings. Afghans and books with dog-eared pages, an earthquake-preparedness kit, forgotten Christmas tree toppers and butterfly nets and a wind-up carousel, a hutch from a deceased rabbit, a tank from a deceased salmonella-carrying pet turtle, a music box filled with baby teeth, the dollhouse where doll-Louise’s little face peeled with age, doll-Abigail lay on the little canopy bed, and doll-Harper was in the kitchen making shark fin soup. Human-Louise logged onto her chat room. The rush she felt when talking to her sweetheart was comparable to that of a drug, Louise assumed. She’d never done a drug.

LF: ur the only one who understands me

YT: I want us to be able to communicate better.

LF: u mean talk on the phone?

YT: No. I want you to learn Arabic.

LF: is that what they speak in Canada?

YT: Yes.

LF: ok!

LF: can I tell you something?

YT: Anything.

LF: i’m afraid it will seem trivial

YT: Our primary life has not yet begun.

LF: um i’m afraid i’m not pretty enough for a beauty pageant

LF: And that people will laugh at me… 

YT: Beauty is not on your face.

LF: i kno. it’s inside

YT: No. Beauty is in your dedication to God.

LF: oh

For dinner Louise ate some nine-year-old peanut butter that her father stored in the earthquake-preparedness kit and fell asleep on a stale sleeping bag. She felt more prepared already. She curled up next to the computer and felt yours next to her. They weren’t plagued by reality. Questions like What is he thinking? Has he done the dishes? Will we ever meet in person? didn’t matter to them. Their relationship was perfect in its simplicity. Louise woke up to Abigail poking her with a yardstick. 

“Does no one in this family sleep inside anymore?” asked Abigail.

Abigail was in her school clothes but appeared to not have slept. She’d been hanging around with some new boy lately. Louise slammed the family computer shut.

“Why did you just slam the computer?” asked Abigail. 

“I don’t know.”

“Were you watching porn or something?” 

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.” 

“It’s true!”

“Last night you came up to the tree house to watch porn and then fell asleep.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What porn were you watching?” 

“Um.” Louise glanced around. 

“You weren’t watching — ”

“Sexy dollhouse!” 

“Sexy dollhouse?”

“Yeah, there are these life-size dolls and they just get — ” 

“Ew, stop!”

“You asked!”

“Okay, pervert,” said Abigail. “It’s time for school.”

 

Louise went to the Sacred Daughter’s Preparatory School registrar’s office and asked if she could change her language elective to Arabic. The woman at the front desk told Louise that the school did not offer Arabic, but she could take Spanish next semester.

The day moved glacially. After her last class Louise made her way back to the church, where Harriet and Genevieve and ten other girls congregated, primping into compacts and tending sausage curls. Louise brushed the wrinkles from her plaid pleated skirt and assessed her competition. Among the potential Miss Our Ladies was British Ellie, far and away the most striking fifteen-year-old in town. “Fifteen going on twenty-five,” as Catherine would say. There was also Casper, the only lesbian in the tenth grade; Melkorka, who was partially deaf; Pepper the orphan, whose parents died in a chemical fire — sure to elicit the sympathy vote — and Josephine, whose grandparents donated quarterly to the church-bell fundraiser. Louise was so sick of being average. If not profound beauty, inner or not, couldn’t she at least have generational wealth or a major disability? Father Andrew instructed the girls to recite the Pledge of Allegiance followed by the Lord’s Prayer. Louise’s eyes jumped from the flag to Carlin McCalister’s chest, where, as if overnight, one breast had advanced significantly faster than the other. Carlin McCalister looked like she might topple over. 

One by one, the potential beauty queens sang, Riverdanced, baton-twirled, and ventriloquized puppets to tell Bible stories. Celeste applied a full face of makeup without looking in a mirror. Betsy double-dutched and Greer yodeled until the line whittled down to Louise, who took the stage without prop.

“Up next,” said Father Andrew, “we have Louise Flynn who lives on Side Street.”

Louise stood up so straight she was nearly five foot three. 

“For my talent,” said Louise, “I am going to hold my breath.” 

Some of the girls giggled.

“I’m sorry?” asked Father Andrew.

After taking a self-inventory, Louise realized she did have a talent after all: air deprivation. She could hold her breath for over two minutes, longer if she succumbed to fainting. Louise had long sought absolute stillness, temporarily pausing the natural rise and fall of her chest in pursuit of inanimacy.

“Louise, you snuck up on me!” was somewhat of a catchphrase around the Flynn house. “Louise, I didn’t hear you come in.” “Louise, how long have you been standing there?” Fifteen years, thought Louise. That’s how long.

She took a long drag of air, expanding her lungs to their fullest extent, overly puffing out her cheeks and pinning her nose between thumb and pointer.

“Louise, this is rather unusual,” said Father Andrew, but the crowd was rapt.

The first thirty seconds were a breeze. Silence, lovely silence, swept the room. Silences didn’t make Louise uncomfortable. She reveled in them. The pain only set in around the first minute and even that was tolerable, familiar — motivating. If it hurt, then she was doing it right. The popular workout adage “feel the burn” came to mind.

Her chest ached at a minute and thirty seconds. Louise swore she heard the audience breathing harder to compensate. Otherwise, the room remained pin-drop quiet.

“Louise Flynn,” said Father Andrew, “I must insist you breathe right now.”

But she didn’t. Louise felt her eyes bulge. Her insides were railing against her. She resisted, trembling.

“Two minutes,” one of the girls cried. 

“Go, Louise!” called another.

“Stop this right now,” said Father Andrew.

Her vision faltered, then blurred. Pretend you’re underwater, she told herself. Pretend breathing isn’t an option. Removing the choice entirely eliminated the fatigue of decision-making — to breathe or not to breathe.

“Two minutes and thirty-five seconds,” called another pageant girl, who wore sparklers in her hair.

Louise’s hand dropped from her nose in exhaustion but still she did not breathe. The church room was not dimming as the term “blacking out” might suggest, but rather it was bathed in light. Almost entirely washed out. Focusing on the light brought comfort to Louise, a reprieve for her aching little lungs. She let it absorb her.

“Three minutes!” the girls cried.

“Louise Flynn, start breathing this instant,” came the voice of Father Andrew.

Louise could no longer see him, the girls, the church, or the stage. She imagined the local paper lauding her for her power of will. For once, Louise would be recognized for her greatness, defying the one thing her peers couldn’t. Deprivation was a talent, a skill, a practice. She was an artist and carbon dioxide was her medium. While the other girls did, Louise didn’t. She was the best at not. She was a black hole. Her content was her lack.

“Three minutes, thirty seconds!” said the girls. 

“Miss Flynn!”

The girls clutched their puppets and roller skates and jump ropes. She’d be a legend. Stars didn’t need oxygen to produce light. Or did they? She hadn’t taken astronomy. Louise crumpled to her knees and lapsed into unconsciousness.

 

The next morning, a list of names, five of them, was tacked to the activities bulletin board. A list of those who would be proceeding to the next round in the Our Lady of Suffering’s Inner Beauty Pageant. A list that did not include the name Louise Flynn.

Louise left school at three o’clock on the dot, walked to the church, knocked on Father Andrew’s office door, and, when he did not answer, opened it anyway.

“Louise?” asked Father Andrew. “Would you mind coming back during office hours?”

“Carlin McCalister is a finalist!”

“4 p.m. to 6 p.m. Monday through Friday. It says so on the door.”

“I had the best performance of the afternoon and you know it.”

“Miss Flynn, office hours.”

“Is this because my sister started the Father Gayworth thing? I didn’t perpetuate that in any way.”

“I’m not punishing you, Louise.” 

“I think you are.”

Father Andrew removed his glasses and looked up at the schoolgirl. “That was some stunt you pulled.”

“Thank you.”

“Making yourself pass out is not an approved talent.” 

“Where in the rule book does it say I have to stay conscious?” 

“I think your time and skill set are better spent elsewhere. Did you see that we’re hosting a beach clean?” 

“I want to be Miss Our Lady of Suffering.” 

“Maybe next year.”

“Do you know what being rejected from a beauty pageant does to a young girl?”

“This has nothing to do with your physical appearance. Miss Our Lady of Suffering is not just a title. She must be a pillar of the community. Someone who exudes the values of the church and helps those in need.”

Louise felt the rise of her speech-hindering emotions: pain and fwustwation. She composed herself.

“You don’t think I’m a pillar of the community?” 

“I think that you are someone in need.” 

“Carlin’s chest is completely asymmetrical.” 

“Language.”

“If Carlin wins then your community pillar is going to be a little lopsided is all I’m saying.”

“Are you speaking to someone regularly?” 

“Like in general?”

“Like a therapist.” 

“No.”

“I want you to know that my door is open to you.” 

“Monday through Friday. 4 p.m. to 6 p.m.”

“Do you need the church shuttle to take you home?” 

“I can wide my bike.”

Louise let control fall away, felt tears burning in her eyes. She’d almost made it through an entire interaction without tripping over her tongue. As she left Father Andrew’s office, she remembered what yours had said, that beauty was in her dedication to God. She looked at the distraught Virgin Mary mosaic on the chapel wall. Louise wept. Mary wept. Louise walked home and ate two strawberry Pop-Tarts for dinner. She climbed into the tree house with the computer under her arm. Yours was waiting online. Her last vestige of hope. She wanted to leap through the screen and exist with him in the ether.

YT: Did you succeed? 

LF: no. i didn’t get in 

YT: Blasphemous.

LF: i feel so alone

YF: Is it the christian way to turn on the weak?

LF: idk

YT: Your family has forsaken you.

YT: Your religion has forsaken you. 

YT: You want a safe place to call home. 

YT: Acceptance and camaraderie.

YT: You can have that. We can build it.

YT: Together.

LF: how?

YT: Can you keep this a secret, Louise Flynn?

LF: yes, i promise

YT: Don’t waste my time with doubt or hesitation.

LF: i won’t!

YT: You need to follow my instructions carefully.

YT: If you succeed, you will be taken care of.

YT: Here and in heaven. 

YT: We will avenge you. 

LF: i’ll do anything

YT: First. Can you get access to aluminum and potassium perchlorate?