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Authors: Sharyn McCrumb
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dragon-slayer.”
“And yet … dragon-slaying does have its charms, even for that rare integrated personality in the universe,” said Jay Omega.
Marion looked at him like, who was he kidding? He was kidding her.
“You’re right,” she sighed, “I guess it bothers me so much because as an adolescent, I used to be one of these misfits. And in some ways, I guess I still am.”
Jay Omega patted her hand. “You mean well, Marion, but you have the soul of an Old Testament prophet.”
Walter Diefenbaker hurried down the steps at the side of the stage and scooted across to the empty chair beside Jay Omega. “I think things will take care of themselves backstage,” he whispered. “So I thought I’d sneak out and watch.”
The next contestant might have stepped off a book cover. It took the audience a moment’s thought to realize that the perfect elf boy on the stage must really be a thirteen-year-old girl. Her smooth, dark hair was shaped to her head like a cap, and her slender body and small, pointed features suggested equally pointed ears beneath the hair. Her costume, vaguely reminiscent of Robin Hood, consisted of a puffed-sleeve shirt, leather jerkin and breeches, and fringed knee-length boots. Tied to her forearm was a stuffed satindragon, positioned for flight.
Cameras flashed.
“This is Anne Marie Gregory of Reston, as a Dragonrider,” Miles Perry informed the crowd. This time the applause was generous.
“She’s excellent!” said Marion. “For once, a face that fits the costume.”
“Quite talented, too,” nodded Diefenbaker. “She makes those dragons herself. There are some on display in the art room.”
Marion glanced in the direction of Appin Dungannon, who seemed no more interested than usual. “I suppose she’ll win?” she asked Diefenbaker.
Dief reddened. “Well, she certainly has a good costume, and she shows a lot of talent, doesn’t she? We must hope for the best. Of course, judging is purely subjective, and—” His voice trailed away to the sound of two hands clapping—Appin Dungannon’s hands, in fact.
A simpering little blonde of normal weight had wandered up to center stage and was smiling uncertainly across the footlights. Her long golden hair was crowned with a garland of silk flowers, and the elegant white dress was a wedding gown rescued from the Goodwill. She was the personification of cotton candy.
Miles Perry looked anxiously at the applauding judge, and then at the vision in white. “Ah … we have here Miss Brandy Anderson as the lovely Galadriel from
The Lord of the Rings.”
Marion scowled at Diefenbaker. “Do you mean that this is going to turn out to be a beauty contest? Does it matter whether you made your costume, or how original you are?”
“Well,” said Diefenbaker. “Sometimes it does.”
“The blonde didn’t make that costume. She just brushed her blonde curls and threw on a wedding dress!” Marion had spent too many years as an ugly duckling herself to approve of beauty winning out over merit.
“You mustn’t rely too much on the judge’s objectivity,” stammered Dief. “Still, the Dragonrider was well done, and I find that I’m never much good at predicting what people will do.”
The next two contestants, a Gandolf in a velour bathrobe and a high-school-varsity version of Conan the Barbarian, drew a ripple of polite applause from the audience, but their appearances hardly disturbed anyone’s conversation. Probably the most original costume of the evening was a tentacled alien, glistening with plastic slime, and belching smoke from his navel. He received loud applause from the audience, and a standing ovation from his roommates, but Dungannon waved him off with a sour smile. A short person in a monk’s robe and a rubber Yoda mask drew some cheers from favoritism, but he rated no more than a glance from the judge.
“That was Matt Simpson from Laurel,
“And yet … dragon-slaying does have its charms, even for that rare integrated personality in the universe,” said Jay Omega.
Marion looked at him like, who was he kidding? He was kidding her.
“You’re right,” she sighed, “I guess it bothers me so much because as an adolescent, I used to be one of these misfits. And in some ways, I guess I still am.”
Jay Omega patted her hand. “You mean well, Marion, but you have the soul of an Old Testament prophet.”
Walter Diefenbaker hurried down the steps at the side of the stage and scooted across to the empty chair beside Jay Omega. “I think things will take care of themselves backstage,” he whispered. “So I thought I’d sneak out and watch.”
The next contestant might have stepped off a book cover. It took the audience a moment’s thought to realize that the perfect elf boy on the stage must really be a thirteen-year-old girl. Her smooth, dark hair was shaped to her head like a cap, and her slender body and small, pointed features suggested equally pointed ears beneath the hair. Her costume, vaguely reminiscent of Robin Hood, consisted of a puffed-sleeve shirt, leather jerkin and breeches, and fringed knee-length boots. Tied to her forearm was a stuffed satindragon, positioned for flight.
Cameras flashed.
“This is Anne Marie Gregory of Reston, as a Dragonrider,” Miles Perry informed the crowd. This time the applause was generous.
“She’s excellent!” said Marion. “For once, a face that fits the costume.”
“Quite talented, too,” nodded Diefenbaker. “She makes those dragons herself. There are some on display in the art room.”
Marion glanced in the direction of Appin Dungannon, who seemed no more interested than usual. “I suppose she’ll win?” she asked Diefenbaker.
Dief reddened. “Well, she certainly has a good costume, and she shows a lot of talent, doesn’t she? We must hope for the best. Of course, judging is purely subjective, and—” His voice trailed away to the sound of two hands clapping—Appin Dungannon’s hands, in fact.
A simpering little blonde of normal weight had wandered up to center stage and was smiling uncertainly across the footlights. Her long golden hair was crowned with a garland of silk flowers, and the elegant white dress was a wedding gown rescued from the Goodwill. She was the personification of cotton candy.
Miles Perry looked anxiously at the applauding judge, and then at the vision in white. “Ah … we have here Miss Brandy Anderson as the lovely Galadriel from
The Lord of the Rings.”
Marion scowled at Diefenbaker. “Do you mean that this is going to turn out to be a beauty contest? Does it matter whether you made your costume, or how original you are?”
“Well,” said Diefenbaker. “Sometimes it does.”
“The blonde didn’t make that costume. She just brushed her blonde curls and threw on a wedding dress!” Marion had spent too many years as an ugly duckling herself to approve of beauty winning out over merit.
“You mustn’t rely too much on the judge’s objectivity,” stammered Dief. “Still, the Dragonrider was well done, and I find that I’m never much good at predicting what people will do.”
The next two contestants, a Gandolf in a velour bathrobe and a high-school-varsity version of Conan the Barbarian, drew a ripple of polite applause from the audience, but their appearances hardly disturbed anyone’s conversation. Probably the most original costume of the evening was a tentacled alien, glistening with plastic slime, and belching smoke from his navel. He received loud applause from the audience, and a standing ovation from his roommates, but Dungannon waved him off with a sour smile. A short person in a monk’s robe and a rubber Yoda mask drew some cheers from favoritism, but he rated no more than a glance from the judge.
“That was Matt Simpson from Laurel,
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