Flash Fiction 2nd Place: Princess in a Headspin by T.J. Burgoyne

I’m scrubbing sparkly butt-prints from a toilet seat when the walkie on my belt buzzes.

‘Confetti cannon incident in dressing room one.’

Nothing prepares you for pageants.

I follow hairspray fog to the dressing room where thirty dance moms wage war. Pre-teen princesses wait to be anointed with tan-in-a-can, their arms spread like Jesus on the cross. One mom pinches her daughter’s cheeks so hard her acid-lime acrylics leave behind pale crescents. In the far corner, a girl in a cherry-tulle dress cradles a discharged confetti cannon while her mom screeches into her cellphone.

‘She can’t finish the number without confetti, Paul!’

I squeeze through with the vacuum cleaner, searching for a plug not commandeered by curling irons or hairdryers. Confetti-Girl scuffs the shiny toes of her Oxfords against the carpet, disturbing the scattered piles of rainbow paper.

‘Sorry…’ she mumbles.

‘It’s okay,’ I reply, ‘accidents happen.’

She can’t be older than ten. Silver diamantés studded across her chest spell out: DIANA.

‘I hate tap,’ she says.

Confetti-Mom’s too busy yelling to hear.

‘I was a ballet girl.’

Until one bad landing tore my ACL and my free-ride to Columbus. Mom never forgave me.

‘I hate ballet.’

I lean close. ‘Me too. I used to breakdance in my room when my parents were out.’

‘Mom says breakdancing’s for people who sell rap CDs and do Marie-Joanna.’

‘I bet she says a lot of things.’

Confetti-Mom’s cell snaps shut, snatching Diana’s smile – snatching mine.

‘God, Diana, you’re so pale. And your hair!’

She elbows a six-year-old off the makeup table, drags Diana under the mirror light, smothers her in too-dark foundation. Diana’s eyes stretch to bloody whites as her mom scrapes her hair into a bun. My scalp itches where the baby hairs used to grow.

The tannoy calls the competitors to the stage and I’m left to clean up their shining detritus until the walkie beeps again.

‘Vomit in the performance hall.’

I wheel the mop station in the back as Britney’s “Toxic” buzzes through the speakers. Diana dazzles across the stage, wields her empty confetti tube like a cane. She leaps, taps her heels together, and I see her realize she’s misjudged it right before her hip slams down.

I’m halfway down the aisle when Confetti-Mom barks, ‘Get up.’

Diana stands, smiles, cheeks sparkling scarlet between mascara streams. The music cuts. She tries again, falls.

‘She’s fine!’ Confetti-Mom waves me away. ‘If she wants to humiliate herself…’

I clamber onto the stage, spotlight hot on my back. My body’s a shield as Diana limps behind the curtain.

‘I’m sorry. I messed it up. They’re all laughing at me. I’m— ’

‘Want to see something cool?’

She watches me take center-stage.

And drop.

Helicopter sweep into windmills and everything hurts but who cares? I used to dream of turning the pirouette on its head. The audience spins and I see Mom in the front row. In this upside-down world, she smiles.